I hate Iran. I hate the Iranian government. It's a cruel and evil

The words of Doris Lessing — “I hate Iran. I hate the Iranian government. It’s a cruel and evil government.” — are not the words of blind anger, but of wounded love. For Lessing was no stranger to the East; she had known its beauty, its poetry, its mysticism. Her hatred was not for the people of Iran, but for the tyranny that bound them — the iron chains of oppression forged in the name of virtue. When she spoke of hate, it was the hate that rises from sorrow, the fierce sorrow that burns in the hearts of those who have seen freedom crushed and innocence betrayed. It was not the hate of malice, but the hate of conscience.

Born in Persia, now known as Iran, Lessing carried within her the early impressions of that land — its sun-baked earth, its proud history, its deep wells of spirit. Yet she lived long enough to see how its rulers transformed a place of culture and wisdom into one of silence and fear. The Iranian government, especially after the Revolution of 1979, cloaked itself in divine authority, declaring itself the guardian of faith and purity. But beneath that cloak, Lessing saw the truth — a system that enslaved women, silenced thinkers, and punished dissent. To her, this was not piety but perversion — a government that twisted holiness into cruelty.

History has often seen such rulers — those who claim moral greatness while inflicting moral ruin. The ancient prophets and philosophers warned against them. In every age, there have been empires that believed themselves chosen by heaven, yet filled their prisons with the cries of the innocent. Lessing’s fury is the same fire that burned in the heart of the Hebrew prophets, who denounced kings for their oppression. It is the same voice that echoed in the poets of Greece and the rebels of Rome — the eternal cry that power without mercy is evil, and that governments which govern by fear lose their right to rule.

Consider the story of Neda Agha-Soltan, a young Iranian woman who was shot in the streets of Tehran during the protests of 2009. She was not a warrior, not a politician, only a citizen who longed for a voice. As she fell, her death was captured by a trembling hand and spread across the world. The image of her lifeless face became a mirror to the world’s conscience. In that moment, the cruelty Lessing spoke of was revealed in its purest form — not through armies or speeches, but through the silencing of one unarmed, unafraid soul. This is the cruelty of tyrants: they kill not only bodies, but hope itself.

And yet, even in her hatred, Lessing’s words carry a deeper truth — that such governments cannot endure forever, for they war against the human spirit. The power of cruelty is strong, but it is brittle. It cannot destroy the longing for freedom that lives in every heart. History has shown this again and again: the tyrant may rule for a season, but his rule is a shadow. The spirit of the people, though beaten, always rises again, like grass breaking through stone. For though fear is loud, freedom is patient — and patience is stronger than fear.

From Lessing’s fierce declaration, we learn a timeless lesson: it is not enough to pity injustice; we must hate it with righteous hatred. Not the hatred that consumes and corrupts, but the hatred that refuses to accept evil as normal. It is the hatred that kindles courage — the kind that says, “This shall not stand.” For when the heart grows too tolerant of cruelty, it becomes complicit. And when silence becomes comfort, tyranny becomes permanent. Thus, her words are a call not to bitterness, but to moral fire.

Let this be the teaching: to love humanity is to despise tyranny. One cannot honor life while excusing oppression. So, look upon Lessing’s anger not as rage, but as remembrance — remembrance that freedom is sacred, that no government should stand above the dignity of the human soul. Stand with the oppressed, speak when others fall silent, and never let cruelty disguise itself as order. For though the world may tire of resistance, the truth never tires.

And so, O listener, remember: righteous anger is not sin, but strength. To hate evil is to affirm good. To condemn tyranny is to love humanity. The words of Doris Lessing burn like the fire of a prophet — and through that fire, they purify the soul.