- The Nation of Myth, Amidst the Fire
The skies of Iran were torn asunder. Missiles from afar descended upon silent rooftops in the dead of night. That night, the slumber of the homeland was shattered from a thousand directions, and a heavy dread settled upon the souls of the people. A child leaped from his bed, a mother ran to the window, and the roar of explosions awakened a thousand dormant memories of war within their chests.
But from the heart of this shock and rubble, something more ancient than sirens and counter-attacks arose: Narrative. The memory of resistance. The same shared sentiment that has flowed in the veins of this nation for millennia, even when we are not always conscious of it. And as the first air defense system roared toward the heavens, all understood in silence that this was no mere military conflict; this was the re-enactment of an archetype. The ancient battle of good and evil, and the defense of a land that is not just soil, but the chronicle of our existence.
It is here that the Iranian discourse of resistance finds its meaning: we fight not merely for survival, but for the very essence and meaning of "Iran" to endure. The enemy may seek to silence a few systems or airports, but its true target is our national spirit; the same spirit bequeathed to us from Ferdowsi and Rostam to Hemmat and Bakeri.
In that twelve-day war, we resurrected ancient heroes in a new form. The Shahnameh (The Book of Kings) was no longer confined to the bookshelf; it breathed in the streets. It was seen in the sleepless eyes of a soldier at the border, in the smile of a young girl who said, "Iran cannot die," and in every drop of blood that was shed, an epic verse flowed.
We answered in the language of steel, but we endured through the power of "memory." The memory that Rostam is no longer only in Zabol; today, he lives in Tehran, Isfahan, Tabriz, and Mashhad, in the hearts of youths who, though they bear no swords, have nurtured the will of Tahamtan (Rostam) in their chests.
- The Return of Arash and the Silent Heroes
Names may seem to perish, but true heroes live on in the collective memory of a nation, for they are the bearers of meaning.
The enemy was under the illusion that the Iran of today—drowned in daily routine, listless, and distant from its myths—was weak. But they were gravely mistaken. They failed to understand that we are the nation of Arash; not in legend, but in action. When Arash drew his bow, it was not for war, but for the border. He threw his very being into that arrow so that Iran would not be left without its land.
And today, thousands of Arashes have risen from among the people: the soldier who silently guided the air defense system; the technician who restored power to the city under fire; the nurse who, amidst the thunder of explosions, pulled her father from the rubble and said with a smile, "It matters not if I survive, only that Iran survives." Yes, these are all the children of Arash.
This is the Iranian discourse of resistance; a resistance not of mere opposition, but of safeguarding one's historical self. In an age of deception and media manipulation, we stood firm with a memory written in blood. Rostam was in the minefield, Siavash was running through the hospital corridors, and Esfandiyar gave his life in a border town, saying, "Let my body be a shield for the eyes of Iran."
Is this not the magnificent rebirth of myth? These heroes, even if their names never appear in the news, are etched into history. For when a name is inscribed in the blood of a nation, it needs no stone tablet.
He who defends Iran with his life creates a wordless epic; he has no need for poetry, for he himself is the poem.
- The Shahnameh, Book of Power and Wisdom
In today's world, he who is cut off from his culture is rootless. Without foundation. Without a name. But the Iranian is raised with the Shahnameh. As children, we knew Rostam not because his muscles were large, but because he did not fear, he did not sell out, he did not tremble. He was the birth certificate of the Iranian. And today, this same Shahnameh teaches us: war is not only about force. One must fight with wisdom (Kherad). Politics and epic are intertwined. If Tahamtan had a mace, Fereydun had prudence. If Arash gave his life, Kay Khosrow contemplated strategy. This synergy is the secret to Iran's survival: a nation that knows when to draw the sword, when to compromise, and when to rise. Today, when the enemy came with missiles, we answered with the blade, but also with patience and with our voice. And this "synthesis of power and honor" is the very essence of the Shahnameh. Ferdowsi wrote this secret a thousand years ago:
"Wisdom is the guide, and wisdom the liberator / Wisdom takes your hand in both worlds."
Today, if the Iranian stands tall, it is because he carries Rostam, Zal, Fereydun, and Kay Khosrow all within his soul. We are the only country whose heroes are both mythical and real. We have both Arash and Hajizadeh. Both Rostam and Soleimani. And this continuity is the Iranian discourse of resistance; a discourse that does not fall to the ground, because it has risen from the ground itself.
- Iran: The Phoenix of the Epic
Iran is the land of the Phoenix; we have been burned many times, but even our ashes are warm, containing life, giving life. During the Imposed War, under sanctions, through seditions, amidst earthquakes and poverty, they have tried time and again to see us defeated. But always, from the heart of every catastrophe, someone has risen. Like the father who lost his daughter in an attack but sang the anthem "Ey Iran" at her burial. This is the voice of a nation that does not see death as an end, but as part of the narrative. Iran transforms even death into myth. And this is the secret to our permanence.
Today, the enemy who thought a few explosions would shatter the country was itself torn asunder, because our spirit is invincible. We are a country whose children hear the story of Rostam and whose soldiers are raised with the spirit of Arash. Instead of surrendering, we create narrative. And what impressed the world was not just our military capability, but the brilliance of meaning in absolute darkness. In 12 days, Iran proved that it is still an author of epics. And as long as Arash is alive in the mind of a child, Baqeri is remembered in an alley in Tehran, and Kaveh walks a street in Kurdistan, Iran will endure. Not because it has equipment, but because it has a soul. And that soul is proud and awake.
- And That Woman, She is the Homeland
In the history of this land, the woman has not merely been an actor; she has been the stage itself. Wherever Iran has borne a wound upon its body, a woman has been there to bind it with her own sleeve.
Sometimes behind the curtain, sometimes at the forefront of the army; Sometimes with a cradle, sometimes with a rifle; Sometimes with an unarmored body, but always standing, steadfast.
The Shahnameh is the witness, filled with women whose silence was prudence and whose speech was fire. From Sindokht, who prevented bloodshed with her intellect, to Gordafarid, who, sword in hand, guarded the frontiers of honor.
These women have held neither a secondary presence nor a marginal role; they have always been the main pillars of this edifice.
The Iranian woman of today is the same; the heir to the lullabies that put Rostam to sleep and the vigils that roused Arash from his slumber. In the recent war, when the sky was scarred and cities trembled in a storm of bullets, it was the woman who rose first, without orders, without hesitation. The voice of a woman who sent off her brother, dispatched her husband to the battlefield, saw her child buried in the earth, and still stands.
And is the homeland anything but this very resilience? Can one imagine Iran outside of the woman who bakes the bread, tends to the child, binds the wound, and washes her martyr with her own tears? The woman no longer merely defends the homeland. The woman is the homeland. It is she who becomes the border, becomes the soil, who is raised up, and who, from the heart of the ruins, builds anew. If today Arash has risen again, if the Phoenix rises from the ashes, if a shoulder still finds the grace to comb through hair amidst the sirens and smoke, it is because of her; the same woman who stands without fanfare, without pretense, without orders, nameless, but familiar.
And then, in the heart of a moment when words fall apart, only one voice rises from within the earth, from the heart of the alley, from the lips of a survivor:
"I have no head to lay upon your platter / that I may give my head to you... I am with you, my beautiful lady..."
Yes, that woman is Iran. And the other name for Iran, from this day forward, in our minds, Will be "The Beautiful Lady Iran."
Omid Bablyan, Analyst at the Center for Political and International Studies
(The opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of the IPIS)