FREEDOM 

FREEDOM   -   in Persian   آزادی 

By: John Kazerooni

Once upon a time, long ago, there was a nation that stood as a gateway—open to the world, yet watched by those who hungered for its passage.

It lay at the heart of its region, where trade, ideas, and dreams flowed like rivers. Its people worked hard, learned passionately, and questioned freely. Knowledge nourished them; awareness lit their paths.

They were known for their wisdom, their medicine, their mathematics, their astronomy, and their love of learning. Education was not a weapon, but a lamp to guide their own steps.

The nation asked for nothing but to be left whole.

But gateways are never left alone.

From beyond the horizon, colonial countries watched. They saw wealth, knowledge, and advantage. They spoke of interest, yet their hearts carried hunger—not hunger for peace, but for control. The gateway was too precious to be free.

They did not come first with armies. They came with words:

Democracy.

Freedom.

Security.

These words sounded gentle, almost kind. Yet behind them lay calculations. So they placed a ruler in power—not chosen freely, but approved carefully. He spoke in the nation’s name, yet obeyed distant masters. The colonial countries did not rule openly; they ruled through invisible strings.

Resources flowed outward. Lands were claimed for “security.” Decisions were made elsewhere. Any voice that questioned this order—especially educated, resistant minds—was silenced, imprisoned, or erased.

Truth became dangerous. Silence became survival. The colonial countries called this stability.

The people felt only loss.

Each time the people sought reform, the colonial countries intervened. They did not always crush the movement; instead, they bent it. When calls for justice rose, foreign influence quietly entered the room—funding certain voices, promoting safe leaders, shaping outcomes behind closed doors.

When revolution ignited, it was redirected. What began as a cry for freedom was reshaped. Faces changed, slogans evolved, but the path of power led where colonial countries wished. Leaders were replaced before they could lead. Demands were softened before they could threaten control.

Some puppets took orders openly. Others received no direct commands, yet acted exactly as colonial countries desired. They spoke the language of revolution while serving foreign interests. They appeared independent, yet every major decision bowed to distant powers.

Even rebellion was permitted—so long as it ended where the colonial countries demanded.

Even sacrifice was allowed—so long as it protected access to resources and influence.

Democracy was praised—but only when it served colonial countries. Freedom was encouraged—but only when it cost nothing to power.

Again and again, history repeated itself.

The colonial countries claimed to help. Yet every act of help came with chains hidden in promises. Every intervention weakened the nation, divided its people, drained its wealth—while colonial countries grew stronger, safer, more comfortable.

Slowly, painfully, the people began to understand.

Great colonial countries do not sacrifice for others. They protect themselves first. They speak of freedom abroad while denying it at home. What they seek is not justice, but access. Not democracy, but obedience. Not partnership, but ownership.

They learned that no nation should ask for help to gain freedom. Freedom requested from those who benefit from your weakness is not freedom—it is another form of slavery. To accept such help is to surrender land, resources, voice, and future.

Slavery does not always wear chains. Sometimes it comes in loans. Sometimes in elections approved elsewhere. Sometimes in leaders who appear free—but move exactly as colonial countries desire.

At last, the people felt the full weight of abuse. They saw that silence meant ownership, and compromise meant erasure. They faced a cruel choice: peace without freedom, or struggle with dignity.

They chose not because they loved blood, but because they could no longer live borrowed lives.

They rose together—not for colonial countries, not for ideology, but for themselves. Blood was spilled—not to glorify violence, but because freedom was no longer possible without sacrifice. And through that pain, the nation reclaimed its voice.

Freedom did not arrive as a gift. It returned as a wound that healed.

Still, the questions linger:

How many gateways must be controlled for colonial countries to feel secure?

How many revolutions must be redirected before people see the pattern?

How many innocent lives must be lost so comfort can be preserved elsewhere?

Is a bloodless slavery better than a costly freedom?

Is order meaningful when it serves only the powerful?

Can a revolution guided by colonial countries ever belong to the people?

Is freedom given by others freedom at all?

History does not ask whether colonial countries are powerful.

It asks how much they are willing to take—and how long people are willing to endure.

And in that question lies the quiet truth: Freedom is never given by colonial countries. It is only taken back by those who refuse to be owned.

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