If You Were My Father…

Dear Supreme Leader Khamenei,

If you were my father, I wouldn’t want you to die. I would want you to teach me things—like show me the wisdom to create a life of meaning.

If you were my father, I would want you to read to me, and teach me to read—literature far and wide, great and trivial. Fiction and non-fiction, poetry and song. Even jokes, if you knew any. Especially the ones that made my mother roll her eyes.

If you were my father, I would want to learn to step into your shoes. But first, I would want you to model a life of meaning.

What would that mean? Would it mean loving your people more than your pride? Would it mean lifting up voices rather than silencing them? Would it mean knowing when to let go of power—not just for your legacy, but for your soul?

If you were my father, I would want you to sit with me after dinner, pouring tea so slowly it felt like a prayer. I’d want you to show me patience—not the kind that traps time, but the kind that bears fruit.

If you were my father, I’d want to know:
Why do people disappear when they speak the truth?
Why does loving God sometimes mean hating your neighbor?
And when did silence become safer than song?

I’ve long wondered if you were lonely in power. If in your kingdom of shadows, only your echo would keep you company.

If you were my father, I would want to be proud of you. Not because you ruled—but because you loved. Because you changed when it was hardest. Because you saw what your fear had built and chose, even late, to build something better. Because you remembered how to be human—flawed like us all, but eager to do better, for yourself and others.

Baba, can I tell you something?
It was just a dream, but it felt real.

I had a dream.
We were sitting on a rug in a quiet room. No guards, no microphones. Just me and you, holding a book. You looked older than I remembered, but softer. You began to read aloud. The words were not about war or martyrs or vengeance. Not about great Satans or little ones. Not about Jews or infidels or traitors. They were about a girl who planted a tree.

In the dream, the tree was already growing. Not fast. Not in fanfare. But it was alive—its roots deepening, its leaves catching the light. And I thought: something might still take root here—not because you blessed it, but because, at last, you stepped aside and let it live.

And if you did—if you truly did—then even history might pause.
Not to forgive you, but to mark the moment you stopped the killing.
And maybe then, Baba—just for a breath—you would be the kind of father I dreamed you could be.

Not just the Supreme Leader, but something far more rare: a father who left the world better in his final act than in all the ones before it.

I wrote this piece in collaboration with generative AI (ChatGPT), which I used to help refine language and deepen the emotional arc. All choices—what to keep, what to cut, and what to say—were my own.