There is something Trump will never understand about the people of Iran.
They are not their government.
They have never been their government.
When the mullahs chant death to America in their mosques, the young woman in Tehran is on her rooftop watching the same stars her grandmother watched before the revolution came and renamed everything.
When the regime parades missiles through the streets, the engineer in Isfahan is teaching his daughter calculus in a language that gave the world algebra.
When the Supreme Leader issues a fatwa, the poet in Shiraz is copying Hafez by hand because some things must be preserved in the body, not just on a screen.
They have been waiting.
Not with hatred.
With exhaustion.
Forty-five years of waiting for the world to see the difference between a people and their prison.
And then came the words.
Not bombs.
Words.
I decide what Israel does.
Netanyahu won't go to prison because of me.
We'll make a deal. A great deal. The best deal.
And something died in the chest of every Iranian who had been waiting.
Because they know what a deal with their oppressors looks like. They have lived inside one for four and a half decades.
We know it too.
We are a people who have been promised and abandoned by every empire that ever thought we were useful.
Babylon made promises.
Rome made promises.
Britain made the Balfour Declaration and then locked the gates of Palestine while our people burned in Europe.
We know what it sounds like when a powerful man uses the language of salvation to mean the language of advantage.
We recognize it.
We hear it now.
Every time Trump says Netanyahu
like a name he owns, every time he says I decided like a man adjusting a chess piece, we feel the cold air of something familiar.
Not partnership.
Not covenant.
Transaction.
And transactions expire when they stop being profitable.
The Iranian people do not want a transaction. They want what we wanted for two thousand years โ
to live in their land on their own terms without asking permission from a man in a palace who does not know their names.
They have Nowruz.
They have Cyrus, who freed us when no one else would.
They have Esther's story woven into our calendar โ a Persian king, a Jewish queen, and a people saved inside an empire that could have destroyed them.
We do not forget that.
We have never forgotten that.
There is an Iran that existed before the revolution and it exists still โ
in the kitchen, in the poetry, in the mathematics, in the daughter learning calculus, in the son who memorizes Hafez the way our sons memorize Tehillim.
That Iran deserves to be free. Not free as a byproduct of a negotiation.
Not free because it became useful to a man running for reelection.
Free because forty-five years is long enough.
Free because a civilization that old
does not exist to be a bargaining chip in someone else's press conference.
And every word Trump speaks
that treats Israel like a franchise he manages and Iran like a problem he can solve over a phone call is a word that pushes that freedom
one more day into the distance.
We are watching.
Not with despair.
With the particular clarity of a people who have seen this before.
Who have watched empires perform generosity and then calculate the bill.
Who have learned to count not on the powerful but on the covenant,
not on the deal-maker but on what was promised before deal-makers existed.
A free Iran is not Trump's to give.
It belongs to the woman on the rooftop.
To the engineer and his daughter.
To the poet copying Hafez in the dark.
They have kept it alive for forty-five years the way we kept Jerusalem alive for two thousand โ by saying it out loud, every day, even when no one powerful was listening.
Especially then.
ืขื ืืฉืจืื ืื. โก๏ธ