The Israeli attack that I celebrated most madly
F**k the Basij!
Scene 1: I’m in 9th grade. One of my teachers is a recruiter for the Basij, the militia belonging to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and he is trying to convince me to join the organization. It’s an organization of street thugs who receive special privileges from the government and in return do its dirty work, especially putting down protests. Everybody at the school knows that my parents were both political prisoners, and my father used to be quite a famous anti-regime intellectual. The recruiter really wants me. I’d be his greatest achievement: The son of the city’s famed regime opponent joins the ranks of the government’s oppressive forces. He is selling me on the educational privilege.
Iran has a once-a-year, gruesome, nationwide university admission test for which high school seniors need to study 10+ hours for an entire year. If you bomb it, you’ll have to wait until next summer to retake it, spending another year studying 10+ hours every day. But if you are an active member of the Basij, you will get a priority admission to all the top programs. Even if you bomb it, you’ll still get in.
He's also telling me that, unlike the other members, I won’t even have to participate in all the religious practices. “Just join for now and see if you like it. You can always leave.”
There’s an additional benefit. I am at an all-boys school (all schools in Iran are gender exclusive), and I had started school a year earlier than everybody else. So I’m trapped with hundreds of boys, every single one of them physically bigger. I’m the bullies’ favorite to pick on. Joining the Basij would make me untouchable, with the protection of the state behind me. Hell, I could even become the bully.
The offer is too tempting, but eventually I must decline it. My father would never forgive me for it.
Scene 2: I’m a freshman at a top university and in a top STEM program. Studying up to 17 hours a day has paid off. Colleges are also coed, so, I’m around girls for the first time. I’m on campus, and I’m flirting with this one girl. A female member of the Basij passes by, looking at us disapprovingly. We end up at the campus security office separately. She had ratted us out. I say security, but it’s not to protect the students. It’s to protect the government from the students, to spy on us, to crack down on protests if necessary, and to make sure that we don’t violate Islamic values on campus—exactly what I had just been up to. We were let off with a warning that we could be expelled if we didn’t behave ourselves. I think to myself, f**k the Basij!
Scene 3: It’s the summer of 2009, and the Green Movement is happening. We had been marching peacefully for days, demanding a recount for the fraudulent presidential election a few weeks earlier, but the members of the Basij began beating us up and opened fire at us. We turned to rioting in return. It’s night-time in Tehran, and things are heating up. The Basij members are there in anti-riot gear, and I can hear shots fired occasionally, not too much. I don’t know if they’re real bullets or rubber bullets. All we have are our fists and rocks to throw at them. We manage to form a group and get into a fist fight. Once they can’t use their gear, they aren’t scary at all. I receive some hits, but you should see the other guy! The fight is over, and we properly humiliate the bastards, making them crawl down a steep boulevard. It’s my proudest moment.
Scene 4: It’s the night after. We are there to repeat our last night’s triumph. They are there to avenge themselves. It’s not a riot anymore. It’s a warzone. Shots are again being fired, but tonight I hear them every few seconds. Something hits my wrist. I’m quite sure it’s a rubber bullet. I have never experienced such pain, even when my skin was cut open with blood jumping out like a fountain while playing soccer. That had hurt much less. I cannot even move my wrist. Could it be broken? I can’t go to the hospital either because those who go to treat their injuries get arrested on the spot for protesting.
There are many more of them than last night, too, and we can no longer escape when they’re chasing us because they are everywhere. But we have to run, what else is there to do? They finally corner us from both sides. We shout for help, and people open their houses to us. We go in, knowing that they’re outside waiting. I still can’t move my hand. Once in safety, I see that it’s swelled with a giant bruise. But we’re still not safe because the Basij members are trying to break in. We have to hold the door. They even try to climb the walls—luckily, the walls are quite tall. The owner brings us sticks to beat them over the wall. We hold our fort, but we know that they’re waiting for us to leave the house and arrest us.
It’s way past midnight. We’ve been trapped for hours. Our host has been feeding us. But we still can’t leave. We feel bad for the host, apologizing to her, while she assures us that we’re the heroes and it’s the honor of her life. Eventually, two by two and three by three, we jump roofs and escape. Seriously, f**k the Basij.
Scene 5: It’s June 18, 2025. It’s 6:30 A.M. in Scottsdale, AZ, where I live. I’ve been in the U.S. for 11 years, so used to life here that I sometimes wonder if it was a different person who experienced all that.
Israel has been attacking Iran for days. My phone suddenly begins to blow up. It must be some big target that’s been hit. I check my messages. Israel’s hit the Basij headquarters. No, it wasn’t a different person who had gone through all that. All those experiences flash before my eyes. My pride in rejecting their offer is surging. My bruised ego for being beaten up by worthless scum disguised as humans is healed. Israel is avenging me, and I’m euphoric. But seriously, f**k the Basij!