5 AM, Vozara Street, Tehran.
Not fully dark, not yet light. People walk in silence, avoiding eye contact—like former classmates pretending not to recognize each other.
At the courthouse, rows of soldiers stand guard. The closer I get, the more severe their posture becomes. A scaffold is set, adorned with flowers and the image of a murdered judge labeled as a martyr.
I push through the front-row spectators—the victors of every public event. From the back, only the crane’s orange arm is visible. Inside the enclosed area, guards eye me suspiciously—a woman here? They glance at my press card, and I am granted access.
The crowd is dense, pressed against the barricades. A judge steps forward, eulogizing the deceased magistrate, declaring that the executions will serve as a lesson. For whom? He does not say.
Then, the van doors open—Hossein and Majid step out, hands and feet bound. The crowd erupts, a faceless noise vibrating in the air. My camera scans the scene. Amid the chaos, I notice a small pink figure on the ground—a child, no older than seven or eight, sitting cross-legged on the asphalt, watching the execution.
Who brought her here? Her father? A relative? A man’s foot shields her, ensuring she doesn’t get lost. Another man clutches a badminton racket in his bag—a casual reminder that life continues elsewhere.
My camera finds her—she is the center of my frame. I press the shutter.
Hossein trembles, while Majid smirks, waving at him like an uncle reassuring his nephew. The executioner signals. The crane’s engine roars. The smile vanishes from Majid’s face. He is hoisted, struggles, and dies.
The pink-clad child remains watching, unmoved.
I take more photos.
I search for the decisive moment.
I am a journalist.
This will be tomorrow’s headline.
Golara Sajadian
For the full text, refer to the book “Entertainment in Public” Project
