The Annual Journey of Remembrance: A 26-Year Quest for Truth and Justice

For the past 26 years, I have embarked on an annual autumn journey to Iran. This pilgrimage is not merely a trip, but a powerful act of remembrance and resistance in response to the political assassination of my parents. As the time for my departure draws near each year, a flood of memories, experiences, and emotions from past journeys washes over me.

The weight of this annual ritual is palpable. I feel the burden of grief, the bitterness of injustice, and the anger at what was stolen from my family. Yet simultaneously, I draw strength from the resilience that has become my backbone, propelling me forward on this quest for truth and justice.

However, an undercurrent of apprehension always accompanies these trips. There is a lurking fear of the oppressive apparatus that exerts control the moment I set foot in my homeland. This system has the power to summon, interrogate, surveil, and prosecute at will. It intrudes upon the sanctuary of the home I strive to preserve, employing various tactics to harass, intimidate, and silence.

Confronting such a malevolent force requires a deep well of inner strength. In the days leading up to my departure, I must reconnect with my core convictions - the right to seek justice, to honor the dead, and to bear witness to the truth. This annual journey has evolved into a ritual, carefully crafted over the years in collaboration with others who have stood steadfast in this prolonged resistance.

The First Journey: Confronting Unimaginable Loss

My first trip back to Iran came just three days after my parents' murder. I arrived to find a nation in shock, grappling with a tragedy that had shaken society to its core. In those early days, I was operating purely on instinct, drawing upon the values instilled by my politically engaged upbringing - concepts of resilience and dignity in the face of oppression. Yet I had no roadmap for navigating the uncharted territory of such profound loss and injustice.

The day of my parents' funeral saw what was likely the largest anti-regime demonstration in Tehran since the early 1980s. Thousands flooded the streets, their fists raised in solidarity as they accompanied the coffins from Fakhr Abad Mosque to Baharestan Square. Security forces and police were omnipresent, attempting to impede and disrupt the procession at every turn.

Amidst the surging crowd, a young man I didn't know approached me with words that would shape my understanding of the responsibility I now carried. He urged me to continue to Baharestan Square, saying, "You must go on, so that we can follow in your wake." In that moment, I realized the weight of my role as a survivor - to channel the collective demand for justice and provide a rallying point for those who shared in this quest for accountability.

Confronting the Scene of the Crime

In the days that followed, my brother and I faced the harrowing task of returning to our parents' home - the site of their brutal murder. The authorities had initially denied us access, and when we were finally allowed to enter, we found the house had been ransacked under the guise of investigating the crime scene.

A significant portion of my parents' political writings and personal effects had been removed. This was no ordinary search - drawers had been emptied, clothes strewn across floors, and a pervasive sense of violation permeated every room. As I walked through the house, documenting the devastation, it felt as though I was treading upon my mother's wounded body. The pain of this desecrated space seeped into my very being.

As a survivor, I felt compelled to confront the full magnitude of the tragedy, to seek some understanding amidst the chaos. It became clear that my role extended beyond personal grief - I needed to bear witness, to create a narrative that others could comprehend and rally behind in pursuit of justice.

A Home Transformed: From Crime Scene to Memorial

The process of restoring order to the house was grueling. We compiled lists of missing items, knowing full well that no one would ever be held accountable for their theft. Yet even as we grappled with this violation, the home began to take on a new significance. It transformed into a public space for mourning and advocacy.

People from all walks of life came to pay their respects, to express solidarity, and to find a place where their own experiences of oppression and loss could be acknowledged. During my 40-day stay in Iran following the murders, a constant stream of visitors arrived - some who had lost loved ones to execution, others whose family members had disappeared. The house became a sanctuary where silenced stories could finally be voiced.

This evolution of the space - from a crime scene to a place of collective remembrance - imbued it with profound meaning. It became a site of resistance, a physical manifestation of society's refusal to forget or to accept injustice. The home now belonged not just to our family, but to a broader movement dedicated to preserving suppressed narratives and demanding accountability.

The Ongoing Fight for Justice

Upon returning to Europe, I found myself thrust into a whirlwind of advocacy. Working alongside the esteemed Dr. Lahiji, we held numerous press conferences in various European capitals. Our mission was clear - to sound the alarm, to articulate what had transpired, and to apply pressure on the Iranian government to conduct a genuine investigation into the murders.

Reflecting on that period now, I recognize a certain naivety in my actions. On some level, I believed that through sheer force of will and relentless effort, I could somehow undo the irreversible. The magnitude of the loss was so overwhelming that I couldn't fully accept the finality of death. Every action was fueled by a desperate hope to change an unchangeable reality.

Subsequent trips to Iran focused on the legal pursuit of justice. These journeys were marked by frustrating encounters with an unresponsive judicial system. My persistent inquiries often felt futile, yet I came to understand that the very act of showing up, of refusing to be silenced, was a form of resistance. By repeatedly demanding answers, I became a thorn in the side of those who wished to bury the truth.

Confronting the Case File

One of the most challenging moments came nearly two years after the murders when authorities announced that the judicial proceedings had concluded. They granted a 10-day window for the case file to be reviewed. Despite the emotional toll, I felt compelled to examine the documents myself, viewing it as a sacred duty akin to identifying my parents' bodies.

As I pored over the file, hastily transcribing the handwritten confessions of my parents' killers, I found myself sinking into a quagmire of depravity. The clinical, bureaucratic language used to describe such heinous acts was chilling. While much of the file had clearly been sanitized before reaching us, what remained painted a horrifying picture of the apparatus of oppression at work in our society.

The experience left me feeling profoundly disconnected from the world around me. As I walked the streets of Tehran afterward, I was acutely aware of the gulf between my internal turmoil and the seeming normalcy of daily life continuing around me. The weight of what I had read seemed to permeate my very cells, yet I moved through a city that had, on the surface at least, moved on.

The Annual Ritual of Remembrance

In the years that followed, the annual journey to Iran took on a ritualistic quality. Each trip involved a labyrinthine process of seeking permits from various government agencies to hold a memorial service. These interactions were often surreal - officials would acknowledge our right to mourn while simultaneously warning of potential "troublemakers" who might exploit the gathering.

The tone of these encounters shifted as I aged, with officials initially addressing me by my first name in a patronizing manner. As the years passed, their approach became more formal, but the underlying message remained the same - a mix of veiled threats and attempts to pressure us into holding only private, family-only memorials.

We steadfastly refused to relegate our parents' memory to the private sphere. Their lives had been dedicated to public service and advocacy for the greater good. We insisted on our right to hold public memorials, open to all who wished to pay their respects.

This stance came at a cost. In recent years, authorities have taken increasingly drastic measures to prevent public gatherings. They have cordoned off entire neighborhoods, stationed security forces outside our home from dawn, and prevented anyone from entering or leaving the premises on the day of the memorial.

Yet even in the face of such oppression, moments of profound solidarity emerge. I recall the renowned poet Simin Behbahani attending one year, only to be rudely turned away. When she called me later to express her regret, I apologized for the treatment she had endured. Her response was a powerful reminder of the importance of our continued resistance: "Why should you apologize? It is they who should be ashamed."

Preserving Memory in the Face of Destruction

The home that stands as a testament to my parents' lives and work has not been spared from further violation. On two separate occasions in the mid-2010s, the house was broken into and ransacked. Despite the numerous locks and security measures we had installed, intruders managed to steal many precious mementos and personal effects.

Each time, the scene that greeted us was reminiscent of the initial desecration following the murders - a deliberate act of destruction aimed at erasing memory and inflicting further pain. These incidents sparked debates among friends and supporters about the best way to preserve my parents' legacy.

Some suggested removing all valuable items from the house, storing them safely until a time when they could be properly displayed or archived. While well-intentioned, this advice failed to grasp the profound significance of keeping these objects in their original context.

The chair where my father was murdered, for instance, holds a power and meaning in that specific location that it would lose if removed to storage. It serves as a visceral reminder, a call to conscience that cannot be replicated by an object divorced from its setting.

Navigating these decisions - what to preserve, how to preserve it, and how to remain true to the spirit of resistance embodied by these objects - has been an ongoing challenge. It requires a delicate balance between physical preservation and maintaining the integrity of what these items represent.

The Ongoing Significance of the Journey

As I prepare for my 26th annual journey, I am acutely aware of its continued importance. This pilgrimage is not merely about personal grief or family history. It has become a act of bearing witness, of refusing to allow the passage of time to erase the memory of injustice.

Each trip serves as a reminder to the authorities that we will not be silenced, that the demand for truth and accountability remains as strong as ever. It is a reaffirmation of our commitment to preserving not just the memory of two individuals, but the broader struggle for human rights and dignity in Iran.

The journey is also a testament to the power of collective memory and solidarity. Over the years, countless individuals have risked their own safety to stand with us, to attend memorials, or simply to offer words of support. Their courage and compassion serve as a powerful counterpoint to the forces of oppression.

As I embark on this year's journey, I carry with me the weight of the past and the hope for the future. The path of resistance is long and often lonely, but it is sustained by the knowledge that we are part of a larger struggle for justice. In honoring the memory of my parents and all those who have fallen victim to political violence, we keep alive the dream of a more just and free Iran.

This annual pilgrimage, born of tragedy, has become a powerful affirmation of the enduring human spirit. It stands as a testament to the fact that even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, the quest for truth and justice cannot be extinguished. As long as there are those willing to remember, to speak out, and to stand firm in the face of oppression, hope remains alive.

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