TEHRAN- Let me begin by saying that this is not a news report, nor a statistical account of participants or a description of how the ceremony was organized. It is a narrative about ordinary people—housewives, students, and retirees—who came out into the streets to bid farewell to a man they feel eternally indebted to. From Mr. Vessali, a father of a martyr, to Ebrahim, who came to the funeral procession of the martyred leader of the Islamic Revolution despite his disability, saying, “I came to tell Sayyid Ali: You’re the best!”

They had said the funeral procession would begin at 6 a.m. Around that time, I arrived at the starting point of the procession route. The street was packed with people, and just like two days earlier at the mosque, the most visible flag was the red flag of vengeance bearing the phrase "Yā la-Thārāt al-Ḥusayn" (O Avengers of Husayn). People of all ages were present in the streets. As far as the eye could see, there were people who had come to bid farewell to a man who, after more than 30 years, was to leave Tehran forever today.

As I moved along the route, a woman caught my attention. She was sitting in a wheelchair, holding an Iranian flag. Mrs. Goudarzi, 38 years old, said she suffers from multiple sclerosis and had come to the ceremony with her mother and sister. She spoke to me about her love for the martyred leader; she said it was this love that brought her to the street despite her condition. Mrs. Goudarzi said, “We have lost a father, and I had to attend the funeral.” With tears, she said she had never seen the martyred leader before, and today she had come so that the enemy would see that even in this condition, she stands with her homeland and the Revolution.

I say goodbye to the Goudarzi family and continue on my way. The image of the martyred leader of the Revolution stands out in the hands of the people. I look at the smile of the martyred leader. Without realizing it, I smile too, and that very smile in a photo frame decorated with white and purple flowers draws me toward it. At the Mosalla as well, I had often seen people decorating the image of the martyred leader and his granddaughter, Zahra, 14 months old, with flowers and carrying them with them.

As I approach the photo, a woman says the martyred leader is very dear to her, and that his image deserves to be adorned with the finest flowers. Mrs. Aali, 45 years old, a housewife, speaks through tears about her longing for the martyred leader—about how she had never met him, and how this ceremony had become her first and last meeting with him. She says she prays to God to ease the burden of grief over his martyrdom and grant patience to our hearts.

The further I move forward, the more people I see in black clothing, carrying Iranian flags and the red flags of vengeance. In some parts of the street, I am forced to stop for a few minutes until the crowd eases and I can move again. During one of these pauses, I notice Mr. Ebrahim. He is 39 years old, physically disabled, and sitting in a wheelchair. He has attached the image of the martyred leader and the Iranian flag to his wheelchair and wears a headband reading "Yā la-Thārāt al-Ḥusayn".

I ask him why he came out in such condition. Tears roll down Ebrahim’s face as he struggles to speak. He replies, “I came to bid farewell to my leader. I had to come to say I will miss you. I am sad that I didn’t get to see the martyred leader earlier, and today I came to tell the martyr: You’re the best!”

I move past Ebrahim and think to myself about what love for the martyred leader has done to these people—most of whom have never even seen him in person, yet are willing, under any circumstances, from anywhere in Iran or even the world, to come to Tehran in the summer heat for this farewell ceremony.

As I am lost in thought, a sentence echoes in my mind: “We who never saw Khomeini considered Khamenei dearer than our own lives.” A man who had said, “I do not see you, but I love each and every one of you and pray for you.”

While I am lost in these thoughts, the sound of a conversation in the Mazandarani dialect catches my attention. I turn toward the sound and see a family from Babol. Mr. Mehdi has come to Tehran with his wife and sister. When I ask whether he had ever seen the leader before, the question alone is enough to make his sobbing louder.

He says: “I was a soldier at the Leader’s office. When the martyred leader gave speeches or during the months of Muharram and Fatimiyya, after we handed the guests’ shoes to the cloakroom, we would sit and listen to the martyred leader’s speeches.” Through tears, Mr. Mehdi says the martyred leader was light; “We are here today for him. He worked very hard for us and for Iran.”

I ask why they came from Babol to Tehran. He says they came so that the enemy media—whose attention has been focused on these ceremonies in recent days—would see that the Iranian nation still stands firmly behind the system and the leadership, and will defend the country to their last drop of blood.

Gradually, the weather becomes hotter and the crowd in the streets grows denser. Fire trucks, which during the days of bombardment and war used to extinguish the fires of people’s homes, are now in the streets to cool down the heat of the weather and the burning sorrow in people’s hearts—a fire that, of course, cannot be extinguished by this water.

Next to one of these trucks, I see an elderly man holding a very large framed photo of a young man. I get closer; beneath the image it reads: “Martyr Akbar Vessali.” I greet the old man, and he warmly responds. Mr. KaramAli Vessali, 84 years old, has come to the farewell ceremony with the photo of his 15-year-old martyred son.

Mr. Vessali says he prays for the victory of Islam and especially Iran. He recalls attending the funeral procession of Imam Khomeini and says Tehran was a sea of people at that time—astonishing and unforgettable. Today, he says, the streets are the same, but thousands of times more crowded.

As I am about to say goodbye, Mr. Vessali says that they will take revenge on those who martyred the Leader of the Revolution, and those who have betrayed the country and the system from within will be punished for their treason.

I say goodbye to the warm-hearted Mr. Vessali, who keeps praying for Iran and for Sayyid Mojtaba Hosseini Khamenei throughout his speech, and I surrender myself to the sea of people in the streets of Tehran, now approaching Enghelab Square. Throughout this several-kilometer route from Damavand Street to Enghelab Square, the red flag of the martyr’s vengeance is constantly visible. Tears and cries of revenge form the common thread between me and all the people who have come to the streets of Tehran today to bid farewell to a man who, along with his family, was martyred in his office in the heart of Tehran by the American-Israeli enemy.

A man who became the Moses of our time and called forth his nation. The nation awakened by Moses of this era has come to the streets of Tehran to tell their martyr: until we meet again—just as the martyred Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah said:
“We do not say goodbye to our martyr! We say until we meet again, until a meeting accompanied by the victory of blood over the sword, until we meet again while we too have been martyred and joined you…”

So, until we meet again, to the martyred Ayatollah Sayyid Ali Hosseini Khamenei, on behalf of the awakened nation of Islamic Iran.