1. The Nation of Myth, Amidst the Fire

The Iranian sky was torn apart. Missiles from distant lands descended upon silent rooftops in the dead of night. On that night, the nation's slumber was shattered from a thousand directions, and a profound sense of dread settled upon the populace. A child leapt from his bed, a mother ran to the window, and the sound of explosions awakened a thousand memories of war within the silent soul. Yet, amidst the shock and ruin, something else arose. It was not an air-raid siren, nor a counter-attack, but something more ancient: a narrative. The memory of steadfastness. A shared consciousness that has flowed through our veins for millennia, often without our full awareness. The moment the first air defense system fired into the sky, the nation understood in silence: this was not merely a military war. This was the re-enactment of a foundational narrative—of the timeless battle between good and evil, of the defense of a land that is not just soil, but a saga.

It is here that the discourse of Iranian resistance finds its meaning: we fight not merely for survival, but so that the very concept of "Iran" is not extinguished. The enemy may seek to silence a few systems or airfields, but its true target is our national spirit—the same spirit inherited from Ferdowsi, Fereydoun, Rostam, and Kay Khosrow, and from modern heroes like Hemmat and Bakeri. During the 12-day war, we resurrected our ancient champions in modern form. The Shahnameh (Book of Kings) was no longer confined to its pages; it was recited in the cities. It lived in the gaze of the sleepless soldier standing guard at the border, and in the smile of the teenage girl who declared that Iran cannot die. In every ruin, in every missile response, in every drop of blood, there was a line of epic poetry. We responded with the language of steel, but we stood firm with the power of memory. The memory that Rostam did not reside only in Zabol; today, he is in Tehran, in Isfahan, in Tabriz, in Mashhad—in the hearts of youths who wield not a sword, but the determination of Tiamat.

2. The Return of Arash and the Silent Heroes

Names may seemingly perish, but true heroes endure in the collective memory because they bear the weight of meaning. In our time, our enemies presumed that modern Iran was mired in daily mundanity, listless, and disconnected from its myths. They were mistaken. They failed to understand that we are the nation of Arash—not in narrative alone, but in action. When Arash drew his bow, it was not for war, but for the border. He gave himself 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 reconnected a power station under fire, the youth who shielded his home with his life, the nurse who pulled her father from the rubble amidst an explosion and said with a smile, "It matters not if I remain, only that Iran remains"—all are the children of Arash.

This is the discourse of Iranian resistance: resistance not as mere opposition, but as the safeguarding of a historical self. In an age of deception and media manipulation, we stood fast with the blood of our memory. Rostam was in the minefield, Siavash ran through the hospital, Esfandiyar gave his life in a border town, saying, "My body is a shield for the eyes of Iran." Is this not the re-creation of myth? These figures, even if their names do not appear in the news, will remain in history. For when a name is inscribed in the blood of a nation, it needs no epitaph. He who defends Iran with his life has created a wordless epic; he needs no poetry, for he himself is the poem.

3. The Shahnameh: A Book of Power and Wisdom

In today's world, one who is cut off from their culture is rootless, without foundation, without a name. But Iranians are raised with the Shahnameh. As children, we knew Rostam not because his muscles were large, but because he was fearless, incorruptible, and unshakeable. He was the embodiment of the Iranian identity. And today, this same Shahnameh teaches us that war is not only about might; one must fight with wisdom (Kherad). Politics and the epic are intertwined. If Tiamat had a mace, Fereydoun had prudence. If Arash gave his life, Kay Khosrow offered intellect. 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. 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 is the liberator of the heart / Wisdom takes your hand in both worlds."

Today, if Iran stands tall, it is because it carries Rostam, Zal, Fereydoun, and Kay Khosrow simultaneously within its soul. We are the only country whose heroes are both mythological and real. We have both Arash and Hajizadeh. We have both Rostam and Soleimani. This continuity constitutes the very discourse of Iranian resistance—a discourse that does not fall to the earth, because it has arisen from the earth itself.

4. Iran: The Phoenix of the Epic

Iran is a nation of phoenixes. We have been burned many times, but even our ashes are warm, containing life, giving life. Through imposed wars, sanctions, seditions, earthquakes, and poverty, they have repeatedly wished 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. This is the secret to our permanence. Today, the enemy who imagined that a few explosions would cause the country to collapse 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 Arash. Instead of surrendering, we create narratives. And what impressed the world was not just our military capability, but the radiance of meaning in absolute darkness. In 12 days, Iran proved that it is still a writer of epics. And as long as Arash is alive in the mind of a child, and Baqeri is remembered on a street in Tehran, and Kaveh walks a street in Kurdistan, Iran will endure. Not because it possesses advanced equipment, but because it possesses a soul. And that soul is proud and awake.

5. And That Woman, She is the Homeland Itself

The woman in the history of this land has not merely been an actor; she has been the stage itself. Wherever Iran has borne a wound, 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. The Shahnameh is full of women whose silence is prudence and whose speech is fire—from Sindokht, who prevented bloodshed with her intellect, to Gordafarid, who, sword in hand, guarded the nation's standard. These women are neither peripheral nor hidden; they are the main pillars of the edifice.

The Iranian woman 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 with the turmoil of shells, it was the woman who, before all others, rose without orders and without delay. The voice of the woman who saw her brother off to war, sent her husband to the battlefield, buried her child in the earth, and still stands.

And is the homeland anything but this very steadfastness? 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 tears? The woman no longer simply defends the homeland. The woman is the homeland. It is she who becomes the border, who becomes the soil, who is raised high, and who, from the heart of the ruins, builds anew. If Arash has risen again today, if the phoenix rises from the ashes, if a comb still glides through hair amidst the sirens and smoke, it is because of her—the one who stands without fanfare, without pretense, without orders, nameless, yet 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 offer you on a platter... I give you my all... I am with you, O beautiful lady..."

Yes, that woman is Iran.

And the other name for Iran, from now on, in our minds,

Will be "Iran, the Beautiful Lady."

Omid Babelian, Expert at the IPIS

 (The opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect the opinions or views of the IPIS)