TEHRAN – "To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die." The words of Thomas Campbell echoed silently through the streets of Tehran on Saturday as millions began the first day of farewell ceremonies for the martyred Leader of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Seyed Ali Khamenei. Yet no quotation alone could fully capture the atmosphere of a city where sorrow and pride walked side by side.

My home is in Tehran's District 7, on Sohrevardi Street, inside the first security ring established for the funeral ceremonies. My wife and I both work in the press, and although we were scheduled to head to our newsroom later in the afternoon, we decided first to witness history with our own eyes rather than through camera lenses or television screens.

Shortly after sunrise, we left Andisheh Street and walked uphill toward Beheshti Street. The distance from the beginning of Beheshti Street to Tehran's Grand Mosalla is only a little over one kilometer, but on Saturday it felt like a journey through the collective memory of a nation.
The closer we walked, the larger the crowds became.

At first, small groups of families moved quietly along the sidewalks. Then streams of people came from every direction. Finally, after only a few hundred meters, the streams merged into what could only be described as a river of humanity flowing toward an ocean—the Grand Mosalla itself.
There was almost no empty space left on the streets.

Despite the warm summer weather, no one seemed impatient. Volunteers had established countless logistical stations along the route, offering drinking water, juice, syrup-based refreshments, meals, medical assistance, and places to rest. Young volunteers worked shoulder to shoulder with elderly citizens. Every few steps, someone could be seen distributing bottles of water before thinking of drinking one themselves.
It was impossible not to remember the words of Albert Schweitzer: "The only ones among you who will be really happy are those who have sought and found how to serve."

Service had become the language of the day.
The most remarkable sight, however, was the children.
They walked hand in hand with their parents and grandparents toward the Mosalla with extraordinary enthusiasm. Their expressions carried curiosity rather than fear, excitement rather than exhaustion. They moved through the immense crowds as though they were heading toward a playground rather than a farewell ceremony.
The contrast was striking.
Tears filled many eyes, yet despair was nowhere to be found.

People embraced strangers as naturally as family members. Elderly visitors who struggled to walk immediately found helping hands. Volunteers formed spontaneous human chains whenever the crowds slowed. Bottles of water passed from hand to hand without a word.
For a few remarkable hours, the ordinary calculations of everyday urban life seemed suspended.

The English philosopher Thomas More imagined an ideal society in Utopia. Walking through the streets of Tehran on Saturday, one could not help recalling that vision. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged. No one appeared to ask what they would receive. The instinct was simply to contribute.

One elderly man standing quietly beside Beheshti Street summed up the mood with remarkable simplicity.
"We came," he said, "because gratitude also has a duty."

Further ahead, black mourning banners stretched across intersections while Quranic recitations blended with revolutionary anthems echoing from loudspeakers. Occasionally the enormous crowd would break into synchronized chants before returning once again to reflective silence.
It was a silence unlike ordinary silence.

It was the silence that follows immense loss yet refuses surrender.
Victor Hugo once wrote, "There is one thing stronger than all the armies in the world, and that is an idea whose time has come." For many gathered here, the ceremony was not merely about mourning a leader but about expressing continuity with an idea they believe transcends the life of any single individual.

This was evident in the remarkable diversity of those attending. Elderly veterans walked beside university students. Clergymen stood next to engineers. Mothers carrying infants shared the same path as workers arriving directly from their jobs. Rural dialects mixed with urban accents, reflecting visitors who had traveled from every corner of Iran to participate in what many described as a historic farewell.
The closer one approached the Grand Mosalla, the more difficult movement became.
The river had become an ocean.

From every entrance, countless people continued to arrive. Looking across the immense gathering, it became impossible to distinguish where one crowd ended, and another began. Humanity itself seemed to move with a single heartbeat.
Perhaps Leo Tolstoy expressed it best: "The strongest of all warriors are these two—Time and Patience." On Saturday, another force appeared equally powerful: memory.

The first day of farewell was not merely a ceremony. It became a portrait of collective remembrance—where grief was carried with dignity, where service overshadowed inconvenience, and where millions transformed public streets into spaces of solidarity.
The procession had not yet reached its final destination.
Neither, many here seemed to believe, had the story whose next chapter they had come to witness together.