Without a doubt, the dawn of Sunday, March 1, brought me the most bitter and shocking news of my life: “The Leader of the Revolution has been martyred.”
Even now, more than three months later, I still feel suspended in a state of disbelief and uncertainty.
Usually, one tries to fully comprehend an event before writing about it. Yet I do not know how long it will take to grasp the dimensions of such a monumental loss, and for now, this pen remains my only means of expressing my thoughts and emotions.
Ayatollah Khamenei was, for me—and for many of my friends and colleagues—the foundation upon which I relied, the meaning of my life, the ideal behind my efforts, and many other things for which I can scarcely find words.
Some of my earliest memories from adolescence are of sitting in front of the television listening to his speeches. At times, I could sense the puzzled looks of certain relatives who perhaps wondered, “Does this speech contain anything more than the usual slogans?” Yet their perception was far different from what I found within his words. Even with the simple intuition of a teenager, I discovered something deeper there, and I was never willing to give it up.
Later, during my high school years, I joined a Basij camp organized by our local mosque and traveled to Mashhad with great excitement and anticipation to attend one of his speeches at Shahid Borounsi Garrison. We stood so far back among the vast crowd of military personnel and volunteers that all we could see was a distant silhouette of the Leader. Yet even that brief glimpse only intensified our longing.
During my university years, at the International Quran Competition—perhaps around 2003—I first encountered a public audience pass distributed for a meeting with the Leader the following day. That gathering in the Hosseiniyeh was unlike anything else. It was perhaps then that I experienced the sweetness I had long anticipated. Later, I came to realize the significant role he had played in fostering a nationwide movement for the professional recitation of the Holy Quran.
After that, I attended several other meetings with him, whether among Quranic circles, students, or knowledge-based enterprises. On each occasion, I had the privilege of seeing his radiant face up close. It has probably been eight years since my last such meeting.
For many in my generation, the 1990s were the years when we first began following political developments. Much of what we learned came through the numerous reformist newspapers of the time, some of which sought to distinguish themselves by referring to him merely as “the Leader” rather than using the customary honorifics. The eventual closure of many of these publications—arguably one of the earliest examples of coordinated and institutionalized propaganda aimed at imposing the views of a particular political current—placed considerable pressure upon him.
Years later, the Tenth Administration briefly offered a hopeful experience of close alignment between the President and the Leader’s broader policies. Yet that period did not last. Despite the Leader’s steadfast support for the democratic process and its outcome during the 2009 crisis, which enabled that administration to continue, the President eventually showed ingratitude toward the Revolution and deprived the country of important opportunities.
The Eleventh Administration likewise benefited from the Leader’s strong support in pursuing its foreign policy agenda. In doing so, he demonstrated that while he remained firm in his own understanding of relations with the West and the United States, he was nevertheless willing to allow the elected government and the nation to undergo a historical experience. A full examination of his interactions with successive presidents would require much more space, but it is enough to say that maintaining a consistent set of principles while engaging constructively with such diverse administrations constitutes a valuable political legacy for the Islamic Republic of Iran.
In 2014, when I joined the Vice Presidency for Science and Technology, I felt immense pride in working within an institution established upon his directive to accelerate the nation’s scientific and technological advancement. I saw myself as a small part of a great historical movement aimed at empowering the country through its youth and through knowledge as an inexhaustible source of national strength.
Gradually, I became familiar with the cultural movement he nurtured in support of revolutionary thought, intellectual inquiry, and the arts. One of the most significant manifestations of this movement was the body of literature on the Sacred Defense that bore his handwritten notes and endorsements. To this should be added his annual meetings with poets and his appreciation of valuable artistic works, including films and other cultural productions.
His encouragement of authentic and socially conscious eulogists of the Ahl al-Bayt, his promotion of a spirit of true heroism in sports and among athletes, and his recognition of scientific achievers in order to connect their accomplishments with the nation’s progress were all examples of the genuine cultural currents he helped cultivate.
As I became more acquainted with the art of public speaking through the teachings of great scholars and orators, I came to appreciate just how carefully and systematically he structured his speeches. Many of his addresses began with moral reflections that uplifted the soul. These ethical teachings, while deeply rooted in the Quran and traditions, also carried within them a call to social responsibility, distinguishing them from many conventional moral discourses.
Whenever he addressed the youth, intellectuals, and academics, assigning them responsibilities and missions, I could feel the weight of those responsibilities upon my own shoulders. Often I failed to transform that feeling into sustained action, yet the sincerity of his tone and the depth of his influence penetrated straight to the heart. In quiet moments, I would ask myself: if one day I were asked which of his aspirations or recommendations I had meaningfully helped realize, what answer would I give?
I was never particularly inclined to refer to him as “Agha” or “His Eminence” when speaking with people who might not share my familiarity with or attachment to him. My understanding was that such titles could sometimes become barriers to a reasoned appreciation of his ideas and strategies. Instead, I preferred to speak about his words and vision in a more direct and personal way.
Quite often, friends seeking insight into political and social developments would be directed to what we considered the finest source of analysis and understanding: his speeches and statements.
And now I am left with all these images in my mind—his dignity, his grandeur, and the awakening of confidence and self-belief that he inspired in the Iranian nation. What are we to do now? How are we to heal the void left by his absence?
Some friends are kind enough to say that I write well. Yet I must admit that I have found no words equal to the state of mind and heart I am experiencing. I have settled for the simplest words available to me.
I write these lines knowing that we must transform the pain of separation from him into renewed strength for continuing the path he charted—a path now sanctified by his blood. And amid whatever challenges and uncertainties may lie ahead for our country, I will not falter in supporting the cause and vision to which he dedicated his life.
