A Cry for Humanity, "I refuse to keep silent!"

 Paymaneh Sabet is my dear Iranian friend who is a journalist and a human rights activist. In 2011, she fled Iran and became a refugee in Malaysia. For the last 12 years, she has been forced to remain a recluse in an Islamic country to keep from being deported back to Iran and face harsh consequences for her anti-Iranian government activism.

Since 2014, Paymaneh has written powerful articles as a voice for her people back in Iran. I have read all of her articles on my podcast, "The Cross in the Desert."

Recently the UNHCR has cautioned Paymaneh to stop writing these articles against the Islamic Republic of Iran for her own safety, but of course, Paymaneh refuses to keep silent. She has a unique calling from the Lord to be a voice for Iranians.

This is her latest article.

  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.