Scene: The living room of an Iranian diaspora family in Los Angeles. A Persian rug. Books in Farsi, English, French. A large window that occasionally becomes something else. Time behaves badly here.
The Narrator enters, holding a remote control that doesn’t belong to anything.
NARRATOR
Welcome. This is Los Angeles—where revolutions are streamed, paused, and debated over tea. This family has escaped borders, but borders have not escaped them. Watch closely. Everyone here believes they are right. That is what makes them dangerous.
(He clicks the remote. The family comes alive.)
FATTANEH
You’re telling me Minnesota and Iran are morally equivalent? That’s obscene.
PEJMAN
No. I’m saying distance isn’t a moral exemption. Two people were killed here—by a system that also wants me gone.
DR. HAGHIGHATJOO
Systems do not kill. People misuse them. And crowds rarely correct misuse—they amplify it.
FATTANEH
That’s easy to say when your papers are in order and your life is archived.
KAVEH
Careful, Fattaneh. Moral purity collapses under interrogation. Sartre warned us: once you choose, you become responsible for everything that follows.
MASOUMEH(without looking up from her canvas)
Responsibility is a heavy word for such light creatures.
(The wall flickers: women cutting their hair in Tehran, police sirens in Minnesota. The images overlap.)
PEJMAN
You talk about responsibility as if it’s optional. For me, the state is not an abstraction—it’s a knock on the door at dawn.
DR. HAGHIGHATJOO
Fear distorts judgment. Kant would insist—
PEJMAN
Kant never crossed a border illegally.
(A beat.)
KAVEH
Habermas would ask whether your protest creates communicative action—or just moral noise.
FATTANEH
Noise is better than silence. Silence is collaboration.
MASOUMEH
Silence is sometimes survival.
NARRATOR(to audience) Notice how survival never appears on banners.
DR. HAGHIGHATJOO
Revolutions promise dignity and deliver funerals. I’ve studied the brain long enough to know: trauma outlives ideology.
FATTANEH
Then what do you propose? Meditation? Seminars on democratic etiquette while women are beaten in the streets?
DR. HAGHIGHATJOO
I propose patience. Institutions. Education. Democracy is a culture, not an eruption.
PEJMAN
And while culture matures, people disappear.
(The clock stops ticking. The room tightens.)
KAVEH
Power loves false binaries: reform or revolution, here or there, now or later. The trick is to keep us arguing while it consolidates.
FATTANEH
That sounds clever—and useless.
MASOUMEH
Cleverness is overrated. So is usefulness.
(Sirens grow louder—then softer.)
PEJMAN
I’m going to Minnesota. If injustice is staged, resistance must be embodied.
DR. HAGHIGHATJOO
And if embodiment costs you everything?
PEJMAN
Then at least it will have cost something real.
(He exits.)
NARRATOR
And just like that, theory loses to motion. Act One ends where arguments always do— with departure disguised as courage.
Blackout.
ACT TWO
(Projected Title)
ACT TWO: IN WHICH CONSEQUENCES ARE REDISTRIBUTED UNEVENLY
(Lights up harshly. No transition.)
The living room is unchanged—except all the chairs now face the audience.
A new placard descends:
“TIME HAS PASSED. NOTHING HAS HEALED.”
The Narrator enters holding an envelope that seems heavier than paper should be.
NARRATOR
News does not arrive politely. It breaks in. Especially in immigrant homes, where language itself is provisional.
You may expect grief. We will offer information instead.
KAVEH(reading from his phone, voice hollow)
Pejman was detained. Transferred to Texas. No lawyer yet.
(A chain-link fence flashes across the window, then vanishes.)
(He looks up.)
Distance is a strategy.
Projected text:
TEXAS – TEMPORARY (Temporary is doing a lot of work here.)
MASOUMEH
Texas is where stories are unfinished,
where time goes to be forgotten.
(She turns the canvas. Painted now: a pair of shoes. No bodies.)
FATTANEH
This wasn’t the plan. We were supposed to—
DR. HAGHIGHATJOO
—what? Win?
(Silence.)
KAVEH(after a long pause)
Delara is gone.
(The painting’s shoes fade, leaving only dust.)
MASOUMEH
Some exits don’t require doors.
NARRATOR
We will not dramatize Delara's absence.
Absence does not require embellishment.
We will not describe how, why, when, or where.
Describing gives the illusion of control.
FATTANEH(voice cracking, then hardening)
We marched. We shouted. We posted slogans like spells. And the world—
DR. HAGHIGHATJOO
—remained indifferent.
FATTANEH
Then what is all of this for?
(The LA wall appears: fractured diaspora protests, competing flags, rival chants.)
FATTANEH
I believed in unity. I believed slogans could discipline chaos.
(She gestures toward the projection, now showing fractured crowds.)
Two opposing military outposts dug into the same mountain spine, between Piranshahr (Iran) and Haji Murad (Iraq).
Time:
1974–1975. Before the war that everyone pretends not to foresee.
CHARACTERS
NARRATOR (The Historian): Speaking from years later. Steps in and out of the action. Explains, interrupts, contradicts. Gender-neutral, timeless.
FIRST LIEUTENANT SADEQ HAKIMI: Twenty-four years old. University graduate in sociology. Ideologically armed, practically unarmed. Believes in progress and reason.
MASTER SERGEANT MUKHTAR JAMSHIDI: Forty-two years old. Veteran of boredom, corruption, and survival. Neither cynical nor hopeful—merely accurate.
CORPORAL KHODADAD MORADI: Loyal shadow of the Sergeant. Competent, quiet, resigned.
THE CONSCRIPTS (Nine Men):
Village Conscripts:
KARIM AGHA: Eldest. Speaks in proverbs. Father of six.
YARDAN-GHOLI: Devout. Soft-spoken. Washes ritually before each prayer.
ASLAN: Strong. Silent. Skilled with animals and rope.
AKBAR: Youngest village conscript. Quick to anger, quicker to forgive.
KAZEM: Storyteller. Knows every folk tale, half-remembers most.
City Conscripts:
FARIBORZ: University dropout. Witty, bitter. Former engineering student.
NARIMAN: Would-be intellectual. Quotes Lenin poorly.
FEREYDOUN: Musician. Carries a tar he cannot play in the cold.
BEHROUZ: Poet. Writes letters home he never sends.
PRODUCTION NOTE
Stage:
The stage is divided into three visible zones: the Iranian trench (downstage), the Iraqi trench (upstage, elevated), and the space between (neutral ground, dangerous). A large projection screen or placard system allows for Brechtian intertitles. Lighting is harsh, naturalistic. Mud is real. Cold is suggested through breath vapor (dry ice) and the actors' physical comportment.
Music:
Live percussion and tar (if possible). Songs should be performed simply, without theatrical flourish. They interrupt rather than enhance.
Historian:
The Historian should be visible throughout, sometimes participating, sometimes observing with a notebook. They represent our complicity as audience—we know how this story ends.
ACT ONE
WHO EATS, WHO THINKS
[A placard descends, or is projected]
"A Young Man Is Given Authority Over Men Who Know Better."
"In Border Regions, Class Differences Become Geographic."
Scene 1: Arrival and Division
[The trench is visible: shallow, crude, too close to the other trench. Iraqi silhouettes are faintly visible across no-man's-land. Mud. Smoke. The sound of wind. The soldiers are divided spatially: Village conscripts sit close together downstage right, repairing boots, whispering prayers. City conscripts lean against sandbags upstage left, smoking, joking quietly. MASTER SERGEANT JAMSHIDI stands comfortably between both groups, cleaning his rifle. CORPORAL MORADI sorts supplies.]
HISTORIAN (stepping forward, neutral, to audience):
This outpost contained eleven men and three social classes.
One commanded.
One survived.
One endured.
Here we see the frontier of two states—drawn with a ruler in a foreign office, defended with shovels by men who cannot read the map.
The border does not appear on their skin, but it runs through their stomachs.
(Pause. Looks at notes.)
What you are about to witness is not a tragedy. It is a process.
[Enter FIRST LIEUTENANT SADEQ HAKIMI, stiff, freshly uniformed, carrying a leather satchel of books. He looks younger than his twenty-four years. JAMSHIDI watches him approach, then signals to the men. They stand lazily.]
JAMSHIDI (not quite shouting):
Men! Attention!
[The men straighten minimally. JAMSHIDI inspects SADEQ—not saluting, not quite mocking. A long beat.]
This is our new lieutenant. Lieutenant Hakimi. Educated. Educated at the National University. Paid for by His Imperial Majesty's government. Assigned here by...
(Slight pause.)
...by chance.
Dangerous in a different way.
(Turns to SADEQ, almost warmly.)
Sir, they are listening. Perhaps you'd like to say something... uplifting.
[SADEQ clears his throat. Sets down his satchel. The soldiers wait.]
SADEQ (carefully):
Comrades—
(Catches himself.)
—soldiers.
We are here to defend the nation. But also... to understand one another. Discipline, yes. But also dignity.
I know many of you have been here longer than I have been in the army. I respect that. I hope to learn from you. But I also bring... perspective. Education. We are not merely guarding land. We are guarding a structure. A system. And that system—
FARIBORZ (sotto voce, to NARIMAN):
Structure doesn't taste like rice.
KARIM AGHA (softly, to YARDAN-GHOLI):
May God protect our sons from men with books.
SADEQ (pressing on, sensing he's losing them):
—that system depends on us working together. Village and city. Illiterate and educated. We must—
AKBAR (interrupting, not hostile, genuinely confused):
Excuse me, sir. What is 'illiterate'?
[Silence. SADEQ realizes his mistake. JAMSHIDI smiles faintly.]
HISTORIAN (to audience):
Already, misunderstanding sets in.
The lieutenant speaks of structures.
The soldiers think of roofs.
The speech is approved. Not because it is believed, but because it ends.
JAMSHIDI (clapping once):
Inspiring, sir. Most inspiring. Men, dismiss. Moradi, show the lieutenant his quarters.
[The soldiers scatter. MORADI leads SADEQ to a corner of the trench where a thin blanket and canvas tarp mark his 'room.']
MORADI (neutral):
Here, sir. The blanket was the cook's. He was reassigned. Or deserted. Records differ.
Scene 2: The Enemy Who Waves
[Later that day. JAMSHIDI approaches SADEQ, who is unpacking books: Durkheim, Weber, a worn copy of Hedayat's 'The Blind Owl.']
JAMSHIDI:
Sir, tradition demands you look at the enemy. On your first day.
SADEQ (looking up from a book):
From outside the trench?
JAMSHIDI (cheerful):
Only briefly.
They're afraid of us.
SADEQ:
Shouldn't reconnaissance be... cautious?
JAMSHIDI:
Caution is for those who expect fairness, sir.
[They climb carefully to the parapet. Across the distance—perhaps fifty meters—Iraqi soldiers are visible. One waves. Then another.]
SADEQ (astonished):
They're... waving.
JAMSHIDI:
Fear takes many forms.
SADEQ (peering through binoculars):
They look like us.
(Pause.)
They could be conscripts too. Farmers. Workers.
JAMSHIDI:
Yes.
That's why they're useful enemies.
SADEQ:
I don't understand.
JAMSHIDI (lowering his voice, sincere for the first time):
.When the enemy shares the same God, engagement fails.
When the enemy shares the same pains, it fails again. So command preserves a narrow fiction: a variance of language, a difference of sect, a difference of flags—
while life remains the same.
[An Iraqi soldier shouts something unintelligible across the gap. JAMSHIDI waves back.]
SADEQ:
What did he say?
JAMSHIDI:
He asked if we have cigarettes. I told him no. We do, of course. But friendship has limits.
[They descend back into the trench.]
HISTORIAN (to audience):
This was not yet a war.
It was a rehearsal.
The actors practiced their parts:
Enemy. Friend. Victim. Perpetrator.
Already the lieutenant learns his first lesson: the enemy does not always perform as expected.
Scene 3: The Logistics of Hunger
[Night. SADEQ's 'quarters.' A thin mattress, a kerosene lamp. He writes in a journal. JAMSHIDI appears.]
JAMSHIDI:
Sir, a bed has been prepared. Who takes first guard?
SADEQ:
I should take it. Set an example.
JAMSHIDI:
We already have a system, sir.
We do it.
You sleep.
Dream of sociology.
[Lights fade. Moonlight. Sound of wind. SADEQ tries to sleep but cannot. He listens. The trench is too quiet. He sits up, alarmed.]
SADEQ (whispering urgently):
Sergeant? Moradi?
[Silence. He rises, puts on his boots, climbs out to check the perimeter. The trench is empty. Completely empty.]
SADEQ (panicked, louder):
Sergeant?! Anyone?!
HISTORIAN (stepping forward):
At this moment, the state has abandoned him.
But not the soldiers.
[Noise in the distance. Laughter. Chickens squawking. The soldiers return in small groups, carrying live chickens, sacks of grain, even a small goat. FEREYDOUN is laughing. ASLAN carries the goat with practiced ease.]
FEREYDOUN (grinning):
Sir! Good evening! Tonight's menu features counter-revolutionary poultry.
NARIMAN:
Liberated by the working class from feudal landlords.
[The city soldiers laugh. The village soldiers do not. They begin the work of slaughter with ritualistic solemnity.]
YARDAN-GHOLI (holding a chicken, facing Mecca):
Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim.
ASLAN:
Forgive us, God. Hunger has a sharp knife.
SADEQ (finding his voice, conflicted):
This is... theft. This is undisciplined. Where did you—
JAMSHIDI (emerging from the shadows, calm):
No, sir.
This is logistics.
Headquarters sends slogans, not food.
Chickens are more reliable than the supply line.
SADEQ:
You stole from civilians.
JAMSHIDI:
We requisitioned from Kurdish villages who were going to sell to Iraqi smugglers anyway.
(Pause.)
We left money. Not much. But some.
KARIM AGHA (quietly):
We always leave money, sir. We are not bandits. We are soldiers without rations.
[Outside the trench, chickens are slaughtered. Village soldiers pray. City soldiers joke. The division is visible, spatial, ritualized.]
FEREYDOUN (to SADEQ, not unkindly):
Sir, is this covered in Max Weber? The rationalization of chicken theft?
[SADEQ says nothing. He retreats to his corner. The soldiers eat. Some pray. Some don't. The fire crackles.]
HISTORIAN (to audience):
The lieutenant mistook disorder for rebellion.
The soldiers mistook survival for policy.
Both were correct.
Thus ends the first day of command. No shots fired. Several truths killed.
[Blackout.]
Scene 4: Letters Home
[A week later. Morning. The soldiers write letters. Some dictate to BEHROUZ, who writes for the illiterate. SADEQ observes.]
KARIM AGHA (dictating slowly):
"My dear wife and children,
I am well. The mountains are cold but God is warm.
Tell Mahmoud to help his mother with the harvest. Tell Zahra her father thinks of her every night."
BEHROUZ (writing, gently):
Should I add 'kiss the children for me'?
KARIM AGHA:
Yes. Write that. They know, but write it anyway.
[AKBAR writes his own letter, laboriously, tongue between his teeth.]
AKBAR (reading aloud as he writes):
"Dear Mother,
I am... a... sol-dier...
(Frustrated.)
How do you spell 'brave'?
NARIMAN:
B-R-A-V-E. But why lie to your mother?
AKBAR:
It's not a lie if she believes it.
[FARIBORZ writes quickly, then tears up the letter. Starts again. Tears it up again.]
FEREYDOUN:
Who are you writing to?
FARIBORZ:
A girl who won't remember me.
FEREYDOUN:
Then why write?
FARIBORZ:
So I can remember myself.
[SADEQ writes his own letter. JAMSHIDI watches him.]
JAMSHIDI:
Who do you write to, sir?
SADEQ:
My professor. Dr. Tabatabai. He thought I would teach.
JAMSHIDI:
You are teaching, sir. Just... different students.
SADEQ (bitter):
Who don't want to learn.
JAMSHIDI:
Oh, they're learning, sir. Just not what you're teaching.
[Lights shift. The HISTORIAN steps forward.]
HISTORIAN:
None of these letters arrived.
The postal truck broke down in Kermanshah.
The letters were burned for warmth by other soldiers.
Communication is a luxury. Silence is infrastructure.
[Lights restore.]
ACT TWO
WHO SPEAKS, WHO PAYS
[A placard descends]
"Ideas Travel Faster Than Their Consequences."
"Order Is Maintained by Disorder, Until Someone Notices."
Scene 1: Education as Farce
[Three weeks later. SADEQ has organized an evening 'education session.' He holds a book. The soldiers sit in a loose semi-circle, some attentive, some visibly tired, some amused. A kerosene lamp flickers.]
SADEQ (reading with passion):
"Sartre says we are condemned to be free.
We cannot escape choice. Even inaction is a choice. Even obedience is a choice."
AKBAR (genuinely curious):
Does freedom come with bread, sir?
[Laughter from the city soldiers.]
NARIMAN:
Or leave?
[More laughter.]
SADEQ (pressing on):
Sartre argues that responsibility—true responsibility—comes from recognizing that we shape our own circumstances. That we are not merely victims of history, but—
AKBAR:
Excuse me, sir. Does Sartre plow land?
KAZEM:
Does Mao send blankets?
FEREYDOUN (grinning):
If freedom is compulsory, sir, can we be excused from it?
[Even JAMSHIDI smiles.]
SADEQ (defensive, frustrated):
You mock, but understanding power is survival!
If you understand how systems work, you can resist them—or at least navigate them!
KARIM AGHA (quietly, not unkindly):
With respect, sir. Survival is survival. My father survived. His father survived. None of them read French philosophers.
FARIBORZ (sharper, to SADEQ):
You want us to understand the system?
Fine.
Here's what we understand:
They send us here to freeze.
They don't send food.
They don't send warm coats.
They send you—fresh from university, full of ideas—
To teach us that we chose this.
That's the system, sir. We understand it perfectly.
[Silence. SADEQ has no response. BEHROUZ, who has been quiet, speaks.]
BEHROUZ (softly):
I read Sartre once.
(Pause.)
He's right. We are free. Free to die here or free to die somewhere else.
HISTORIAN (stepping forward):
Theory starves quickly at altitude.
The lieutenant tried to politicize hunger.
Hunger remained unconvinced.
Scene 2: Performing the Border
[Morning. JAMSHIDI is agitated, which is unusual. MORADI hovers nearby.]
JAMSHIDI (low, urgent, to MORADI):
A colonel. From Tehran. Clean boots, soft hands. Inspection tour. He'll be here by noon.
MORADI:
Should we hide the chickens?
JAMSHIDI:
The chickens are fine.
We need to look... active.
[SADEQ overhears, approaches.]
SADEQ:
An inspection? We must prepare. Clean the trenches, organize the—
JAMSHIDI:
Already done, sir. But we need one more thing.
SADEQ:
What?
JAMSHIDI:
A small war.
[Later. A jeep arrives. COLONEL REZA TAVAKOLI steps out, nervous, sweating despite the cold. He is accompanied by an AIDE who takes notes. JAMSHIDI salutes sharply. SADEQ salutes. The soldiers stand in formation.]
COLONEL (looking around nervously):
Lieutenant Hakimi. Sergeant. How is the situation?
SADEQ:
Stable, sir. Morale is—
[JAMSHIDI makes a subtle hand signal. From across the distance, the Iraqi trench suddenly erupts with gunfire—but it's aimed high, into the air. Deliberate. Theatrical.]
COLONEL (dropping to a crouch, panicked):
Under fire! This is—this is a sensitive front! Aide, note that! Sensitive!
JAMSHIDI (calm, almost bored):
Worse on Thursdays, sir.
Thanks to the courage of Lieutenant Hakimi, we hold the line. We lose men daily, but we hold.
[Another burst of gunfire from the Iraqis—again, harmlessly high.]
SADEQ (genuinely confused, whispering to JAMSHIDI):
What's happening?
JAMSHIDI (whispering back):
Theater, sir. We help each other look important.
COLONEL (still crouching):
Extraordinary! Extraordinary bravery!
Lieutenant Hakimi, you are exemplary!
This will be noted in your file!
SADEQ (stunned):
Sir, I—
COLONEL:
Excellent! Keep up the good work!
Driver—start the jeep!
(To aide.) Mark this outpost: 'Active Engagement. Strategic Importance.'
[The COLONEL and aide scramble back into the jeep and speed away. The gunfire stops immediately. Silence. The soldiers exchange glances. Some laugh quietly.]
SADEQ (to JAMSHIDI, quiet, horrified):
You arranged that. With the Iraqis.
JAMSHIDI:
Yes, sir.
SADEQ:
That's... that's collusion. That's fraternization with the enemy.
JAMSHIDI:
No, sir.
That's cooperation between workers.
They need to justify their position. We need to justify ours. Nobody dies. Everybody reports success.
FEREYDOUN (cheerfully):
It's called international solidarity, sir. You should appreciate that.
HISTORIAN (to audience):
Heroism was assigned retroactively.
Accuracy was unnecessary.
The border performed itself.
No casualties required.
Scene 3: The Radio and the Accusation
[Night. The radio crackles. MORADI adjusts the dial. Static, then a voice from Baghdad Radio, faint but clear.]
RADIO VOICE (through static):
"...reports of unrest at Iranian border positions.
Sources indicate ideological agitation among conscripts.
Revolutionary propaganda and insubordination documented at multiple outposts..."
[The soldiers freeze. SADEQ's face goes pale.]
SADEQ:
Rebellion? Here?
JAMSHIDI (shrugging):
News also needs food, sir. It eats rumors when facts are scarce.
SADEQ:
But it's not true. There's no rebellion here. The education sessions were just—
NARIMAN (sardonic):
Truth and radio waves don't travel at the same speed, sir.
FARIBORZ:
Someone talked. Or someone imagined someone talked. Same result.
SADEQ (pacing):
This is impossible.
I was trying to educate them, not—
JAMSHIDI (quietly, almost sadly):
No, sir.
That's not impossible. That's convenient.
SADEQ:
Who will they blame? Who will they punish?
JAMSHIDI:
The one who can explain himself.
(Pause.)
The one who brought books.
[Silence. The soldiers look at SADEQ with something like pity.]
KARIM AGHA (standing, formal):
Sir.
If they ask, we will say you did nothing wrong.
ASLAN:
We will tell them you were a good officer.
YARDAN-GHOLI:
That you prayed with us. Even when you didn't believe.
SADEQ (voice breaking slightly):
I never prayed with you.
YARDAN-GHOLI:
We know, sir. But we will say you did.
Final Scene: Disappearance
[Three days later. A military court is implied but not shown—no judges visible, only harsh light and shadow. SADEQ stands alone. The HISTORIAN watches from the side.]
HISTORIAN (to audience):
The lieutenant is tried without witnesses.
Sentenced without explanation.
Exiled to Baluchistan—
where borders are quieter,
where thinking is more dangerous,
where sociology graduates are sent to forget what they learned.
[Lights shift. Back to the trench. The soldiers continue their routines. JAMSHIDI stands where SADEQ once stood.]
HISTORIAN:
Sergeant Jamshidi was promoted to lieutenant.
He served with distinction.
He never arranged another mock battle.
He didn't need to.
[SADEQ reappears, addressing the audience directly.]
SADEQ (calm now, almost detached):
Did I fail them?
(Pause.)
Or did I finally understand the lesson?
HISTORIAN:
You misunderstood your role.
You were never meant to lead.
Only to absorb responsibility.
[A final placard descends]
"The Poor Remained at the Border."
"The Educated Were Reassigned."
"The System Was Never Investigated."
SADEQ (final line, to audience):
I studied power.
I did not know it would study me back.
HISTORIAN (final line):
The lieutenant was sent to Baluchistan.
The sergeant was promoted.
The soldiers remained.
The border stayed where it was.
Five years later, the war began.
[Blackout.]
— END —
Historical Note:
This play is set during the period of border tensions between Iran and Iraq that preceded the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988). The characters are fictional, but the structures they inhabit were real.
