I AM Armita Geravand, 16 From Iran, in Coma, Suspicion Falls on my Government .

I am Armita Geravand, a 16-year-old girl living in Tehran, Iran. My life took an unexpected and harrowing turn one fateful day as I embarked on a routine journey to school. My short, black hair flowed freely, uncovered, a symbol of defiance against the oppressive dress code enforced by the Iranian government.

As I stepped onto the subway car that Sunday morning, little did I know that it would become the backdrop for a horrifying ordeal that would change my life forever. The security cameras captured my entrance, a snapshot of a girl daring to challenge the status quo. I was not alone; two of my friends, like me, had chosen not to wear the mandatory hijab.

Inside that subway car, I found myself in a tense confrontation with officers tasked with enforcing the strict hijab rules. We argued, my friends and I, with a fervor born of our desire for freedom, for the right to express ourselves, and for the dignity to choose what we wear. The tension in the air was palpable, the stakes high, and the consequences dire.

And then it happened, a moment of terrifying brutality that shattered the fragile peace of that subway car. I was pushed, a forceful shove that sent me crashing into a metal object within the train. The impact was excruciating, my head struck hard, and I knew something was terribly wrong.

As the world around me blurred into darkness, I felt a searing pain, and then, nothingness. I had lost consciousness, my body helpless, and my fate uncertain.

Days passed, and I remained in a coma, trapped within the confines of a hospital room, surrounded by the relentless presence of security agents. My family, burdened with the weight of fear and uncertainty, stood by my side, their hearts heavy with worry, their hope flickering like a fragile flame.

I cannot speak for certain about what occurred within that subway car, for the truth remains obscured by a shroud of secrecy and conflicting narratives. The government insists I fainted due to low blood sugar, a benign explanation that does not align with the intensity of my injuries.

But the world outside has not been silent. Outrage has rippled through the hearts of people who see my story as yet another chapter in the ongoing struggle for freedom and justice in Iran. It echoes with painful familiarity, evoking memories of Mahsa Amini, a courageous young woman whose life was tragically cut short in the custody of the morality police.

I am but one victim among many, a symbol of the countless individuals who have dared to challenge the oppressive regime, paying a heavy price for their defiance. My parents, Shahin Ahmadi and Ahmad Geravand, stand as pillars of strength in the face of adversity, their love for me unwavering, their hope undiminished.

The world watches, and I, Armita Geravand, remain in limbo, my fate uncertain, my story a testament to the resilience of those who yearn for freedom, justice, and the right to choose how they express themselves.

Amid the stark hospital walls, my parents, Shahin Ahmadi and Ahmad Geravand, bear a burden that no mother and father should ever have to carry. Their faces, etched with worry lines and the shadows of sleepless nights, betray their inner anguish. Their days have been an agonizing wait, punctuated by hushed conversations in the sterile corridors of the hospital.

As they sit vigil by my bedside, their eyes never leave my frail form. Each breath I take, each faint sign of life, becomes a glimmer of hope in their hearts, a fragile lifeline sustaining their dreams of my recovery. Their love for me, their only child, is boundless, a force that defies the darkness that hovers over our lives.

In their voices, there is a quiver of desperation, an unspoken plea to the universe to spare their daughter from further suffering. They recount the government's version of events, their words trembling as they try to find solace in the narrative offered by the authorities. "Her blood pressure dropped, they say. It was a sudden fainting spell. She hit her head on the edge of the metro," my mother stammers, her voice betraying her uncertainty.

My father stands beside her, his arms folded, his gaze distant. He speaks with a heavy heart, his words heavy with the weight of a father's helplessness. "Armita was healthy, she needed no medications," he utters, his voice choked with emotion. "Please, pray for her," he implores, a plea born from the depths of his soul.

Their unwavering faith in my recovery is a testament to their resilience, a stark contrast to the uncertainty that shrouds my condition. They are a portrait of parental devotion, a poignant reminder of the countless families torn apart by the relentless oppression that pervades our homeland.

In their faces, etched with the pain of helplessness, in their trembling voices, and in their unwavering hope, my parents represent the enduring spirit of those who stand against tyranny. Theirs is a story of love and sacrifice, a narrative of resilience in the face of adversity.

As I lie unconscious, caught in the crossfire of conflicting narratives, my parents cling to the belief that one day, I will awaken from this nightmare, that justice will prevail, and that their daughter will return to them, whole and free. Theirs is a heartbreaking tale of a family torn apart, a tale that resonates with countless others who yearn for a brighter future, a tale that underscores the urgency of the fight for freedom and justice in Iran.