The Ark of Salvation and the Madness of Power: A Manifesto Against War

The Ark of Salvation and the Threads of DNA in the Madness of Power

My white-haired daughter sat beside me, and together we gazed outside. Perhaps it will snow; if the whiteness of snow in this cold winter fills the earth like the beauty of your face, will the world finally find tranquility? She turned away, yawned, sank her claws softly into the side of the sofa, and I gently buried my face in her long fur. She, too, is Iranian—a cat they call Persian, standing today as a living parallel to the map of Iran.

I wish to build a great vessel—perhaps a ship, perhaps a boat, larger than any vessel in existence. Have you seen the warships of the madmen? The aircraft carriers of violence? I want mine to be grander still: the greatest ark in human history. I want to launch it into the waters and sail with my daughter toward my compatriots.

I know not whether these impulses stem from the threads of DNA coiled within me, genes preserved in my blood, or memories of surviving amidst madness—yet they call to me. That blind old woman in a northern Iranian village calls to me to navigate my boat toward a sanctuary they have not yet bombed. The elderly couple in the southern villages who fed me time and again call to me as well. Have their homes, too, been shattered by bombs?

Lady, too, was Iranian; she lived in the deserts of Mashhad. What will her descendants do today in Mashhad at the sound of explosions? They call to me. All the children of the Minab school call to me endlessly. In dreams and waking hours, in cages and among the dead, I see them. Last night, they appeared in my dream: we were trapped inside the school, and a yellow-haired monster alongside a child-killing zealot and a dark-robed cleric were executing children one by one to satisfy their shameful lust for power.

The yellow-haired man thrust a long spike into my daughter’s chest and shouted: “We possess the greatest army in the world!” The child-killing monster drew his weapon and opened fire. The roof collapsed, the walls caved in, screaming. I saw the black robe of relentless madness worn by the bearded zealots, driven by the obsession to be “supreme.” A curse upon your supremacy!

My daughter, I have built the ark. I have taken to the sea. Wait a little longer; I want us to sail far away—farther than all eras, farther than the very name of “humanity.” I want to gather you all in my arms.

The Illusion of Power and the Opium of Supremacy

The bearded zealots, driven mad by the opium of supremacy, led everyone to ruin while holding hands with global monsters. They never attained the intoxication of real power, and now, in their weakness, they send everyone to slaughter. They constructed no shelters, sounded no warnings, and gave no alarms to protect the populace from bombs. For decades, they babbled about war and burdened the people with sanctions, yet built nothing for defense.

Both sides of this warmongering madness proclaim slaughter. They hang the corpse of freedom, stuff its body with straw, and pose for photographs beside it. Leave the people of this prophet-laden Middle East alone for a single moment, so they may discover freedom for themselves! You dragged them into war until their world became hell, and now you boast to your own citizens of a heaven fueled by the firewood of this very hell.

If they awarded the yellow-haired lunatic a Nobel Peace Prize, would he calm down? Fill his mouth with declarations of “supremacy”! Proclaim to them: “You are the greatest army in the cosmos! The most peace-loving people in the universe!” Say it repeatedly, so that these power-obsessed addicts, intoxicated by this deadly delusion, might finally leave my children alone.

The Theater of Free Media and the Cage of Wisdom

The yellow-haired man shouted: “Look at this black-robed ruler, his reach extends beyond borders!” A reporter asked: “Sir, how many thousands of miles are you from your own homeland?” The yellow-haired man, furious, yelled: “Do not ask stupid questions!” And from that moment, the “free media” learned not to be foolishly free, finding their wisdom within the cage of power.

He continued: “Some say I might get bored. Is this war of supremacy monotonous? Never! I love games, and my trick is winning. They wanted to attack—I heard it myself—so we struck first. Striking first is the mark of the supreme.” He yelled: “They have many bombs!” A reporter remembered the yellow-haired man’s endless stockpiles of bombs and bit his tongue to remain wise. The man added: “They wanted nuclear bombs, and we knew it.” Another reporter asked: “How many deployable nuclear bombs do you possess, and which nation in history has actually used them?” Before he could finish, he was hauled away in a straitjacket.

Soon, they will sit in the United Nations—a circle of lunatics. They have killed children, bombed hospitals, burned hotels, and set airports ablaze. “Do not worry, it is nothing,” declared a power-hungry official with deep theatrical sympathy. Let us transform the UN floor into a boxing ring and let the lunatics fight it out for supremacy! Perhaps then they will leave us in peace.

No to War: The Sacred Filth Sold as Purity

The intoxicated warriors killed thousands in the streets, stuffing bodies into bags: five thousand, ten thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand. And now, these well-dressed, well-perfumed yellow-haired figures, masking the smell of blood with the finest French perfumes, how many will they kill? A thousand? A hundred thousand? I see them with calculators in hand, debating whether killing more or fewer is the metric of supremacy today.

Power is a monster! Stay away from this human madness, for anyone who holds power, aligns with power, or seeks power becomes a monster. A handful of lunatics have blown the trumpets of war, calling freedom into battle. Know that war came to serve power, birthing nothing but death, agony, and destruction.

No matter how often we declare that war is filth, humanity decorates it with notions of courage, honor, authenticity, and homeland, selling impurity as purity. Whoever claims that war is a blessing, a mark of nobility, or the path of resistance—know that their very essence is filth.

I have taken to the sea. From Minab to Marivan, from Bojnourd to Beirut, from Haifa to Jajroud, from Doha to the Danube—how far is it to the sea? Come to the sea. I will clear the path, breaking all barriers with my hands. Stay alive; do not go to school; remain in your homes. Monsters strike schools and burn hospitals while shouting: “We are the greatest army in the world!”

They are the greatest army, and we are simply Living Presences (Jan). My little presences! I want us to go far away, to the ends of the earth, sailing across all oceans until we settle in a quiet, peaceful forest. To live freely, where I will sing to you endlessly of Life—the sole true value of existence that the monsters consumed in their pursuit of supremacy.

My white-furred daughter will play with you; she adores children who have not yet transformed into the human monster.