Mirroring the Book 

Mirroring the Book

By: John Kazerooni - in Persian آینه‌ی شدن کتاب

Years ago, in a quiet village, twin boys were born into the arms of a kind and caring family. Their parents believed that nothing in life was more noble than learning. For this reason, they filled their home with books from many schools of thought—books that spoke of kindness and suffering, of love and cruelty, and of the deep lessons hidden within life itself.

As time passed, the two boys were drawn to books in very different ways. One became captivated by writings that spoke of compassion, empathy, and the understanding of human emotions. The other surrendered his heart to stories of war, revenge, and the display of power through force.

Years went by, and both brothers read their chosen books relentlessly. Day and night, the stories were their constant companions. The words repeated themselves so often in their minds that they took root like seeds—shaping not only their thoughts, but their entire beings. Slowly, the brothers became the heroes of the very stories they consumed, and the books turned into clear mirrors of who they were becoming.

The brother raised on gentle stories grew into a man of calm, joy, and mutual understanding. The one immersed in violent tales, however, became angry, rigid, and prepared to harm in the name of certainty. Neither had been born this way. They had merely become what they had rehearsed within themselves for years.

Yet life, inevitably, tests us against what we have become.

One day, now fully grown, the brothers stood face to face, arguing over the beliefs they had learned from their books. One spoke with patience, inviting reflection and humility. The other spoke with absolute certainty, defending force, blind obedience, and domination. Their conversation was no longer a dialogue—it was a collision between two worldviews carefully cultivated over time.

At the height of the conflict, one brother reacted exactly as his stories had trained him to react. Without hesitation or reflection, he struck a blow so heavy that it extinguished the flame of his brother’s life forever.

But this death was not simply the act of a single man.

It was the consequence of a false ideology—an ideology fed, repeated, justified, and sanctified over many years. It was the result of hatred patiently cultivated in a young mind, reinforced through words, rewarded through approval, and protected through silence. It was enabled by a society that heard these ideas spoken, saw their effects unfold, and chose comfort over confrontation. The young man delivered the blow, and he bears responsibility for his action. Yet long before his hand was raised, his conscience had been narrowed, hardened, and shaped by beliefs left unquestioned.

Before the body fell, truth had already been murdered—buried beneath layers of reverence, habit, and fear. Ashes were piled over it: ashes of tradition, ashes of denial, ashes of silence. What still burned was hidden, not extinguished. As I wrote in The Truth Beneath the Ashes, we hide the truth under the ashes, hoping that it will disappear over time.

Now after his crime, a heavy silence followed. Not only the silence of grief, but the silence of complicity. The family mourned. The village wept. And yet the deeper tragedy remained unspoken: this death had been written long before it was committed.

Only then did the surviving brother begin to understand. He had defended neither truth nor honor. He had acted as the final instrument of an ideology that valued obedience over conscience and certainty over compassion. In the end, he did not merely commit violence—he embodied it. He became the last chapter of the very book he had worshiped, its blood-stained conclusion.

This is a truth few of us dare to accept. A book, an idea, or a belief—when repeated daily—slowly shapes a human being, just as water shapes stone. It can guide the heart toward love, or harden it against cruelty. As I wrote in The Conscious Robot, we are products of our environment—formed by the homes, cultures, and societies in which we live. We become what we repeat.

And yet, we witness this bitter cycle again and again. Many cling to beliefs that sow division and violence, repeating harsh words until cruelty feels normal and brutality feels justified. Such people become destructive—not because they were born evil, but because they learned destruction from pages they were taught to revere. When violence is wrapped in righteousness, it no longer appears as violence at all.

Perhaps the most painful part is this: those shaped by false ideologies often learn to pretend. They master the language of peace while nurturing hatred. They speak softly of harmony, kindness, and order, while inwardly rehearsing dominance and exclusion. They wear the appearance of civility, morality, and gentleness—yet beneath it, they are wolves dressed in human clothing (A Wolf in Human Dress). They wrap themselves in lies, forging a shield that hides their true nature. And when the moment arrives, when power is granted or resistance disappears, the mask falls. Then mercy vanishes—not only for their opponents, but for truth itself, for compassion, for life. What shocks society is not their cruelty, but its sudden visibility; what had long been hidden finally acts.

The role of some educated individuals is even more painful. They condemn the wrongdoing of leaders—until they recognize its resemblance to the deeds of revered founders. At that moment, condemnation gives way to justification. Violence is excused as historical necessity, cruelty reframed as context, and blood washed clean by time. Instead of confronting the roots of harm, they protect them. Silence becomes approval, and approval ensures continuation. No society remains healthy by hiding the truth just because it is unsettling, disturbing to some, or inconvenient. 

And so, at the end of this tale, we must ask—not gently, but honestly:

How many leaders continue to follow their founders without question, even when those paths are stained with blood?

How often do societies excuse cruelty by saying, “That was the past,” while continuing to live by its teachings in the present?

Why do we protect the sources of violence instead of dismantling them, merely because they are ancient, familiar, or revered?

How many times do we remain silent in the face of dangerous ideas, mistaking silence for peace and restraint for wisdom?

How long do we keep covering truth beneath the ashes, hoping that time will cool what still burns?

How many people are taught to read words of hatred every day until brutality feels normal, justified, or even sacred?

When did obedience become a virtue greater than conscience, and loyalty a value higher than human life?

At what point does respect for tradition turn into the protection of harm?

Who benefits when questioning is forbidden, and who pays the price when questions are silenced?

How many tragedies are not sudden acts, but delayed outcomes of beliefs left unchallenged?

How many deaths are blamed on individuals, while the ideologies that shaped them remain untouched?

If we claim to be wiser today, if we see the wounds and hear the cries, why do we still defend the very roots from which such suffering grows?

And finally—how long must truth remain silent so that false beliefs may sleep undisturbed?

Only when societies confront the ideas they protect—rather than merely mourn the lives they lose—can the cycle be broken.

May we choose stories that teach courage over obedience, compassion over domination, and truth over comfort—before silence writes yet another ending in blood.

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