Iran’s Naked Ayatollah
Take Ali Khamenei, the Supreme one, guiding Iranians to hell. In the nude, he is actually different from us all.
When naked, humans look alike (except for the differences between the sexes); no more are there dress codes to point to one’s social class, religious and political beliefs or ethnicity.
Nonetheless, there is one group of humans that is different: the Islamists, especially the ayatollahs ruling in Iran.
Mute, fully clad in turban and gown, they might be taken for the wise men of our times. Their discourse on Islam drills in honesty, truth, and spiritual greatness; only their teaching will pave the way to paradise.
Hardly have these words been said than the ayatollahs burst with anger, with hatred for their critics, for women, for non-believers (the rest of the world). They see enemies to be destroyed everywhere; inside the country, outside it.
In fact, Iran is ruined, polluted, corrupted and morbid, not the paradise they describe. Their hatred has created, in the country and elsewhere in the Middle East, a hell.
Their followers, often intellectually lazy, seldom far-seeing, always ready to grab a profit, obey them. Beyond the ayatollahs’ dress code they must see something that a blind mortal, like me, does not see.
Perhaps a photograph from an ayatollah, naked, will be enlightening.
Take Ali Khamenei, the Supreme one, guiding Iranians to hell. In the nude, he is actually different from us all.
Let’s face it: The Islamic Republic of Iran is run by one piggy, grotesque and pathetic. Khamenei and his Pasdaran run an empire of wealth gained by continual spoliation, playing tricks with the gold and currency trade, bartering the country’s natural resources with other tyrants for faked allegiances. Presently, the money is in short supply for their nuclear ambitions. They will ask for some by negotiating the number of nuclear facilities with the hesitant and timorous West and will get it.
And we Iranians let it happen, wherever we are, in the country or abroad.
In words, we do not miss an occasion to write or yell our adoration for our country. Our adoration is a façade. We are not keen to be an active, united nation. In deeds, we scarcely lift a finger to save ourselves.
