Jan 12, day 5 of the internet shutdown and day 3 after the massacre:
Dear sister,
I’ve been seeing things that changed me. Probably forever. Probably for the worse. Dead children, faces smashed. Blood, blood, blood. Body bags on top of body bags on top of body bags. Brains on the pavement — Iranian brains, like mine. I saw mothers wailing in my language, screaming in a frequency I never imagined Persian words could reach. All on the palm of my hand, in this rectangle that’s my only window to you and to home. A broken, foggy window that neither protects me from the storm nor gives me a clear image of what’s through it. But a window nevertheless.
There’s a heartbreaking irony in liking dead bodies. I like them all day and all night. Like them so the algorithm does its thing. So the world can know we’re dying. The internet is crazy — it gives people an illusion of activism. And people are attacking each other all the time. You get called a Zionist if you show the scale of the massacre, and you get called pro-regime if you’re not pro-war.
Jan 13, day 6 of the internet shutdown and day 4 after the massacre:
Dear sister,
I saw the devil in my dreams last night. And I think something just clicked. I realized he’s never going to stop. Because the genius that he is has no intelligence. Isn’t critical. Isn’t nuanced. Its only objective is to corrupt — corrupt feelings and the mind. And he’s doing one hell of a job.
In a weird way, I was proud of him in my dream. With his gaze, stuck in a trance, and his face determined and loveless. But also hateless. With an eerie smile drying up on his lips. His face was something between a person and a goat. He was looking my way but unable to lock eyes. He was big in size, yet unnoticeable. He was sitting, waiting, for his automatic plans to unfold.
I was horrified, yet I didn’t look away. I stared at his majestic depravity. At his inability to understand or care or think or talk. At his determinism. It reminded me of what you told me about Persian mythology: if the bad is gone, the good is also gone. Because good and bad give each other meaning, same as day and night. So in a way, I stared him in the eyes and came to an understanding of his job — his evil sacrifice to make sure “good” lives.
Jan 14, day 7 of the internet shutdown and day 5 after the massacre:
I’m very numb, sister.
I wish I was a table or a spoon. Or a tablespoon lol.
I have no agency. I only move my body through time like an empty boat on a river.
Jan 15, day 8 of the internet shutdown and day 6 after the massacre:
Dear sister,
Happy birthday.
You’ve become a concept.
I want to know exactly where you are and what you’re thinking. I want to take away your pain and worry. Ngl, this is a shitty start, but I hope 35 treats you better than 34. You’re my favorite person in the world.
Jan 16, day 9 of the internet shutdown and day 7 after the massacre:
Dear sister,
I have 10 legs and I’m paralyzed. How about that?
Jan 17, day 10 of the internet shutdown and day 8 after the massacre:
Dear sister,
There’s this extreme inclination to shut up when you have a lot to say. I’m succumbing to that. It makes me not say valuable things and lets them sit and go stale in me, in that damp, dark environment that had been the best place for the mushrooms of ambitious dreams — just to later become a swamp for the mold of despair to grow everywhere, just to now become a frozen lake with frozen fishies of truth. There, but not reachable.
I keep reposting shit. Fuck imperialism. But also fuck the regime. Fuck monarchy and fuck communism. Fuck fascism. Fuck theocracy, and fuck me. Fuck most things at this point. Come up with new terms so we can fuck even more terms — aren’t we tired of fucking all these terms?
March 2nd, day 3 of war and the internet shutdown, 42 days after the previous shutdown ended:
Dear sister,
We all danced for the death of the dictator. Some maybe for a little too long. The war has already killed more than 1,000 civilians. Some of the people who amplified the news of the January massacre are silent about the recent deaths, and some who were silent about those are vocal about these. One can only wonder if it’s the lives of Iranians that matter to us, or who pulled the trigger. If our love for life is heavier, or our hate for the regime. Or Israel. Or imperialism.
March 3rd, day 4 of war and the internet shutdown:
Dear sister,
I want to cry for normal reasons again. Like for how much I fucking miss you and mom and that awesome kid of yours. I want to go back to being able to give a fuck about my classes. But I’m all out of fucks. All my fucks are already with you and mom and that kid of yours. I hope you still give him a kiss from me every day.
March 4th, day 5 of war and the internet shutdown:
Dear sister,
I hate that I know where their next target is but you don’t, because I have an internet connection and you don’t. And I hate that that’s even an indicator. I hate that people are trapped in this triangle of death.
March 5th, day 6 of war and the internet shutdown:
Dear sister,
Before they shut the internet down again last week, I was talking to mom when granny took her phone, held it in a way for me to only see her eyebrows and a whole lot of ceiling. She said she doesn’t believe in God anymore. She sounded very confident about it too.
I don’t know. I think I still do believe in God. But if she’s real, she must be really kinky. And she must have a thing for Persians.
April 25th, day 57 of the internet shutdown
Dear sister,
I don’t have an answer. I try to always stay in a pack. Alone is vulnerable, as mom always says. Hope to hear your voice soon.
