Freedom

When the sirens first sounded in Tehran, Sara was standing on the roof of their house in western Tehran. The Azadi Tower shone as always in the distance; white, tall, and calm. Her mother had said, “This tower is our symbol, even if everything else falls, this one will remain.” But that night, the sky was filled with deadly lights. Rockets and bombs rained down like a rain of fire. Sara ran downstairs, hugged her mother, and took shelter in the basement. The explosions shook the ground. Each blast swallowed up a part of the city. When morning came, Sara rushed out of the house. Her feet were bare, she had lost her shoes in her haste. Thick smoke covered everything. When she reached Azadi Square, her heart stopped. The Azadi Tower was still standing, but burning. Flames rose from its arches, like deep wounds that would never heal. All around her was rubble, burnt cars, and the sound of people crying with nothing to lose. Sarah sat on the cold ground, hugging her knees and lowering her head. Her tears were hot, like the fire that consumed freedom. Each tear was a burnt dream: the dream of a university without fear, the dream of dancing without the compulsory veil, the dream of a life without war. “Why must freedom always burn?” she whispered. But even in the smoke and flames, the tower was still standing. Burnt, blackened, but not broken. Sarah reached out to her, as if to say, “We are just like you. We are burning, but we are still here.” That night, when the bombing began again, Sarah did not cry. She just looked at the tower and thought: Maybe this is what real freedom is; burnt but alive, wounded but standing.

Chain

TEZOS

Network

Tezos

Contract

KT1K5C2Rk7JgtEWHr3CugkfchaaBWyXzc7Ak

Token ID

6