The light of God
At this moment, when images of protests in Iran are filling our hearts with sorrow, one picture left me shaking. An image of a young man who was arrested, bound, and gagged in the middle of a deserted schoolyard. Alone. Neither a hangman shouts, nor a mother cries out. Silence…
Khodanour, which means the light of God, was killed by a wound to his side—evidenced in the same picture, I later learned.
I pondered what is so tragic about this picture. The shoes he removed at the base of the platform, unintentionally creating a sacred space? His desperate hands? His back’s bow? or maybe none?
For me, it was that flagpole. Not because of what it stands for—no, of course not.
The pole’s visible side rests on the ground, but the other side—not pictured—is open! Khodanour can see the open end of the rod against the sky! There is freedom, just a little bit out of his reach.
Whether the bar is four meters tall or reaches the infinite sky, it makes no difference to the body. But what about the mind? This hope mixed with sadness is able to kill you!
In my dream, I imagine that you and I will raise him over our hands to freedom. Freedom is only four meters higher. Only four meters…
When I see him, I see myself on a platform, tied to a flag. Like a butterfly pinned to a display case, unable to fly. I see freedom just a bit higher. Right there.Where the light of God shines.