A Letter to the Honest Deputy!

Dear Mr. Jahangiri, softly but firmly, the shadow of sanctions has revealed its monstrous form. Your headline, I believe, shattered the slumber of all commentators and analysts: 'I cannot lie, sanctions have an effect.' Wow! A good effect? Or a bad effect? Surely you wanted to claim it has a good effect! Or perhaps, humbly, you might acknowledge its bad effects - if only occasionally! I do not know what you said. I did not read beyond the headline, and even that I read only halfway before my slumber was shattered: 'I cannot lie...' I speculated that you might have shattered the slumber of all analysts and commentators because my own slumber was severely disrupted. I am neither an analyst nor a commentator. But I could not believe it. You cannot lie? Is that it? Thank you for that. Does hearing such words from someone in your position not shock the people after all these years, all those statements, speeches, promises, contracts, and appointments, that the First Vice President of the Republic says: 'I cannot lie'? If you cannot, then who can? This is unacceptable. It does not matter in what context or at what moment such a phrase was uttered. The question is why, with all your revolutionary, political, religious, and governmental history, should you lose your self-confidence like this? It is a shame for you, Mr. Jahangiri. How will you look your boss in the eye? How will you face the Supreme Leader? Tomorrow, when Mir Hossein comes out of house arrest - as your government has promised - with what substance will you greet someone who wants to take the country back to the golden age of Imam? I mean to the point of the beginning of the lies of a non-political cleric who said he would go straight from Neuflottau to Qom! Mir Hossein wants to take us back to the golden age of deception. Deception of the conquest of Ain, the conquest of the revolution, the conquest of the left, the conquest of the right, the conquest of the nation, the conquest of the throne, and the conquest of the tall fairy house! And you, who cannot lie, what will you do in the second golden age? Since you admit that you cannot lie about sanctions, you certainly cannot lie about anything else either, and until now you have shown yourself as a lie melted in the guardianship of the jurist and a soldier of the revolution and a companion of the authority and a disciple of the leadership. Is it right that in expressing this inability, you play with the reputation of every statesman, stateswoman, and their relatives? What do the people say? Dear Sir! Tell the truth, why do you claim you cannot lie? Are you not afraid that tomorrow you will be arrested as an infiltrator and ordered to return all the rights you have taken from the government fund? And return all the poles that may have slipped through your hands during your disappearance? Dear Mr. Jahangiri! I think it would be good for you to come and take back your words. If you have forgotten how to lie, a psychological consultant or rehabilitation specialist can restore your lost ability in a short time. Do not lose hope and practice in front of a mirror for half an hour a day. Repeating these words and phrases will help you: 'Key - Purple - Imam of Time - My brother - We have no cardboard sleepers - We have no hungry people - I have no choice - We did not steal - We did not kill anyone - We did not silence any writers - We did not have summer 67...' In any case, please ease up a bit and bring the Supreme Leader and the beloved President and the awakened and prostrate nation and the blood-soaked nation out of depression and hopelessness and confess that at least once, just once in your glorious life, you have lied, and that lie is this three-word phrase in question. ***The Tale of the Childless Fighters: A group of fighters and overthrowers at a university mocked a girl, saying this young lady is the daughter of so-and-so and the granddaughter of such-and-such. An old man passed by and said, 'You know nothing, you childless people, who recognize the origin but do not recognize the lineage and do not know that parents cannot control their children, let alone that a grandchild obeys a grandparent.' Woe to you for taking a free-spirited student to task for being the child of this and the grandchild of that. The group stared at him. The old man said, 'You who claim to be human rights advocates, it is good that you also respect the rights of the 'grandchildren of humans.' The old man said this and took a few steps away and passed away. (Author's note: Don't worry, the old man did not die; I just wanted his words to impact the commentators, critics, satirists, and jesters more.) ***Memories of the Unsuccessful Poet: Thus says the unsuccessful poet: 'When I saw the condition of my compatriots and thought about poverty and hunger and looked at the plunders, I composed these two verses and recited them at a gathering: I saw a man whose condition was bad The line of poverty had crossed his temples He had fallen by the sea of oil His name was Mr. Kouroshzadeh. Everyone in the gathering praised me except for a respectable gentleman who said your poem is not 'politically correct.' That is to say, something like decorum or, more accurately, 'justice of speech' was not observed in it, because that person in the poem is 'Mr. Kouroshzadeh' and there is gender discrimination in this poem. Is there any difference between a man and a woman in poverty and misfortune and entitlement to a share of oil? The unsuccessful poet says the attendees liked this reminder. So I took my pen and made my poem gender-neutral: I saw a person whose condition was bad The line of poverty had crossed their temples They had fallen by the sea of oil Their name was that unfortunate Kouroshzadeh. Thus, everyone was satisfied and applauded, and I was happy with the refinement of my poem when a gentleman with a sweet accent said this poem is still not 'politically correct.' Are all Iranians supposed to be the children of Kourosh? We are a nation of various races and ethnicities. The unsuccessful poet says the attendees praised that man, and several others announced that they were not Kouroshzadeh or Kourosh-born. I realized that my place was not among the enlightened and aware people of the gathering, and no matter how hard I tried, my work would not be right. I realized that my rightful place was among the ignorant and backward, superstitious people. So I took paper and pen and wrote these verses and submitted them and left the gathering: I was a poet whose condition was bad My poem was rejected from all sides Now I leave this gathering I go to the night of the leader's poetry! Leadership has no condition of correctness You even receive praise from him I go to be next to him Like the rest, I will become a nonsense speaker. The unsuccessful poet concludes by saying, 'It has passed for us, but others do not say and write and think so 'politically correct' either. For example, regarding the objection that doctor made to my poem, which I mentioned, which of you who read it thought of him as a lady doctor, not 'Mr. Doctor'? Honestly, sincerely, in good conscience? ........ Her name was Shahr-eh, she is a gynecologist. Politically correct ***From this toilet to that toilet is salvation: One of the construction and development actions of the Islamic Republic is the discovery of six toilets in Azadi Stadium in Tehran, which last week added a golden page to the file of the regime's construction achievements. These toilets, which were built in the former Aryamehr Stadium with a capacity of 100,000, had been hidden behind a cement wall until now. It seems that the then Minister of Development was supposed to inaugurate them with greetings and salutations, but the revolution occurred, and he did not have the opportunity, and now it has been inherited by the Islamic Republic. Furthermore, since these luxurious holes (probably in Mr. Jannati's language) were in the exclusive and ceremonial section, undoubtedly if they had been discovered earlier, they would have been filled by the high-ranking officials of the Islamic Republic. From the jug, only what is in it pours out. Thus says the unsuccessful poet: The time was when our president was in charge When a hole was discovered in the stadium For the messes they made Thank God the government became self-sufficient. ***The Mysterious Body of the Alien: Harvard University researchers said they have discovered a mysterious interstellar body. This body or object or vessel, whose origin and destination are unknown, is called 'Oumuamua.' Harvard scientists say that perhaps 'this body was designed by aliens.' Now where this name 'Oumuamua' came from is unclear. Perhaps its Persian translation is 'you and I.' ***Another page from the memories of Vahid al-Azma, the standard-bearer of Aqa: On the twentieth of Safar 1340, I brought him a bowl of yellow pudding. Upon entering, one of the clerics was leaving, and as he was leaving, he bumped into me from behind, but it passed without incident. He turned around, we shook hands, and he left. Aqa said, 'Did you see Vahid? This one has really burned! I asked, 'Are you referring to the place of the seal?' He said, 'The man has left no forehead for himself. Now people think that since we do not have a burn on our foreheads, we do not pray.' Aqa rubbed his forehead and said, 'In my youth, once, .... may his father burn, bad friend, ... he said, 'Burn the hazelnut and put it on, still when I remember it, my forehead burns. But it was beautiful, it suited me. But in those early days when Photoshop came out, I had the old photos retouched, I erased them all. At one time it was very fashionable, and people believed it. Jalili, who wanted to become president, I said do not burn anymore, he said, 'Aqa, God is my witness, I burned two years ago, now whatever I do, it does not go away.' I said, 'Rub with a pumice stone.' Aqa took a spoonful of yellow pudding and said, 'Now this gentleman you saw, it seems he has gone for a tattoo. Of course, I did not bring it up. I just said when you want to pray, grease your forehead a little. He said, 'My skin is sensitive to grease, I said, 'Grease the seal!' Aqa laughed, and I laughed too. Then he took another spoonful of yellow pudding and said, 'Tell me, Vahid, has anyone pushed anyone into the pool lately?' I said, 'Not at all.' He said, 'People are idle; they make up stories. We do not push or throw anyone into our work. Only in the early days of the revolution, we threw Baha'is down from heights. Not in the pool, on dry land. That was because they did not jump themselves. It was also a religious duty. But now, unfortunately, there is no time for such things. The Baha'is have also become clever; they do not come to the edge of the heights. The almond slices are few. I said, 'By God's grace, next year we will increase the slices.' He said, 'Why next year? Bring it tomorrow. Did not the Imam say every day is Ashura, every day is Arbaeen? .... Next year, next year ....' Aqa mocked me for saying 'next year' several times, as if I had said something absurd or made a distant remark. Then from his blessed pocket, he took a handful of almond slices, sprinkled them on the yellow pudding, and said, 'A camel dreams of cotton seeds.' He ate with such appetite as if he had thrown a hundred Baha'is off the mountain in one go.