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Tasua and Ashura are still sacred to me.

That’s why I’m writing—not to defend, not to preach, but to remember. To remember something that once felt pure, before it became politicized, stained, and weaponized.

As a child in Iran, these days were different. We didn’t light candles at home, but we attended the mourning ceremonies just by watching the group of mourners in black passing by in the alleys around neighbourhood or sat with friends and family reading prayers. And I remember… some people, even the most lighthearted ones, wept like they had just lost someone dear. There was no acting. It was real grief—grief for something ancient, collective, something passed down like an heirloom of sorrow and solidarity.

It was never about power. Never about performance. Just a shared space to feel, to remember, to belong.

But now I scroll through social media, and my heart sinks. So many Iranians, especially those inside the country, curse these rituals. They mock the very things we once held sacred. And I don’t blame them. I truly don’t. When religion is forced down your throat—when prayer becomes a political demand, when belief is used to justify violence, when mourning itself is staged and hijacked by those in power—it’s natural to push back.

This regime has turned religion into a system of control. They’ve made faith ugly. They’ve buried beauty beneath layers of coercion and fear. And in response, people now reject not just the regime—but everything it pretends to represent.

Still… I remember what it was before. I remember what it meant to us—not as a tool of the state, but as a rhythm of our culture. I remember my father saying that before the revolution, people respected religion more—because it was free, because it was personal. It wasn’t a shortcut to power, or a uniform you wore to climb the ladder of success.

And so, while others rightfully scream and protest and refuse, I choose to remember. I step back from the noise of social media. I turn inward. I carry Tasua and Ashura in a quiet place inside me—not because I’m religious in the way the regime expects, but because those days were ours long before they became theirs.

What I remember is not what they promote.

What I carry is not what they impose.

Tasua and Ashura are still sacred to me—not because I was told to believe, but because I once felt something real. Something collective. Something deeply human.

And I will not let that be erased.