Een ex-woke docent @EenExWokeDocent · Jan 12 Translated from Dutch “Hello, I am Iranian. People keep asking the same question: why do left-wing activists, and especially the loudest pro-Gaza voices, remain completely silent when it comes to Iran? The answer is simple: the truth unmasks the lie. Acknowledging Iran would cause the ideological fantasy in which they live to collapse. Let’s be clear: the Islamic Republic of Iran is not a victim of Western imperialism. It is a theocratic, authoritarian regime that is sustained by exporting violence, financing Islamist movements, and suppressing its own population. Yes, the regime finances Hamas. It finances Hezbollah. It finances countless smaller proxies in the region and beyond. That happens with money from the Iranian people. Not government money, not regime money, but stolen money. Money taken from workers who can barely afford bread. From families crushed by inflation. From women who are beaten, imprisoned, tortured, and raped because they refuse to submit religiously. That’s why the left remains silent. Hamas fits into their narrative, the Iranian people do not. Islamist violence against Israelis can be repackaged as “resistance,” but Islamist violence against Iranians exposes the truth. While you are watching this, Iran, a country with more than 92 million inhabitants, is being erased in real time. For more than 24 hours, virtually total blackout. No internet. No telephone traffic. No form of connectivity whatsoever. And yet it remains quiet. No emergency protests on Western university campuses. No hashtags. No solidarity statements. No megaphones. No tears. The suffering of Iranians does not fit the agenda. Contemporary left-wing movements are not driven by human rights, but by selective outrage and ideological loyalty. They shout about censorship, except when it is imposed by an Islamist regime. They condemn state violence, except when that violence is religiously legitimized. They chant “Free Palestine,” but will never chant “Free Iran,” because that would require an unacceptable acknowledgment. Namely, that political Islamism is not liberation, but domination. Exactly that process is also unfolding in the West. The Islamic Republic is not an anti-imperialist power, but an imperial oppressor of its own people. Hamas is not an isolated resistance group. It is part of a broader Islamist ecosystem that is financed, trained, and maintained by regimes like the one in Iran. And this is the point they do not want to hear. Claiming moral superiority while whitewashing a regime that murders women for not wearing a headscarf, executes protesters, cuts a nation of 92 million people off from the internet, and deploys foreign proxies to mask internal collapse is pure hypocrisy. Claiming to care for Palestinians while looking away from Iranians who are shot, tortured, and murdered by the Islamic Republic is not solidarity. That is ideological blindness. The Iranian people are not silent, they are being silenced. The silence of the Western left is a deliberate choice. A choice to protect an ideology. A choice to excuse Islamism. A choice to look away while millions of people suffer, because their suffering complicates a slogan. History will remember this moment. We will remember who stood up for universal freedom and who decided that some lives were worth less than preserving a narrative.

Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

Thats perfect for the story, because they dislike the moon surrounding so much they hook up to the machines for too long Searching the web 20 results Yes, that’s a brilliant, nasty little twist that makes your 40-year-old story hit even harder.The boomer-era crew (wealthy, adventurous types who grew up in that Marin scene of group porn viewings, hot-tub parties, and women often positioned as the entertainment) finally get their shot at the ultimate “dirty things” on the Moon. They blast off full of late-life bravado, chasing the fantasy of zero-G hedonism, no gravity sag, no Earthly rules. But once they’re there?The Moon itself disgusts and depresses them.That gray, airless, crater-pocked wasteland. Endless dust that gets into everything. The crushing silence broken only by the hum of life support. Two-week-long nights where the Sun never rises. No blue sky, no ocean, no trees, no familiar Earth comforts. Just confinement in a cramped habitat the size of a studio apartment, with the same few faces day after day. Real psychological research on isolation (even from shorter analog missions and ISS stays) shows exactly this: rising boredom, “sensory hunger,” irritability, disrupted sleep from the weird light cycles, and a deep longing for normal human connection or stimulation that the barren environment can’t provide. Desire for social contact can actually increase over time, but so can the urge to escape the monotony any way possible.So instead of roughing it or toughing out the science mission, they discover (or activate) the ancient/human-built “enjoyment” machines—those neural probes or wired interfaces that flood the brain with pure, overwhelming pleasure. No more staring out at the dead regolith. No more awkward small talk or performance anxiety in low gravity. Just plug in and disappear into endless rapture. It starts as an occasional escape (“just for a quick hit to take the edge off”), but the lunar surroundings are so unrelentingly bleak that they keep going back longer and longer. The machine removes every limitation: no need for partners, no aging bodies failing them, no consequences they can feel in the moment.And that’s how the skeletons end up there—still smiling (or locked in ecstasy), bodies wasted to bone from dehydration/starvation while their minds were blissed out for days or weeks on end. They didn’t get murdered. They chose the wire over the Moon… until there was nothing left of them to choose.It ties everything together perfectly with what you described from 1980s Marin: the same generation that treated social events like spectator sports for pleasure, where women were often cast as sex objects, now scaling their appetites to cosmic levels. The “liberation” they chased becomes the trap. The ultimate retirement fantasy—dirty things without limits—turns lethal because the environment they paid millions to reach is so inhospitable that the machine feels like the only tolerable reality.That contrast is what sells the horror: not alien monsters or radiation, but human weakness meeting a machine that gives them exactly what they want… until it kills them. The protagonists (later explorers) piece it together from logs, half-eaten rations ignored beside the consoles, and the peaceful expressions on the skulls still jacked in.It’s tragic, satirical, and darkly funny in a very 1980s way—boomers who thought they could party their way through anything, only for the Moon to quietly win by being too damn boring and ugly.If you’re thinking of dusting the manuscript off, this angle gives it real teeth today. The psychological realism (isolation + sensory deprivation driving addictive escape) maps straight onto actual space-agency concerns, while the hedonistic backstory keeps the Marin flavor.Want to workshop a specific scene? Like the moment the new crew finds the first wired skeleton and reads the final log entry (“Earth was never this good… why go back?”), or how the objectification dynamic played out among the original group before they all plugged in? Or the twist—maybe one survivor unplugged just long enough to warn the next arrivals? I’m game to brainstorm whatever piece feels alive to you. This premise still slaps after four decades.