Stolen Land   -   in Persian     سرزمین ربوده‌شده 

By: John Kazerooni

Once upon a time, there was a forest that could not be considered fragile. It stretched wide beneath an open sky, breathing through the seasons without fear. Every creature had its place—not because borders were drawn, but because balance was understood.

Within this forest, the gazelles lived in a valley that looked as if the earth had smiled there. It was picturesque in its natural beauty. Rivers wandered like silver threads. Lakes held sweet water that mirrored the clouds and the soul of the sky. Trees bent low with fruit, generous and unguarded. Grass rolled endlessly, soft and green, asking nothing in return. Wolves roamed the edges of shadow and light. Bears moved with grounded strength. Gorillas stood like quiet pillars of the earth. They did not call it wealth; they simply called it life.

Not far away, the lions ruled their golden terrain—powerful, disciplined, and proud. They were different. Their territories were separate. And one day, the lion king climbed a hill and looked beyond what was his. His eyes rested on the valley of the gazelles. The beauty did not inspire gratitude; it awakened comparison. And comparison, when fed too long, becomes hunger.

For the lion king, force was not an option. In their world, open violence stained honor. So he chose a subtler path. Before taking action, he planted an invisible threat.

The king sent his messenger, who spoke softly to the gazelles of possible dangers: enemies that might come, droughts that could arrive, chaos that could rise from distant lands.

“Your valley is beautiful,” he said gently.

“And beauty attracts danger.”

Nothing had changed in the forest. Yet something shifted in the hearts of the gazelles. The rivers that once felt eternal now seemed vulnerable. The open plains felt exposed. The nights carried imagined shadows. Fear had entered.

Fear has a quiet power. It makes safety feel fragile. It makes protection feel necessary.

Only then did the lions return.

“We will guard your rivers. We will protect your land. We will ensure your future.”

To complete their control, the lions chose one gazelle to rule the valley in their name. This chosen one would enforce rules, manage resources, maintain order—while the lions themselves freely enjoyed the rivers, lakes, and fruit whenever they wished.

The gazelles agreed. Not because they were foolish. Not because they were weak. But because fear had already done its work.

At first, nothing seemed different. Then the rivers were monitored. The lakes were regulated. The fruit was counted. Grazing was restricted. Permission replaced freedom. Control, wrapped in the language of safety, settled over the valley like an invisible net.

And it did not stop with the gazelles. Even the strong began to feel the tightening circle. The bears—mighty and self-reliant—found their access limited. The wolves sensed their territories shrinking. The gorillas felt invisible walls rising around them.

No one defeated them in battle. They were simply separated. Contained.

And strength, when isolated, begins to doubt itself. The weak believed they were powerless. The strong believed they were alone. In that misunderstanding, control flourished.

The tragedy was not scarcity. The lakes were still full. The trees were still heavy with fruit. The fields were still green. Yet thirst appeared beside water. Hunger appeared within abundance. Many died from hunger. Not because the forest lacked, but because access was withheld and voices were divided.

Years passed. The forest grew quieter.

Until one small act broke the silence. A gazelle whispered to a deer. A bear shared its concern with a wolf. A gorilla refused to lower its eyes. In those simple exchanges, something ancient stirred. They began to see what had always been true: among themselves, there had never been outsiders in the forest. They had only been separated.

The forest had not needed rescuing from outside. It had needed unity.

They gathered—not in anger, not in revenge—but in recognition. The weak stood beside the strong. The strong stood beside the gentle. They spoke openly. They shared freely. They refused to ask permission for what had always been theirs.

As time passed, the structure that controlled them began to weaken—not because it was attacked, but because it depended on their separation. When separation ended, its foundation dissolved.

The rivers flowed freely. The grass welcomed all who grazed. The fruit hung heavy again with generosity. Peace returned. But it was not the fragile peace offered by guardians. It was the living peace born from unity.

The forest understood, at last: fear can be manufactured. Security can be marketed. Control can be disguised as care. But freedom cannot be given. It cannot be delivered by outsiders. It cannot be handed down by power. Freedom begins the moment the weak realize they are not alone. It begins when they discover that the strength that holds them together has always lived within them. No outsider can hand them dignity. No stranger can deliver their liberty. Only the quiet, unbreakable power of shared unity can restore their land, their voice, and their future.

From that day on, the forest was not peaceful because it was safe. The forest was peaceful because it was united. Once, the threat had been invisible. Now the forest saw clearly: fear had never been stronger than their unity. And in that knowing, the forest whispered to all who would listen: the invisible threat cannot survive where hearts stand together.

Yet the forest continued to ask itself: How does fear enter a peaceful land when no danger has yet arrived? 

How often are walls built not by force, but by doubt? 

How many freedoms are surrendered not because they were taken, but because someone promised protection? 

Who grows stronger when neighbors stop speaking, when the strong feel alone, and the gentle feel powerless? 

Was the greatest danger ever outside… or did it begin the moment the forest forgot that it belonged to itself?

And the question that lingered the longest: 

How much suffering could have been avoided if they had remembered sooner that no outsider could give them freedom—because their strength had always lived in one another? 

For every forest, every community, every generation must one day choose: Will we live in fear of stolen lands… or will we reach for one another and remember we were never alone? 

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