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But sometimes life reverses the roles. The narrator becomes the subject of the story.

Today, Farahnaz Espad, one of Iran International’s finest news anchors, died of cancer at the age of 37. Hearing the news, I found myself thinking of Reza Haghighatnejad, an editor at RFE/RL’s Radio Farda and one of Iran’s most accomplished political journalists, who also died of cancer in 2022.

Perhaps because I see a bitter similarity in their fates. Two Iranian journalists; two young, talented and hardworking people whose lives were deeply bound up with Iran — with its news, its people, their concern for what was happening to it, and their hope that perhaps tomorrow life for Iranians might be a little better than it is today.

Both developed cancer far from Iran, and both died far from home.

I remember Farahnaz for her calm. For a dignity that even illness could not take from her. There was an unassuming humility and kindness in the way she carried herself, the kind some people bring into every room without even trying. She was hopeful. She was calm.

She wanted to go back to work.

Perhaps “going back to work” sounds like a small wish. But for Farahnaz, work was not merely a job. She wanted to stand in front of the camera again, read the news from Iran, begin her day with Iran and end it with Iran. Illness had kept her away from the newsroom, but it had not severed the thread connecting her to her professional life.

Reza’s death a few years ago was a reminder of much the same thing.

Reza was one of those journalists for whom Iran was never merely the subject of his work. Iran was his abiding concern — something he read about, wrote about, researched and worried about. He lived in exile, but much of his mind and his work remained in the country where he could no longer continue his professional life.

Even after death, his fate remained bitter. Reza died of cancer in Berlin at the age of 45. His body was sent to Iran so he could be buried in the soil he came from. But security forces seized his body after it arrived, preventing his family from saying goodbye to him as they wished and from burying him in his hometown.

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Sometimes I think exile, for an Iranian journalist, is more than geographical distance.

One day, you begin working as a journalist in Tehran, Shiraz, Isfahan or another city, with the simple idea that you will write about the society in which you live. Then a day comes when, to continue doing that same work, you have to leave your country. Your desk moves. Your newsroom moves. The language spoken on the street you walk down every morning changes. Your home changes. Your friends scatter. Years pass.

But the subject of your work does not change.

It is still Iran.

You wake up in a city thousands of kilometers from Tehran, and the first thing you read is news from Iran. You spend your day immersed in the crises, protests, elections, prisons, hopes and disappointments of people you may not have seen in person for years. You talk about the future of a country when you yourself do not know when you will be able to return to it without fear.

It is a strange contradiction: sometimes you spend most of your years away from your homeland while devoting most of your professional life and your thoughts to that same homeland.

Farahnaz and Reza were like that. And I do not want to remember them only through their illness and death. Cancer was the final chapter of their lives; it was not the whole book.

What came before mattered more: curiosity, work, concern, hope, friendship, laughter, long hours in the newsroom, stories written and read, questions asked, and that essential belief every journalist carries — that knowing the truth, telling it and understanding it more deeply still matters.

But there is something in both their stories that I find deeply painful.

They were people who thought about Iran, worked on Iran and wanted a better life for the people of Iran. Yet they themselves were denied one of the most basic possibilities of an ordinary life: to live at “home,” to work there, to grow old there and one day, when the time came, to close their eyes in their own country, surrounded by family and memories.

That should not be something one has to wish for.

Staying in your homeland should not be a privilege.

Exile should not be the price of journalism.

No one should have to choose between their profession and their country simply for speaking and writing.

And perhaps that is why today, as I write the news of Farahnaz’s death, I am not grieving only the loss of a friend and colleague. I grieve for a generation of Iranian journalists who packed their bags, built homes in other cities, spoke about their homeland from distant studios and newsrooms, and spent years of their lives waiting for an Iran they might one day be able to return to freely.
Some of them never got to see that day.

Reza did not.

Neither did Farahnaz.

A journalist is meant to bear witness to history, not become a victim of geography. A journalist is supposed to tell the news, not have their illness or death in exile become a headline written by their colleagues.

But sometimes that is exactly what happens.

Today we read Farahnaz’s name in the news, just as we read Reza’s a few years ago. And behind those two names, for me, one simple wish remains:

That one day Iran will be a place where its journalists can stay; where they can ask questions, write, make mistakes, write again, live, grow old — and not be forced away from “home” to do the work they love.

A day when an Iranian journalist’s share of their homeland is more than having it as the subject of their stories.

Until that day, we are left with the memory of those who are gone — and with stories that, this time, contrary to our professional habit, we have to write about the storytellers themselves.

May the memory of Farahnaz Espad and Reza Haghighatnejad live on.

Cut them off and they grow back. The only way to keep them quiet is to feed them, every day, with the brains of two young men. Zahhak reigns for a thousand years on a diet of sacrificed youth, propped up not by loyalty but by appetite.

The story has always worked as a parable for Iranian tyranny. What I think it misses, applied to the Islamic Republic today, is the arithmetic. Ali Khamenei did not build two snakes. He built three.

The Artesh, Iran’s conventional army, was the first snake, inherited from the Shah and never fully trusted. The IRGC was the second, created in 1979 specifically because the revolution did not trust the first. The Basij was folded into the IRGC as its third head.

It is worth remembering that all three answer, on paper as much as in practice, to a single neck. The Iranian constitution names the Supreme Leader as Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces in their entirety, Artesh, IRGC and Basij alike. There is no independent chain of command outside the Supreme Leader’s authority for a general to retreat into. Politicians and Western commentators in both London and Washington keep waiting for one of these heads to turn on the body. They’re waiting for the wrong signal, because they’re analysing 1979, not 2026.

When the Shah’s generals stood aside in February 1979, they did so because the Artesh of that era was a conscript institution led by officers who owed their careers to a monarch, not a movement, and who had no ideological stake in what came next. That Artesh is not today’s Artesh.

Ali Khamenei spent decades solving exactly that problem. Senior appointments in today’s Artesh are subject to security and ideological vetting tied to the Supreme Leader’s military apparatus. The Middle East Forum has documented how senior promotions require approval from the Supreme Leader’s office following scrutiny of an officer’s security and ideological background. The men at the top of the Artesh are appointees of the system, not survivors of it.

This is why this month’s move to complete the integration of the Armed Forces General Staff with the Khatam al-Anbiya Central Headquarters matters more than it has been given credit for. Mojtaba Khamenei, who inherited a system his father spent more than four decades constructing, has now moved to formalise a process of centralisation that had earlier been discussed but was not visibly underway in operational terms.

The lesson learned from 2025 and the Twelve-Day War, according to Iran’s own state reporting, was that redundant command structures slow decision-making. The latest restructuring is intended to reduce that redundancy and further narrow the distinction between the operational command of the Artesh and the IRGC. The underlying logic is clear: the system has little interest in preserving institutional space in which one military arm might begin to think or act independently of the others.

I would also gently push back on those looking for salvation in Iran’s reformists. Pezeshkian’s presidency provides a civilian face and international cover for the negotiating track, and that function matters. But it is not independence.

Ghalibaf is a former senior IRGC commander who has spent decades inside the Islamic Republic’s political and security establishment. Araghchi is a capable diplomat entrusted with representing Tehran in negotiations. Both men operate inside the system’s tolerances, not outside them. Reading their willingness to negotiate as evidence of a moderate faction pulling against a hardline one mistakes tactics for structure.

When Iran has had to cede ground, at Bürgenstock or Islamabad, it has ceded it in the way a company reprices a product: reluctantly, and only as far as survival requires. Ghalibaf gets attacked by the influential ultra-hardline Paydari Front for talking to Americans, and he absorbs it, because someone in the system has to run the diplomatic track.

None of this means the system is stable in the way it looks stable. Ali Khamenei is dead. His son, who has still not been seen or heard in public, inherited the office by appointment and is still consolidating the very apparatus his father designed. The strain is real. But strain inside a structure is not the same as a fracture between its parts. The three heads bicker over how much brain they are fed and by whom, not over whether to keep feeding.

So when I hear commentary asking whether this is the moment the Artesh finally breaks from the regime, or whether Ghalibaf represents the pragmatic wing that might yet reform the system from within, I think of Zahhak.

Nobody in that story is saved by one of the snakes deciding it has had enough. The snakes do not turn on the king. The rupture comes from outside the machinery of the court: Kaveh the blacksmith rises first, turning private grievance into public revolt, rallying the people and creating the conditions for Fereydun’s return. Fereydun then defeats Zahhak and binds him at Damavand. Until that structure itself breaks, all three snakes answer to the same shoulders.

The defining struggle in Tehran is not between moderates and hardliners. It is a contest within the hardline establishment and the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) over power, patronage, and coercion.

The transition has occurred during a very turbulent time for the Islamic Republic, in the midst of a war with both the U.S. and Israel and only months after the largest anti-regime uprising. Mojtaba has also remained largely out of public view for months, fueling uncertainty over his status and capacity to lead. This vacuum gave rival security networks room to advance their own interests, but Washington should not mistake competition within the regime for a pragmatic opening.

The SNSC is the body that coordinates defense, intelligence, and foreign-policy decisions and its resolutions take effect only after approval by the supreme leader. The secretary therefore operates at the intersection of war, diplomacy, and internal security. Rezaei commanded the IRGC from 1981 to 1997, founded its intelligence unit, and served as Mojtaba’s military adviser since March. Mojtaba first named him his representative on the council and Pezeshkian then formally appointed him secretary.

The removal of Rezaei’s predecessor, Mohammad Bagher Zolghadr, is equally revealing. He held the secretary position for less than five months, an extraordinarily short tenure for a post usually held for years. Pezeshkian had reportedly asked him to remain and later acknowledged unspecified “differences,” exposing the friction between the presidency and Mojtaba’s emerging power center.

Zolghadr was a close ally of Ahmad Vahidi, the IRGC commander who played a central role in running the country during the war, while Rezaei has shown he is fully aligned with Mojtaba. Replacing one hardline IRGC veteran with another, therefore, reflects a shift in networks rather than ideology, placing the regime’s most important security forum under Mojtaba’s orbit.

The dispute over the Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) between Washington and Tehran deepened that divide. Zolghadr voted in favor of it, while Rezaei had publicly questioned the agreement and later argued that Mojtaba had favored a different path. Zolghadr’s support for the memorandum made him less compatible with a leader determined to impose his own authority on the security establishment.

Taeb’s appointment is equally significant. He and Mojtaba both served in the Habib battalion during the Iran-Iraq War, beginning an alliance that later extended into years of behind-the-scenes schemes to influence Iranian politics. Taeb was sidelined late in Ali Khamenei’s rule after his removal as head of the IRGC Intelligence Organization in 2022, but Mojtaba has now restored him to lead the Basij once again.

The Basij paramilitary embeds itself across various sectors of Iranian society and mobilizes regime loyalists to surveil and repress dissidents. Taeb sharpened that coercive machinery during his tenure, a record that later drew sanctions from the United States, Canada, the European Union, and the United Kingdom. Mojtaba now has a trusted loyalist at the center of the institution most crucial for suppressing another nationwide uprising.

Taeb’s appointment decree instructed him to strengthen the Basij’s ‘intelligence network,’ expand its use of technology and improve coordination with other regime bodies. The priority is unmistakable: consolidation at the top and more effective control of the streets.

Ali Khamenei’s death was bound to trigger a struggle for power. For decades, access to political office, economic privilege, and security authority depended on proximity to him and his office. His death disrupted that system of patronage.

Mojtaba’s task is threefold. He must strengthen his own network, balance the influence of officials tied to rival centers of power, and sideline networks that flourished under his father and were opposed to Mojtaba. Rezaei’s elevation and Taeb’s return serve that purpose.

Washington should treat this reshuffle as a warning that Mojtaba is placing loyalists at the helm of the institutions that shape external and internal national security doctrines. This should put an end to Washington’s hope that pragmatists inside the regime can lead the country toward a different path.

The United States should reject bargains that strengthen the regime without verified changes in Tehran’s conduct. It should work with Israel and the Arab states of the Persian Gulf to deter Iranian aggression and constrain Tehran’s military partnership with Russia and China. It should also deny the regime’s repressive organs the finance and technology they need while expanding support for the Iranian people confronting the regime’s apparatus of oppression.