by Siyâvash Shahabi

A very generous friend invited me to the ancient theater of Epidaurus to watch a performance of Antigone. And in this heat and isolation of Athens, why should I have said no? Two hours of driving with an old friend, seeing the beautiful view of the sea and forest, cleared my mind from all thoughts of war and conflict. When we arrived, walking the path and sitting on the same stones where people sat 2500 years ago, away from the modern world, just to watch music and theater, was magical.

While the half-moon was slowly crossing the sky above me, I found myself sitting on the steps of the ancient amphitheater of Epidaurus. The stage was breathtaking. In the middle of the play, down there, between the stones and the wind, Antigone, with a shaky but strong voice, declared her refusal to obey power. She said, “There is a law that existed before you, Creon. A human, divine, unwritten law. I follow that one.”

I am a refugee. I am Iranian. I am an exile, someone who escaped prison, torture, and repression. But that night in Epidaurus, I was more than just a spectator. I saw Antigone, but I heard her voice through the women who shouted in the streets of Sanandaj and Tehran: “Woman, Life, Freedom.” She was no longer a character in a Greek tragedy. She was a Baluch girl, a Kurdish mother, a student from Evin prison, an exile in Athens, a journalist under pressure, or maybe even me.

In Sophocles’ story, Antigone stands against a law that divides the dead. One deserves a grave. The other is left for the dogs. She does not do this for honor or rebellion. She does it for something she calls justice. Her justice is not legal or official. It comes from conscience.

Today, we are still in a world where dead bodies are treated differently depending on their political side. The Israeli attack on Iran reminded us of this brutal truth. In the eyes of power, even death has levels and propaganda use. Israel bombed houses in Tehran, Kermanshah, and Ilam. At the same time, the Islamic Republic, using the same excuse of “national security,” arrested and deported Afghan migrants, detained women and labor activists, silenced political prisoners, and crushed public mourning.

Now we have two Creons. One in Tel Aviv, with accurate and merciless missiles. The other in Tehran, with the sword of ideology. Both want to keep the people as hostages in the name of security. And once again, like always, Antigone is the weakest one, but also the only one who tells the truth.

When I left the amphitheater, the cool night wind touched my face. But my thoughts were burning in Tehran. In the ruins of people’s homes. In the cries of mothers. In the quiet eyes of girls who no longer know which is more dangerous: Israel or the regime that has held them hostage for years. Where am I in this situation? I am a refugee, but I am not silent. I do not support bombings. I do not support religious fascism. I do not see Zionism as salvation, and I do not call the Islamic Republic a resistance. Like Antigone, I stand over the dead body of truth, with empty hands and a heart full of rage and sorrow.

Many of us are an Antigone without a homeland. I live in a foreign land, where some people who call themselves leftists take pictures with the flag of Islamic fascism. And the right-wing dreams of the blood of migrants. But I still have my voice. I still write. In the heat and tiredness of Athens, I still believe in human conscience. I believe that no power, neither religious nor military, can stop a human being from mourning the truth.

If Sophocles were alive today, maybe he would write Antigone in the clothes of a prisoner in a women’s ward. Or as a migrant without papers, standing in the asylum line. But the meaning of the tragedy would still be the same. A struggle without surrender, without heroes, but also without lies. I saw that tragedy in Epidaurus, but its voice was coming from the soil of Iran.

Siyâvash Shahabi is an Iranian refugee living in Athens, Greece. He maintains the blog site thefirenexttime