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by Wardah Malik for The 44 North, Contributing Writer - Politics


Lindsey Graham (left) with President Donald Trump, who is holding a signed “Make Iran Great Again” hat. (Lindsey Graham/X)
Lindsey Graham (left) with President Donald Trump, who is holding a signed “Make Iran Great Again” hat. (Lindsey Graham/X)
"The future of Iran remains uncertain. But what is clear is that democracy cannot be forged through violence, repression, or outside interference." 

Two days after the United States announced the abduction of Venezuelan President Nicolas Maduro, President Donald Trump was photographed on board Air Force One with a hat that said “Make Iran Great Again,” foreshadowing the war that now involves nearly 10 countries across the Middle East. 


While the dynamics that define U.S. involvement in Caracas do not exactly mirror Tehran, what remains the same is the commitment to a new approach to foreign affairs that is swift, harsh, and openly involves regime change. 


“They have waged war against civilization itself. Our resolve, and likewise that of Israel, has never been stronger,” Trump said of U.S. military attacks against Iran. Yet, this resolve and the U.S.’s objectives beyond regime change have been ill-defined, a reality that has 56% of Americans opposing military action. The American public that elected Trump on the basis of a “no new wars” promise is not eager to participate in a conflict with no clear end, raising the question: Who wants this war? In part, the answer is found in the Iranian diaspora, many of whose visions for a “new Iran” seem to rely on Trump.  


Via PBS News/NPR/Marist Poll, National Adults
Via PBS News/NPR/Marist Poll, National Adults

On February 28, 2026, Iranians across the world took to the streets to celebrate the U.S.-Israeli strikes that killed Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, who led Iran for more than thirty years. “We needed this help for decades,” claim Iranian-Canadians, a number of whom attended rallies waving pre-revolutionary Iranian flags alongside the Israeli flag and photos of Reza Pahlavi, the exiled son of Iran’s last shah. 


Often seen wearing a “Trump Was Right About Everything” or a MIGA hat, this segment of the Iranian diaspora routinely borrows rhetoric to push forward a pro-monarchist agenda that positions Pahlavi as a democratic, secular figure—a reliable Western ally in the Middle East. For example, following the U.S. strikes on Iranian nuclear sites in 2025, the National Union for Democracy in Iran, a U.S.-based pro-monarchy group, released its “Emergency Phase Booklet,” a nearly 200-page document that echoes international democratic norms whilst framing the U.S. as a valuable partner in Iran’s “peaceful transition to a democratic future.” It directly names Pahlavi as the “leader of the national uprising.” Notably, this title gives Pahlavi the power to veto the institutions and selection processes in a transitional government—a highly undemocratic right.  


Despite United States Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth insisting that Iran is “not Iraq,” historians cannot help but to note several instances where U.S. intervention in the Middle East—and its preference for certain leaders—has led to decades of conflict, worsening human rights, and heightened instability. Furthermore, those familiar with Iran’s history note the Pahlavi dynasty’s tendency towards authoritarian rule, from banning the hijab (Kashf-e hijab) to the establishment of the SAVAK Secret Police that executed hundreds of political dissidents; an experience that sparked the 1979 Islamic Revolution and ultimately gave rise to Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. 


While Reza Pahlavi cannot be held responsible for the autocratic nature of his family’s rule, his supporters, cult of personality movement, self-appointment as Iran’s transition leader, and his open disregard for federalism or language rights for Iran’s ethnic minorities indicate that his rule will likely mark a return to autocracy.



As pro-monarchists insist that Pahlavi is the democratic future of Iran and others in the diaspora scramble to find alternative viable leaders, Iran has strengthened hardline elements in its establishment, effectively narrowing political space and deeming any form of legitimate dissent or opposition as a security risk. It’s under these conditions that the new supreme leader, Mojtaba Khamenei, has been appointed; a move that Trump argues won’t “last long” without the U.S.’s approval.


Trump told ABC News, “We want to make sure that we don’t have to go back every 10 years, when you don’t have a president like me that’s not going to do it.”


With the war entering its sixth week, thousands of civilian lives—including those of Iranian schoolchildren—have been lost in Iran, Lebanon, and Israel. Now a regional and global crisis, the U.S.’s initial military attack proves that the collapse of a regime, especially when driven by foreign actors, does not automatically lead to democracy. Instead, it creates an intense power vacuum that exacerbates political unrest and silences the voices that demand a better future for ordinary people. 


So, where does this leave the Iranian people?

Some in the diaspora who thank the U.S. and Israel for their involvement—arguing that “nothing is scarier than the [Islamic] regime”—overlook just how frightening cycles of foreign intervention can be. And while both the U.S. and Israel justify their military actions as acts of solidarity with Iranian protestors, there are clear strategic interests in dismantling the Islamic regime that undermine civilian life in pursuit of geopolitical advantage in the region. 


The future of Iran remains uncertain. But what is clear is that democracy cannot be forged through violence, repression, or outside interference. Those desperate for regime change must remember that the way change is pursued is fundamental to lasting peace and stability.


Wardah Malik is a Toronto-based researcher, editor, and historian. She is the founder of Historyless Magazine, an independent publication covering global affairs and underreported political narratives. Her work spans media, human rights, and community-based research, including projects on press freedom, public health, and gender-based violence. Her research interests include governance, decolonizing language, and the preservation of underrepresented histories. Wardah holds an MPhil in World History from the University of Cambridge.


by Emerson Prentice for The 44 North, Contributing Writer - Politics


A Map of the Middle East with a pin on Iran
A Map of the Middle East with a pin on Iran
"News has seeped into frequented apps like TikTok and Instagram. The war has become inescapable while remaining unreachable. And, like all global citizens, we’re asked to take a stance. Gen Z is dealing with a strange alternate reality of wartime—we’re deeply aware of what is happening because of its prevalence on our devices, but we’re also unbelievably removed from it." 

From here, we may be safe. 


Despite threats of potential drone warfare in California and rising gas prices, my college campus and the college campuses of America are not warzones—they’ve remained relatively insulated. 


Biking on paved paths, business seems to be running as usual, never mind the air raids that began on Feb. 28 in the Middle East. Classes are still on, finals abound. Any real threat of violence a student feels on campus is most likely an inflated one. This is all true from where I stand in Palo Alto. 


For schools in the Middle East, for one girls’ elementary school in particular, safety isn’t guaranteed. Desks proved to be no match for bombs.


American college students are utterly protected from this type of violence by nature. Some students do come to American universities from countries riddled with warfare. For domestic students, though, we cannot reckon with the unimaginable because we cannot reckon with what we will never hear, smell, or feel. The violence is all painfully distant, truly unknowable.


And at the same time, our generation sees violence more than any generation has before because of the rise of technology. In many ways, we are far more aware of war than those before us. As the conflict in the Middle East has pushed on for weeks, our eyes are glued to our screens, and our screens are filled with carnage. It creates an unsettling juxtaposition between the lives of students in America and the lives of students on battlefields. 


News has seeped into frequented apps like TikTok and Instagram. The war has become inescapable while remaining unreachable. And, like all global citizens, we’re asked to take a stance. Gen Z is dealing with a strange alternate reality of wartime—we’re deeply aware of what is happening because of its prevalence on our devices, but we’re also unbelievably removed from it. 


So how does our generation deal with it? What is the rational response to what you know is distant injustice?

College campuses have seen protests about this conflict and others. Students circulate Instagram infographics with percentages and standalone quotes to convey lives lost. We hold fleeting, often unserious conversations about how “Iran is going to bomb us.” These are in many ways ill-informed and shallow, but their existence and prevalence assure that the conflict remains in the cultural conversation. Without the posts and posters, how would our generation even know it was happening? Wouldn’t our lives feel untouched?  


College administrations, adults, and professors have a profound and accurate sense that youth cannot grasp what is happening in the Middle East and in most global conflicts. Older generations scoff that students are chanting slogans we cannot understand. 


Truthfully, as we are attempting to reckon with what is happening in relation to our unaffected lives, we’re untangling what these conflicts mean in a wider historical sense. Without the necessary background knowledge, is it our responsibility to stay quiet? Or are we still obligated to speak up no matter how much we know? 


The easiest and safest answer to these questions for bustling college students is, of course, the most common response from anyone—silence and ignorance. Our focus should by definition be our education during our time on campus. It’s exceedingly easy to write over any other civic responsibilities with heavy courseloads, but also somewhat essential.  


The same importance of education could be said for the students of the bombed elementary school in Iran—the conflict was not something the young girls should have felt concerned with, and yet violence for them was shockingly inseparable from their place of schooling. They did not have the privilege to choose to escape it, while American students do. So what are American students meant to do with that privilege? 


Notably, this ease of ignorance is not the same for all university students. Some have families that are directly impacted by this violence. Some have homes they do not know the stability or existence of anymore. 


It’s a blessing to not have to reckon with war—it’s an underappreciated privilege my generation was born with. But it creates a complex situation for us as students. One of the most popular majors at my university is international relations, and political science majors graduate from colleges across the country every year. For these students in particular, forming a complex and deep understanding of war is imperative. Students interested in fields like engineering or computer science may also go on to work at companies like Palantir, which are deeply implicated in war. 


An education on a safe campus can and should never be fully separated from an understanding of war. 


These complex questions of what Gen Z should be doing during a war that isn’t theirs are ones the students of America are asking themselves every day—and rightfully so. They’re important questions to help us develop as global citizens and community members, to deepen our understanding of what we owe each other. 


Even more, questioning is a quintessential aspect of maturing as a young person—it’s how we grapple with the world we were thrown into. 


The truth is, we simply don’t have the answers to these questions. However, we can still respond. As the youth of America, we certainly have the courage, tenacity, and time to continue struggling through the work of questioning. This work, especially in colleges and universities, is precisely what we have to offer right now. And as we’ve seen in movements across U.S. campuses, youth voices—fully informed or not—are undeniably catalysts for change.

Emerson Prentice is a Freshman at Stanford studying Anthropology. At school, she is the Campus Life desk editor for the Stanford Daily, a DJ for the campus radio station KZSU, and an associate producer for the Stanford Storytelling Project’s award-winning podcast, “State of the Human.” For fun, Emerson also loves to run, cook, and birdwatch!


by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor


“In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” Copyright © 2023 by Andrea Gibson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 30, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.


Andrea Gibson, courtesy of the Boulder Library Foundation
Andrea Gibson, courtesy of the Boulder Library Foundation

Note: This poem is not in the public domain! Please use the link above to read it. 


I’ve loved Andrea Gibson’s work for years, and was heartbroken when they passed away not long ago. I’ll always recommend spending time with my favourite poem of theirs, “What Love Is.” But today, honouring the ways the world is raising awareness about cancer throughout April and May, we’re looking at “In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” 


The first thing you might notice is the length of the title: It’s two sentences, which we don’t see often. But this craft choice sets up the dialogue, structure, and voice of the poem. The title’s language doesn’t appear as succinct or compressed as the poem’s, and through its length and likeness to prose, it tells us how to read the poem: As something brave, as a risk. The content/subject is the act of bravery, but formally it’s supported by writing that begins as two prose-like sentences and takes the risk of becoming a poem instead, like the expansiveness of life transitioning into the (seeming) narrowness of death. 


In the poem, we encounter couplets and many pairs of images—gloves, life and death, etc. The couplet form seems to say 1) ‘this,’ 2) pause for a breath on the hinge of the line break, and then 3) ‘that.’ It’s almost as if the first line is a breath in and the second is a breath out. 


Similarly, there’s an ebb and flow of thinking one thing, and then another—fear followed by belief. The enjambed lines, often across stanza breaks, amplify this stunningly:


“I could survive forever // on death alone. Wasn’t it death that taught me /  to stop measuring my lifespan by length, // but by width?”


Further, the brilliance of this poem is that it reads as if Andrea wrote it down in a notebook (likely they did). But the precision of the diction, syntax, and images is carefully crafted. The woods challenge our notions and metaphors for death and darkness, for example. 


And then, time moves with Andrea’s thoughtful, patient touch.


The spaces between God, basketball, and balloons are presumably only a few seconds of thought, but the seconds of reading time slow and swell, mirroring the expansiveness of a balloon, a court, and God. The careful placing of images and metaphor enact this feeling. We move between time periods and time ‘owed,’ to literal outer space (from the balloon to the sky to the moon). And then we’re brought gently back to Earth, where death has been happening rather than coming. So often we think of the afterlife as “up there.” We look to the sky when we think of someone who’s no longer with us. But our bodies are “down there.” Down here, really. To remember—and be remembered—is to remain with the Earth. And as Andrea remembers their loved ones, we remember them, too. 

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