The Roadside Republic of Memory
Reflections from a Gathering for Iran in Dublin, 14 June 2026
There are moments in exile when an ordinary place becomes something else entirely. On the afternoon of 14 June 2026, beneath a sky so clear that it seemed to stretch uninterrupted from Dublin to the mountains of Iran, a small group of Iranians gathered along a roadside carrying the Lion and Sun flag. Cars passed steadily. Some drivers waved. Others sounded their horns in support. Many glanced briefly before continuing on their journeys, perhaps curious, perhaps puzzled, perhaps wondering what story was unfolding before them.
For those standing there, however, this was never simply a protest. It was a gathering of memory.
It was an act of remembrance for Javid-Nam Majidreza Rahnavard and for the many young Iranians whose lives have been consumed by the struggle for freedom. It was a moment in which exile, usually carried quietly within the heart, became visible for a few hours beneath the open sky.
Looking around at the faces, the flags and the photographs, I found myself thinking not only about Iran but also about Ireland. After more than three decades living here, I have come to understand that the two countries often look at the same symbols and see entirely different stories.
For many Irish people, the word monarchy evokes memories of occupation, landlordism and inherited power. It recalls centuries in which decisions affecting Irish lives were made elsewhere. The Irish struggle for self-determination was, among other things, a struggle to reclaim the right to choose.
That memory remains deeply embedded within Irish political culture, even when it is not consciously spoken about. It shapes instincts. It shapes sympathies. It shapes how history is understood.
It is therefore entirely understandable that when some Irish people hear the words "Crown Prince" or see the Lion and Sun flag, they may initially interpret them through the lens of their own national experience.
Yet for many Iranians, those same symbols carry different associations.
When older generations remember the Pahlavi period, they often remember a country that was building. They remember expanding education, new universities, hospitals, roads and infrastructure. They remember increasing opportunities for women and a society that, however imperfectly, was attempting to modernise and engage with the wider world. Their memories are shaped not by empire but by comparison—between the Iran they knew before 1979 and the Iran they have experienced since.
Whether one agrees with that assessment is not the point. The point is that historical memory is rarely universal. Different nations carry different wounds, and those wounds shape how symbols are understood.
Perhaps this is why conversations about Iran sometimes become difficult in Western countries. Too often, people assume that supporting Iranians requires taking a position on monarchy. Yet that is not what most of the people standing on that roadside were asking.
The question was far simpler. Should Iranians have the right to choose their future? Should women be free to determine how they live? Should journalists be able to speak without fear? Should students be allowed to protest? Should citizens have the opportunity to participate in genuinely free elections?
One does not need to support monarchy to answer those questions. One does not need to carry a Lion and Sun flag. One does not even need to agree with every opposition figure. One simply needs to believe that Iranians deserve the same principle that Irish people once demanded for themselves: the right to determine their own future.
As the afternoon unfolded, conversations moved naturally beyond politics and towards something deeper. What many Iranians increasingly describe is not simply a crisis of government but a crisis of stewardship.
Historically, the legitimacy of rulers in Iran was never measured solely by their ability to hold power. A ruler was expected to safeguard the country, protect the vulnerable, maintain justice and ensure that prosperity flowed through society rather than being captured by a privileged few. The measure of leadership was not the slogans it repeated but whether ordinary people could live with dignity.
The questions were practical and human. Were the poor fed? Were widows protected? Could children hope for a better future? Could the dead be buried with dignity? Was the land itself being preserved for future generations?
These questions remain as relevant today as they were centuries ago.
Across Iran, many people look around and feel that something essential has been lost. Water reserves continue to decline in many regions. Rivers and lakes that once sustained communities have shrunk dramatically. Inflation steadily erodes savings and wages. Young people leave because they struggle to imagine a future for themselves. Corruption is widely perceived to have become embedded within systems that were meant to serve the public.
The contrast can be particularly stark in provinces such as Kurdistan and Sistan-Baluchistan, where poverty remains a persistent reality despite the country's immense resources and potential. At the same time, many of the children of those connected to power study abroad, invest abroad and build lives abroad.
For ordinary Iranians, this contradiction is difficult to ignore. If the future being promised is truly bright, why are so many of those closest to power preparing their own children to live elsewhere? It is not merely a political question. It is a moral one. The crisis extends beyond economics. It reaches into religion itself.
Many Iranians remain deeply spiritual people. Yet for some, the close relationship between religious institutions and state power has created a profound erosion of trust. Mosques that once served primarily as places of worship are increasingly viewed through political lenses. Long-standing tensions between communities have deepened. Members of the Baháʼí community continue to face discrimination. Christian converts often practise quietly and at considerable personal risk. Sunni communities frequently speak of unequal treatment.
The result is a society in which many people feel alienated not only from political institutions but from institutions that once provided meaning, belonging and moral guidance.
It is within this broader context that many Western observers misunderstand certain symbols of Iranian opposition.
For example, the appearance of Israeli flags at some Iranian gatherings is often interpreted as a statement about every aspect of Middle Eastern politics. In reality, for many participants, the meaning is more immediate. It represents a rejection of the idea that a government should dictate whom its citizens must love or hate. It is less an endorsement of another state than a declaration of independence from compulsory narratives.
Similarly, when some Iranians speak of leadership, they are not necessarily speaking about crowns. They are speaking about competence, accountability, justice and the restoration of trust. They are speaking about a desire to recover institutions that serve society rather than themselves.
During the gathering, one of the most meaningful moments was the presence of Maurice Dockrell.
In political life, listening is often undervalued. Yet listening is where understanding begins.
Maurice Dockrell's significance to many Iranians lies not in agreeing with every political position they hold but in his willingness to hear them. In a world where Iran is frequently reduced to headlines, diplomatic briefings and geopolitical abstractions, he has taken the time to engage with the experiences and concerns of ordinary Iranians.
That willingness matters. Not because it changes everything, but because it reminds people that understanding is still possible. For those living in exile, that is no small gift.
Exile is not simply separation from a homeland. It is often separation from being understood. It is the feeling that your country's story has become distorted, simplified or forgotten. It is the experience of watching others discuss your homeland while rarely hearing the voices of those who have lived its realities.
People who listen help bridge that distance.
As the afternoon progressed, the flags continued to move gently in the wind. The faces on the posters looked out towards passing traffic. Conversations drifted between memories of Iran and reflections on Ireland, between grief for what had been lost and hope for what might yet be recovered.
I found myself thinking about an ancient Persian idea known as Farr.
The concept is difficult to translate directly. It carries meanings of dignity, legitimacy, honour and moral authority. Ancient Persians believed that power alone was never enough. A ruler who abandoned justice might retain armies, wealth and institutions, but would eventually lose something more important. They would lose Farr.
The idea remains surprisingly relevant.
Modern democracies might use different language. They speak of legitimacy, public trust and accountability. Yet the underlying principle is remarkably similar. The purpose of government is not simply to preserve power. It is to protect the dignity of human beings.
When dignity disappears, something essential leaves a nation.
Eventually the gathering came to an end. The flags were folded. The posters were packed away. People returned to their homes and families. The road resumed its ordinary purpose. Yet something remained.
For a few hours, that roadside had become a republic of memory.
The dead had been named. The forgotten had been remembered. The silenced had been given voices. And Ireland and Iran had stood, however briefly, beneath the same sky. Many of the people driving past probably saw only a small demonstration. What they did not see were the thousands of stories standing behind every person there: parents buried without their children beside them; children raised without grandparents because exile separated generations; political prisoners waiting in cells; families waiting beside telephones; mothers sleeping beside photographs; fathers still dreaming of home.
These stories travel wherever exiles travel.
They are carried quietly through airports and across borders. They survive in accents, memories and family conversations. They survive in gatherings like this one.
We gathered that day for Majidreza Rahnavard. We gathered for those who can no longer speak. We gathered for those still imprisoned. We gathered for those still resisting.
But perhaps above all, we gathered for an idea that transcends every political system and every national boundary: that ordinary people deserve dignity, that nations deserve justice, and that every people should have the right to determine their own future.
That belief is understood in Ireland.
It is understood in Iran.
And it remains worth standing for.
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