Between Collapse and Breath
Revolutions are rarely born in moments of certainty. More often, they emerge from exhaustion—from years of silence, obedience, and promises that were never meant to be kept. In this piece, Hanieh Hosseini explores the collision between despair and resistance, and the fragile hope that survives even in the ruins.
What started as a peaceful protest against the government in Tehran, at Azadi Square, three days ago, turned brutal almost immediately. I stand here watching as a pool of crimson substance seeps through the concrete into the earth beneath—what once was serene is now defiled. Complete silence surrounds me, the world muted, as if cotton were wrapped around my ears. Then comes the pressure—a dull, pulling ache deep inside them, like trapped air trying to escape. The world tilts slightly off its axis, and the sensation in my ears turns into a flutter. Disorienting me.
As I look at what lies before me, I can’t help but try to understand why this exists at all.
A limb.
Detached. Unclaimed.
The amount of inhumanity required to do such a thing. A life once full of hope and dreams.
Ended.
Just.
Like.
That.
Hollowed eyes stare up at the night sky, deprived of their soul. Nothing is left except flesh—life no longer inhabiting it, merely a shell. A body borrowed to fill time on earth.
And as I stare at the spectacle in front of me, I realize this is not the first body, nor will it be the last. I can’t help but wonder: would we be here if we knew it would end like this?
“I realize this is not the first body, nor will it be the last. I can’t help but wonder: would we be here if we knew it would end like this?”
I fall to my knees, my jeans immediately soaking up the blood. My hands hover above the ground. I don’t know if I want to touch the ground or let them fall onto my knees. I hesitate before I let them touch it. Small pieces of grit press into my palms, engraving themselves into my flesh which is already slick with blood. I don’t know whose blood it is, that distinction stopped mattering once they opened fire.
My breath fractures—too fast, then too slow. My body wants rest, yet adrenaline refuses to let go. Somewhere far beyond this place, screens continue to glow. Markets open. Numbers are debated. Life proceeds carefully, politely, as if this scene were disconnected from it. As if nothing here could possibly reach it. As if collapse announces itself all at once, instead of arriving piece by piece.
Each body here knew the risk. Standing at the front meant choosing between disappearance and resistance. A decision framed as agency, but shaped long before it was made. Every single one of the people lying around me here now knew that once they stood on the frontline, it would be a matter of life or death. The choice—no matter how grave—was made by them: to give a life in order to be alive.
“We were told stability was something you earned through obedience, that endurance would be rewarded with safety. No one mentioned the cost.”
Yet, we refuse to see the line that led us here. It is easier to call this act of defiance incidental rather than acknowledge it as a consequence. Years of suppression were the root cause. What remains when something comes to a halt is the realization that the life we were promised was not, in fact, the life that was given. I remember when the future was explained to us in straight lines. Study. Work. Contribute. Wait for your turn. We were told stability was something you earned through obedience, that endurance would be rewarded with safety. No one mentioned the cost. No one mentioned bodies.
It hits me, standing here, watching. What comes to a halt is not only life, but belief. The belief that systems bend without breaking. That silence equals peace. That delay can last forever. It started as awareness and turned into refusing to be silenced. As I look around me, I know this does not look like salvation. It’s a massacre. Lives ended so that others could continue. My heart squeezes so tight, it feels like I can’t breathe.
Among the red-stained concrete, something green pushes upward. Small. Uninvited. Alive.
I don’t trust the feeling that follows. Hope has failed me before. It disguises itself as patience, whispers that things will resolve themselves if we endure just a little longer. Still, the green persists. It does not ask permission. It does not wait. Still, it grows. And something in me refuses to do otherwise.
Perhaps an ending is not destruction, but exposure—the moment where what could no longer be sustained finally reveals its cost. What we called stability was postponement. What we called peace was enforced quietly by those in power. It always sounds the same: endure and it will pass. Endurance has a habit of dressing itself up as inevitability.
But I have endured. And I have seen what that leads to.
“I realize that what was handed to us must be broken open if anything is to grow.”
I look around me once more, my body tired. Then I see it, slowly growing. Slowly rising. And that’s when I feel within my core, that when something ends, it does not mean that everything else ends. It means the start of something else. Something that refuses to repeat history all over again. My father’s words echo through me. “If you want change, you have to make it happen yourself. Don’t yield, fight.”
I realize that what was handed to us must be broken open if anything is to grow.
Hope and love will always find its way out of the darkness. They always have.
With that, I bow my head—chin to chest—in silence I thank the countless others before me—those who gave the rest of us, still standing, still breathing, a chance to mark a new beginning. For the ones who remain. My body readies itself. Every muscle tightens. Adrenaline surges back through every vein and cell in my body. My hands ball into fists, my jaw set. The wind flicks my hair as I slowly stand up. I raise my arm. My fist cuts through the air. And I roar so loud it feels as though the ground beneath me answers.
Hanieh Hosseini is een schrijver en onderwijsprofessional, geboren in Iran en getogen in Nederland. Haar werk beweegt zich tussen fictie en non-fictie en wordt gekenmerkt door een scherpe blik op menselijke kwetsbaarheid, identiteit en innerlijk conflict. Geïnspireerd door de verhalen van mensen om haar heen en de rijkdom van haar verbeelding, geeft ze stem aan personages die zich vaak onbegrepen voelen en worstelen met wie ze zijn en wie ze denken te moeten zijn. Naast schrijven heeft ze een achtergrond in het mbo-onderwijs, waar ze haar passie voor leren en ontwikkelen inzet om anderen te inspireren.