Hossein Jahansouz, Ph.D.
The night in Iran has been long, stretching across decades, layered with fear, poverty, and sorrow. It is a night that has tried to dim the voice of a nation, to suffocate her dreams, to convince her that endurance is the only destiny left. The ruling power has attempted to turn silence into habit, despair into identity. It has sought not only to imprison the body but to colonize the mind, convincing millions that there is no alternative to the darkness.
Yet under every night, no matter how heavy, there is a horizon waiting its turn.
Beneath the enforced quiet, beneath the mourning, beneath the scattered graves and the whispered prayers of mothers, a pulse continues to beat. It is the pulse of a people who have remembered themselves. A memory older than any regime, older than any empire: the memory of dignity, of choice, of standing upright rather than bent. The people of Iran, who for years were told they are powerless, have begun to reclaim the truth that never died: that they are the authors of their own future.
The silence is cracking. The dawn is rising.
This awakening did not begin suddenly. It has been growing in the despair of an unemployed worker, in the courage of women who remove compulsory veils under the gaze of armed men, in the poetry of young students who refuse to accept that freedom is a foreign word. It is alive in the graffiti on city walls, in the chants within prisons, in the stories shared quietly through encrypted messages, in the unbroken determination of families who bury their loved ones not to surrender, but to promise to continue.
The poverty imposed on the nation is not accidental. It is engineered. A state that fears its people must keep them struggling: bread becomes more expensive, medicine more scarce, salaries more meaningless. Yet suffering has not produced obedience. It has produced clarity. The nation understands now, perhaps more than ever, that its pain is not historical fate but the direct consequence of tyranny, corruption, and betrayal.
And when the cause of suffering becomes clear, the path to ending it becomes inevitable.
Hope, contrary to what the regime believes, is not a fragile thing. Hope is a force of historical momentum. Hope grows when people see each other rising. Hope spreads when one voice becomes ten, and ten becomes thousands. The rulers know this; that is why they fear gatherings, songs, even silence. They sense what is coming.
Because this is not merely a political moment. It is a transformation of identity.
The people are no longer asking for reform or mercy. They are remembering who they are. They are remembering that freedom is not a gift from the powerful. It is a right rooted in existence itself. And once a nation remembers its power, there is no prison large enough to contain it.
So when we say the season of liberation is near, it is not a slogan. It is an observation. It is a reading of the tides of history. Regimes built on fear never last forever. They fracture from within and collapse under the weight of the very violence they use to survive.
Iran’s night has been long, yes. But nights do not continue without end.
Already we see the first light rising in the voices of young women leading protests, in the resilience of workers striking across factories, in the courage of diaspora communities amplifying the struggle, in the refusal of families of martyrs to bow. The regime tries to call this chaos. It is not chaos. It is rebirth.
Dawn does not ask permission from darkness. It arrives.
The coming change will not be easy. No transformation written in blood and sacrifice ever is. But it is already underway. A nation that has remembered its worth cannot be returned to silence. A people who have seen themselves in the mirror of courage cannot be made small again. The horizon is not theoretical. It is visible.
The night in Iran has been long. But the dawn is real.
The season of liberation is near, not as a promise but as destiny.