I am a voice, a Persian woman, an
exile, a Christian, a journalist—labeled a criminal not for what I’ve done, but
for who I am. My identity is my offense, my existence a rebellion against
systems that dehumanize. Today, I write not just for myself, but for Fatemeh
Soltani, an 18-year-old Iranian girl butchered by her father for daring to
paint nails, to earn a living, to breathe as an independent soul. Her blood
stains the streets of Iran, and her story pierces my heart, demanding I speak
when the world would rather I stay silent.
The United Nations, in its diplomatic
caution, has urged me to refrain from political activism for the sake of my
safety. They mean well, I know. They see the threats, the shadows that follow
me, the risks of raising my voice against a regime that kills daughters for
dreaming. But how can I be silent when Fetemeh’s screams echo in my soul? How
can I stay safe when her lifeless body lies in a ditch, her only crime being
her courage to defy a father’s tyranny?
Imagine this: murderers have invaded
my home. They hold my family hostage—my sisters, my daughters, my kin. Guns to
their heads, they’re starved, tortured, denied water, food, or dignity. Some
are beaten, some are slaughtered. I stand outside, knowing that if I step
inside, I’ll be killed. The United Nations tells me to stay quiet, to let the
killers do as they please, to preserve my own life. But what of my family? What
of my home? Am I to abandon them to save myself? Is that not cowardice dressed
as prudence?
Fatemeh’s murder is not an isolated
tragedy; it’s a symptom of a diseased system. In Iran, the law shields fathers
who kill their daughters, emboldening others to follow. The Quran’s
weight—misinterpreted or not—hangs over women, halving their worth, silencing
their cries. A woman’s testimony is half a man’s, her body a commodity, her
dreams a sin. This is not Islam’s fault alone; it’s the fault of a culture that
twists faith into chains, of a government that codifies oppression, of a world
that looks away.
I am outside the house now, but I see
the terror within. Mothers tremble, daughters hide, knowing the next blade
could be theirs. If I don’t shout for them, who will? If I don’t beg the world
for help, who will save them? The United Nations asks me to prioritize my
safety, but what is safety when humanity is bleeding? What is my life worth if
I let Fatemeh's death be forgotten, if I let her killer walk free, if I let
fear muzzle my voice?
I am a Persian woman, a Christian, and an
Iranian. My ancestors, Darius and Cyrus, stood with Daniel, not Mohammed. They
revered Yahweh, not Allah. My people welcomed Christ’s birth, guided by stars
to honor Him. Why should I bow to a system that denies my God, my heritage, my
right to exist? The Quran denies Christ’s crucifixion, but my faith sings of
His resurrection. I am not a Muslim, and I will not be silent to appease those
who demand I conform.
Fatemeh’s father dragged her from a
car, threw her into a ditch, and stabbed her until her dreams bled out. The
video of her murder circulates, a grotesque testament to a society that lets
such horrors fester. The law in Iran will not punish him harshly; it will slap
his wrist, if that. And in that leniency, it will tell other fathers: your
daughters are yours to kill. It will tell other girls: your freedom is a death
sentence. It will tell mothers: your pain is irrelevant.
I write for a radio audience in
America, but my words are for the world. I am not safe, and I don’t care. My
safety is not worth more than Fatemeh's life, than the lives of countless women
suffocating under Iran’s patriarchal yoke. The United Nations may urge silence,
but my conscience commands I speak. I am outside the house, and I will scream
until the world hears. I will beg for help, for justice, for humanity to wake
up.
To the women of Iran: you are not
second-class. You are not slaves. Your dreams are not sins. To the world: do
not let Fatemeh's death be a footnote. Demand justice. Demand change. To the
United Nations: I respect your concern, but I reject your counsel. My safety is
not above my duty. I am a Christian, a Persian, a woman. I am a voice, and I
will not be silenced.
I am Peymaneh Sabet, a chalice overflowing with cries
for justice, steadfast in shattering the silence that buries the innocent.
