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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 Mikaela Brewer for The 44 North, Senior Editor


Prints by Capsule Community


A few years ago, in the fall of 2024, I wrote a pantoum about the moon for the very first issue of Capsule, Stories & Starlight, published in December 2024:


Months before I wrote this poem, I’d followed Capsule’s Instagram page, a nourishing collection of posts to taste and savour rather than consume in one bite. I felt a sense of disruption—rest and ease—each time I encountered their work, even on a screen. In practice, I saw what social media could be


If “To be truly radical is to make hope possible rather than despair convincing,” as Raymond Williams says, then disruption has more than one necessary definition in the fight; it can replenish hope.


Capsule’s social media presence is a tapestry of literature, climate sustainability ethos, decolonial frameworks, artwork, and more. They turn each square into a patch, and their grid into a quilt rooted in storytelling that changes perception and lives. Their work influences popular culture and shifts public opinion, all stitched to a vital core: Stories as community. 


“As a creative consultancy and agency, deeply passionate about and focused on climate and sustainability, we are storytellers, creatives, activists and artists who leverage our creative skills and talents to boost climate narratives, encourage sustainable systems and outcomes, and help foster stronger connections to nature and the planet.” 

—Sabaah Choudhary & Misha Dhanoolal, Capsule Community Curators & Editors

Beyond Capsule’s digital quiltwork, the idea for a print publication brought together the threads of art, nature, and community. 


“We loved toying with the concept of leveraging our platform as a space to create and inspire, for our own unique voices and ethos, but also for our community. There are so many talented writers, thinkers, artists and storytellers in our communities with little or no access to platforms to tell their stories and share their ideas and work.”


Stories & Starlight, where my poem appeared, leaned on the themes of winter and the light we find at night. It featured several poems, art, and photography from members of the Capsule Community across North America. 


Sabah and Misha also design “Prints for Palestine,” featuring plants and words from the ever-brilliant James Baldwin and Mahmoud Darwish (two of my all-time favourite writers—check out “Untitled” by James Baldwin and “Think Of Others” by Mahmoud Darwish). 


Coming in August 2025, Capsule’s Summer zine, in collaboration with the Toronto Flower Market, will be available. You can pre-order it now


“Collaborating with the Toronto Flower Market was an ideal next step, and our way to truly walk the walk of creating a community zine; where spaces and ideas are shared, and different communities are connected, taking our smaller community circles and creating an even larger one. Community is the anecdote to scarcity, and we dream of a world where community, connection and art are a never-ending source of abundance.”


This issue blooms beyond the rebirth of past issues, reminiscent of summer daydreaming with the Earth’s sense of play, love, exhilaration, and creation. 


“In Mother Nature's maximalist season, we find so much inspiration for art and connection—to nature and each other.”

About Capsule Community

The Summer 2026 issue of Capsule Zine
The Summer 2026 issue of Capsule Zine

At Capsule, we believe that storytelling is one of the most powerful tools for influence and change. Stories change perception, lives, move popular culture and can shift public opinion. As a creative consultancy and agency, deeply passionate about and focused on climate and sustainability, we are storytellers, creatives, activists and artists who leverage our creative skills and talents to boost climate narratives, encourage sustainable systems and outcomes, and help foster stronger connections to nature and the planet.


—Capsule Community Website


Connect with Sabaah, Misha, and Capsule Community on their website and Instagram.



by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor


Two Black women in jean overalls strolling through a community garden
Two Black women in jean overalls strolling through a community garden

Dorrie sat down on the small stone bench by her plot in the community garden, running her palms over her expanded stomach. The garden was nestled into a small valley next to her old high school and city soccer field, and at 6:00 p.m., the sun set through the cool April mist that hovered above it. Dorrie closed her eyes to a cool gust of wind that swayed her long black braids across her back and shoulders. 


Andy, Dorrie’s four-year-old son, kicked a well-loved red soccer ball around the garden plots as if they were pylons to run drills with. He laughed loudly, curls flying across his freckled nose, which made Dorrie smile.


“Mommy Dorrie, when will the baby come out?” Andy called, breathlessly, having noticed the intensity of his mother’s fatigue growing each day. 


“When the spring peas and radishes come up, love.”


“When we see green! That’s what Mommy Tisa said. Why is everything still dead?”


“No, it’s just sleeping,” Nick replied with a grunt. Nick was Dorrie’s younger brother, presently churning the soil on his hands and knees. The small town had finally welcomed a warm day in March to check on the soil health and plan out the spring garden. The air, though, still smelled like winter—decaying leaves and exhaust, hovering cold and gray in the air. 


“Like you’ve been all through your senior year of high school?” Dorrie quipped with a playful smirk.


“I’m just tired,” he responded, with a tinge of frustration. 


“Oh Nick, I didn’t mean anything by—”


“I know you didn’t. It’s not you.”


Dorrie bit her lip and shifted her weight on the bench. She could feel the cold, flat stone bench through her jeans. 


“Do we have room in the fridge to stratify everything?” Nick asked curtly, straining to soften his voice.


Dorrie nodded, but didn’t speak, clasping her hands together over her stomach.


Nick looked up, saw his sister’s confused face, and swivelled around to face Dorrie, cross-legged in the soil.


“I’m sorry, Dorrie,” Nick said, “I’m just thinking about this whole OSAP thing today. I’m so angry about it.”


Dorried nodded. “I figured, actually. I heard many students were walking out and protesting.” 


Catching a slight tone of disapproval in his sister’s remark, Nick replied, “Yeah, I was one of them.” 


Dorrie narrowed her eyes with curiosity rather than judgment. “Why? I mean, economically, it seems to make sense—there are billions of dollars in deficit and more expected without change. I paid back all my student loans. Taxpayers, like Tisa and me, pay for students to have a grants-heavy funding program.”


“You did, but the cost of living right now is devastating. The youth unemployment rate is skyrocketing. Everyone thinks we’re only ‘complaining’ about having to rely on and/or pay back loans. But removing the domestic tuition freeze, which now allows institutions to raise tuition by two percent per year for three years, will be really hard for students applying to programs, before the three years are up and fees are adjusted for inflation. Imagine what it would be like for you and Tisa if one of you were in school or trying to go back to school.”


Dorrie pursed her lips, thinking. “You’re right. We’d never be able to afford it alongside child care and all the other rising costs of living.”


Nick nodded, looking down to separate a handful of soil in his palm.


“But I still don’t understand why everyone’s upset about modifying a mostly-grants program to a loans program? It’s necessary for sustainability, from what I know. It aligns with other provincial models. And the OSAP cuts only impact the forty percent that come from the province, not the sixty that comes from the federal government, right?”


“Well, first, it was a pretty drastic change—grants are now capped at 25 percent and loans at a minimum of 75 percent. But whether it’s necessary or not isn’t the point.”


Dorrie raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “Tell me more.” 


“What feels so inconsiderate is the information gatekeeping and lack of transparency. It depends on your application whether you’re eligible for federal versus provincial assistance. So it’s hard to predict financial aid to begin with. The calculator on OSAP’s website doesn’t offer a clear approximation—there’s a disclaimer that you could be eligible for more or less money depending on your application. The federal estimator only tells you federal numbers. And the calculators don’t factor in the cuts yet. They won’t until a bit later in the spring. I’ve already accepted my offer of admission, so how do I plan for funding?”


“Okay, yeah, I hear you. Changing grants to loans also radically shifts your financial plans—and our parents’—if you’re already in school or have accepted offers. And I think about people in their late twenties or thirties, like me, who might be returning to school.” 


“Exactly. And, it was known for a long time—almost ten years, since 2017—that the system needed reimagining. I’m not disputing that the structure could or even should be different. But, there were other, more considerate, phased approaches possible if so. But it’s been left to the last minute, and now, the only way to course correct is to make a huge change all at once, and for the students to take on the costs associated. 


“I hear you, Nick. It’s like climate change, and what costs fall on consumers when policy should have been shifted a long time ago.” 


Nick was still looking down at his hands, picking the cold soil out of his fingernails. “Yes,” he said, with a sigh.


Dorrie tilted her head and smiled. “Nick, I’m not sure what to tell you, truthfully. But what I can say is this: if we put the milkweed seeds in the fridge, they’ll invite butterflies here in the summer. Keep protesting and keep believing, especially when you feel trapped inside a refrigerated box with no way out unless someone else opens the doors. And when you feel powerless, seed hope—germination can be encouraged by the cold, damp innards of a fridge of all places. If the seeds continue to break out of dormancy, shedding hard coats to bloom each year, then we can keep going, too.”


Nick smiled and stood to wipe the soil from his jeans. “Thanks, Dorrie.”


“Always.” Dorrie smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “We’ve got little ones to fight for, too. It’s not just us.” She motioned to Andy and the baby she was carrying. 


Nick straightened his shoulders, rolling them back with a renewed energy. “Andy! Come on!”


“Are you going to stay for dinner after we put the seeds in the fridge?”


“Can I?” Nick asked as Andy ran up to him, slipping a little hand inside his. Nick looked down into little hazel eyes that seemed to say I trust you


“Absolutely,” Dorrie said.

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