Two years ago a woman was killed by the Hijab Police: Zhina (Mahsa) Amini

We had learned the hard way, that the silence of the oppressed never stops the oppressor. So this time we picked up our pens and started writing a story. The words even grew from the soil: Dear Zhina! you won't die. Your name will turn into a code.

This time, we were millions of writers who had become the heroes of our own stories and wrote our roles ourselves. This time we crossed out "desperation" from our words and wrote "power".

And the streets were narrating our story for several months. Our words were everywhere: on the walls, in the anthems, dances, in the unbound hairs, in the everyday conversations of a father with his daughter, in the words of the people who were recording a scene of history with their mobile phones, and in the words of a doctor who accepted to treat a wounded person and in the words of the one who said that we don't sell today.

But in our story, hundreds of eyes were shot directly, hundreds of people in the streets were killed, and at least ten of the heroes of our story have been executed, so far. But this story is not over yet. Many of its characters are still in detention centers and prisons, and many have been exiled to faraway prisons for many years, and many of these prisoners are writers and translators, and many of the heroes of our story are in danger of being executed and eliminated from our story.

And the moment we put down our pens, those against us write nothing but tragedy and horror for us. And once you play a role in an epic, you can no longer be the same person, and you can not accept any other role but the hero.

The pens in the hands of the oppressed has always been a threat to the oppressor. Because the human being is the human being by words. No human being exists in the silence. And the human being who owns existence and words, is the owner of thoughts and spreading thoughts too. And controlling thoughts is impossible for the oppressor. Once the seed of revolution is planted in the mind, nothing can stop it from growing.

If they were able, they would even extinguish the sun so that there is no light left to write. But it is up to us to make each person who was taken from us a candle and a star in our chest and continue writing our story. This is not only the story of the oppressed in Iran. This is the story of all those who know chains. We are one body in different geographies. Although borders can cage our bodies, words and resistance cross any borders. Our power is our collectiveness and words has always been our links. It is up to us not to put down our pens and write:

Let's write and keep the memory of power alive; Let's write and not let those who were killed, those who are imprisoned, and those who are under the shadow of execution be forgotten, those who all are a part of our collective body; Let's write and not let even a small strike on this body go unanswered and turn into despair, because revolutions happen in the time of hope; Let's write to find each other and not let any chained person feel and not rebel because of loneliness, even for a moment. Whenever we have been in a collective, we have found the courage to raise our voice.

At the end, I want to ask you to stand up, hold your pen in your fist, raise your fist and say for a minute: Long live the pens of the revolution.