I was born in 2004. Like many other comrades, I don’t know in which hospital I was born. But the hellish city where I grew up is clipped to Khuzestan province. Like my other comrades, my first prison was family, and I learned the struggle bit by bit from there. My uncle killed my older sister, and no different fate than that was imaginable for me.

To go to school, I had to do things such as sewing or scavenging metals such as aluminum and copper, the income from which was confiscated by my addicted and violent brother, and I only hid some of it so that I could, in my mind, dream and build a better future for myself.

From the age of twelve, I was raped several times by my brother and sexually assaulted numerous times by my cousins. From the age of fourteen, my attention was drawn to society, and I tried getting to the root of the problems. As long as I can remember, I was a rebel, and no structure could define me. The first time I had my girl cousin’s phone, I met a page on Instagram that sent free anarchist books to our province, and this was the beginning of finding my identity and connecting with the anarchist friend. He supported us in a way we didn’t have in life, showed us how to fight, and made us understand how strong each of us can be to destroy this false historical hierarchy.

My street activities started with making graffiti at the age of sixteen. My first fighting experience goes back to the Jina uprising as we reached Tehran.

Footnote: For security reasons, changes have been made in the text.

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