10/09/2026
* The Cycle of Oppression *
A tyrant does not become a tyrant alone.
No power rises in a vacuum, and no throne remains standing without hands to build and uphold it. Had there been no hands among the oppressed willing to lift the tyrant up, he would never have cast such a long and terrible shadow over their fate.
Sometimes, it is the very person who fears the tyrant who makes him powerful—the same person who pushes him forward, cheers for him, turns him into an idol, and imagines that by handing power to someone else, freedom will somehow become his own.
But power has a short memory.
The tyrant soon forgets the hands that lifted him from the dust. Once seated upon his throne, he first cuts off the hands of yesterday’s supporters, and then places chains upon them. Only then do the oppressed realize that the hand they once raised in hope has become a fist, striking them from above.
And so they gather.
The streets fill with anger. Voices merge into one. The oppressed, shouting and applauding, bring down the tyrant’s throne. They drag him from his palace and convince themselves that by bringing down one man, they have also brought down the walls of oppression.
But this is where the new tragedy begins.
A person who has lived all his life beneath the shadow of tyranny does not truly knows freedom.
He may have heard of it.
He may have read about it.
He may have shouted its name in the streets.
But he has never lived it.
And how can we expect someone who has spent a lifetime inside a cage to know what to do with the sky?
Only a short time passes before freedom, placed in inexperienced hands, begins to change its face. Fear gives way to revenge, revenge gives way to power, and power once again gives birth to tyranny. Then another tyrant arrives.
He takes possession of the empty palaces, sits upon a throne that still carries the warmth of the previous tyrant, and throws a few grains—a handful of millet—at the rebels to quiet them; just enough to keep them alive, but never enough to allow them to stand. And beside him, he keeps a sharp-clawed cat.
A cat always ready, should the newly oppressed ever dare to raise their voices in protest, to sink its claws into their throats before their words can reach the ears of the world.
Time passes.
Hunger becomes familiar. Fear becomes ordinary. Humiliation becomes a part of daily life. And when a human being remains in chains for too long, he may eventually mistake the sound of those chains for part of the music of life.
But one day, he opens his eyes. He looks around and sees the same ruins. Only the owner of the palace has changed.
Then, to preserve his dignity and erase the past from his memory, he begins searching for someone to blame. He condemns those who once rose up for justice and holds them responsible for all his present misery. He forgets that he, too, once stood among them—that he, too, once shouted for freedom and applauded the fall of the tyrant. And history repeats itself once again.
The streets fill again.
Fists are clenched again.
Flags rise again.
And the awakened oppressed cry out once more:
“This is our final battle!”
But amid these cries for freedom, another strange voice can also be heard—a voice rising from the depths of fear and habit:
“O God!
O universe!
Bring our former tyrant back to us!”
And history, standing silently in a distant corner, laughs.
For they still have not understood that the problem is not merely the tyrant. The problem is the cycle that keeps producing tyrants.
As long as the oppressed mistake freedom for a savior rather than a responsibility; as long as they wait for another strong hand instead of building a free society; as long as they place power in the hands of one person and then expect justice from him, the tyrant's throne will never remain empty. Only its occupant will change.
And perhaps the tyrant's greatest victory is this:
that after overthrowing him, the oppressed come to long for his return.
"The Return of the King” — By Aboli Moezzi
