Haj Qassem Envisioned a West Asia Where Resistance Could Take Root, Grow, Inspire

The soil he purified, step by step, from the taint of foreign boots. Time feels as though it has frozen at 1:20 a.m. in 2020, that moment when the unthinkable became reality—a moment my heart resists reliving.

It's difficult to detach emotions from analysis—at least when it concerns resistance, when it concerns the warrior and leader. Resistance is not merely a strategy or an ideology; it is a living, breathing force—a fire that shapes the will to fight, to persist, to triumph.

In 2000-2001, the beloved commander began walking the hills, mountains, and soil, fortifying spirits. He made a monumental choice—to transcend the borders of his homeland and carry the revolutionary spirit of the Islamic Revolution across West Asia.

This region, standing at a crossroads, needed the strength of that revolution and its enduring hope to rise and endure. He envisioned a West Asia where the values of resistance could take root, grow, and inspire.

His goal was to transcend mere sentiment, to forge strength so profound that it would reshape history itself. His feet carved paths where none existed, his hands dismantled the walls imposed by others.

He was a child of the great revolution—poor in wealth but immeasurably rich in faith and patriotism. Privileged beyond measure, he became a revolutionary, a force of change who, in a matter of years, merged the defense of his revolution, his soil, and his soul into one inseparable entity.

For General Qassem Soleimani, known as "Haj Qassem," soil and soul were indistinguishable.

To speak of him is no easy task. It is always hard, but more so on the eve of the day his blood returned to the soil. It is harder still to write of him in any language other than Farsi—the language he spoke, the language he loved, the language of his brother Ahmad.

Ahmad, with whom he shared the language of the sky, the one he longed to soar with from the very first day, the one he cried with and for, from the depths of his heart.

I have a question: did they truly speak the same Farsi as we do? Farsi is the language of revolution, but what they do with these words shakes the core of the world.

Words align, yet their meaning slips away. Biya —such a simple word: “Come.” But why did the martyr weep as he uttered it? Why does every action within this resistance carry such profound meaning, such staggering responsibility?

How much do they bear? Yet, despite the weight, they remain light enough to soar. These words, these emotions, forge the sacred bond between the beloved commander and his brothers, grounding their actions in something transcendent.

In 2011–2012, Haj Qassem achieved a revolutionary milestone with his brothers in Gaza. For the first time, Fajr-5 missiles were launched at Zionist targets.

This was not merely an act of war; it was the fulfillment of a promise. Haj Qassem declared that Palestine’s liberation was possible and that Gaza’s men would achieve it. This promise dated back to 2000, and 12 years later, those words took the form of missiles.

Before 2012, in 2006, resistance proved its resolve, showing both the enemy and the world that the land belongs to its blood, and its blood belongs to the land.

The glorious victory in the 33-day war surpassed the expectations of the enemy and even people in the region. It injected confidence and faith in those who believed and fought for the righteous cause.

Then, in 2012, the launch of Fajr-5 missiles marked a turning point in Gaza’s resistance, revealing its newfound capabilities and solidifying an entire chain of support.

Twelve years later, that chain has only grown stronger. This is not an idle claim meant to sustain hope; it is vital to understand this war as a battle between the rich and the poor—a class war on a global scale: the oppressed against the machinery of imperialism.

Last night, I attended a film festival in Tehran.

But not just any ordinary festival—one that forces art to empty it, serving not the people but capitalist values. A place where emptiness parades on the red carpet, waved by the blood of the oppressed in the Global South. A moment where white ignorance is embraced and paid for. Complicity in genocide is normalized, and rewarded.

No, this one was different. I attended the Ammar Festival, an annual gathering that carries the weight of our resistance values, our beautiful present and history, our light-filled past and bright future.

It is a space where art speaks to humanity, where it resists the ugly world of dictatorship.

It sheds light on history’s dark side because it is about those souls on the right side of resistance. It is about defending Palestine.

At the Ammar Festival, people gather to grieve, to give hope and strength to each other. We watched 'Dar Tadaruk Toofan' -- a film about preparing for a storm. A storm that transcends the region, shattering the enemy’s hollow face, tearing apart the spider’s house.

The film depicts what Haj Qassem laid as groundwork for October 7th—what he breathed life into, making what once seemed impossible a reality.

In the film, a Hamas commander declares: “Victory over the enemy was impossible. But after Haj Qassem, nothing—I emphasize, nothing—was impossible anymore.” His presence redefined not just strategies, but an entire ideology of resilience.

There is a fervent passion, even a grudge, in how they speak of this child of the revolution. The revolution bestows upon its children what they need most: the capacities they lacked, the faith they now hold, the hope to shatter impossibilities.

The Islamic Revolution made the impossible possible. This child of the mother’s embrace took that phenomenon, planted it, and let it bloom across the region.

The region now bears witness with unflinching eyes: The empire is shrinking, no longer the unstoppable octopus, its suffocating arms coiled around the necks of the people, choking them to death or forcing surrender.

This is no longer imperialism in its prime; this is imperialism in decline—a wounded beast, a Dracula bleeding, its grip weakening, its shadows retreating, a beast fading into the twilight of its reign.

Instead, it drinks the blood of children for temporary solace. But the blood of children cannot deliver victory.

It has long been bleeding itself dry and knows no cure. The impossible has been made possible by the mother revolution and her children. Victory is inevitable.

Salam Farmandeh.