The fluorescent lights in the command center flickered, casting long, tired shadows across the map of Tehran. Captain Rezaei, the youngest of the six company commanders, watched the Security Committee executives. They looked pristine in their tailored uniforms, a sharp contrast to the dust-caked boots and blood-stained cuffs of the men who had actually been on the streets of Valiasr Street and near Sharif University.
The meeting had been a litany of cold statistics until the order for a 05:00 resumption was issued.
The Breaking Point
“Wait a moment,” Rezaei’s voice cracked through the room like a gunshot.
The battalion commander, a veteran of the Iran-Iraq era, stiffened. The committee members leaned back, their faces shifting from boredom to indignation.
“You speak of ‘returning peace’ as if it’s a dial we can turn,” Rezaei continued, stepping toward the mahogany table. “But you’ve ignored the evolution of the street. These aren’t the uncoordinated crowds of a decade ago. They are using mesh networks and encrypted apps to outmaneuver us. And your response? You ordered us to hold positions until ‘total neutralization.’ My men died with crushed chests because you forbade a tactical retreat. Do you even know the math of this war?”
He slammed a hand on the table. “For every martyr you claim for the state, there are 20 men with shattered limbs and 50 with internal bleeding. Half this battalion is fighting through concussions. We have soldiers wrapping shrapnel wounds in industrial cling-wrap because the medical clinics are logged as ‘full’ to keep the casualty reports low.”
A Class Divided
The senior committee member sputtered, “This is irregular behavior. Leave this room, Captain.”
But Rezaei didn’t move. He looked at the other five commanders; they remained seated, their eyes fixed forward in a silent, terrifying solidarity.
“Irregular?” Rezaei laughed bitterly. “What’s irregular is that these boys—the ones you call ‘defenders’—come from the Sistan provinces and the villages of Lorestan. They are the sons of wheat farmers and laborers who joined the Basij or the police because it was the only way to feed their younger sisters. They are the ‘Mustad’afin’—the oppressed—that this Republic was built to protect.”
He leaned in closer to the executive. “And yet, you treat them like expendable batteries. You elites send them into the teeth of a digital-age protest with gear from the 1990s. They are being beaten by a generation that understands the terrain better than you do, while you sit here debating the ‘chain of command’ that failed the moment you refused to see the reality of the injuries.”
The Silent Mutiny
“Remove him!” the executive barked at the other commanders.
No one moved. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the shared exhaustion of months of civil unrest and the mounting “Moral Injury” of fighting their own countrymen.
“We take pride in order,” Rezaei said, his voice dropping to a calm, dangerous whisper. “If you want these orders carried out, lead the charge tomorrow morning. Put on the helmet. Stand in the front rank. If you do that, we won’t need an order to follow. But if you want to fire me for telling the truth? Go ahead. I’ll report to the Brigade. At least there, the walls are thinner and the truth travels faster.”
The Aftermath
The Security Committee members stood speechless, their authority evaporating in the stale air of the briefing room. Rezaei turned on his heel, his face radiating a strange, defiant peace.
The Battalion Commander stood up, his face a mask of practiced fury. “You are ordered to leave! Now!” He grabbed Rezaei by the shoulder and marched him out of the room.
The heavy steel doors swung shut behind them. Once in the dim hallway, away from the eyes of the committee, the Battalion Commander’s grip loosened. The scowl vanished, replaced by a subtle, fleeting glint of pride. He didn’t say a word, but he gave Rezaei a short, sharp nod before walking toward the barracks.
The message was clear: The front line had finally spoken to the rear, and the rear had no answer.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
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