I was Born to Work Endlessly

Sunday Post

Finally, with the help of Hoda and Ati, I managed to put together a CV.

The story begins when I realized that I had been following the same path in the U.S. as I did in Iran—writing just to survive emotionally and mentally. In Iran, I wrote to endure hardship, to remain standing, and to keep going. I never cared about achievements or documenting them.

Here, everyone adds even the smallest step to their résumé. I had no résumé at all—I simply worked.

While compiling my CV, we discovered many of my stories had already been translated. I was shocked by the sheer number of translations—most done without my permission. But of course, they were allowed. In our country, there is no copyright law. Translators are free to choose stories from any author, translate them, and publish them. Then, based on their own regulations, the censorship office (Ershad) cuts what it wants and gives the remaining piece to a publisher. The publisher prints this wounded version, and everyone feels they've done something worthwhile.

My fame was never supposed to grow day by day. When they banned my books, it was meant to erase me. But it didn’t work. Here, I haven’t been idle for even one second. I’ve used every opportunity to work and publish.

Now, at the peak of my creative career, I receive no income from my own books. The moment a new book of mine is published, many websites start distributing the PDF for free. In some European countries, there are even Farsi-language websites that sell my printed books—without my consent.

You might say I should hire a lawyer... but lawyers cost money.

We still don’t have copyright laws inside the country, and even outside.

For instance, an Iranian publisher published the translation of my book The Heart of Steel—again, .scince 2014 without my permission. He put the book on Amazon and title it Afsaneh. It’s still happening—even the translator hasn’t received anything.But at least she signed a contract.
There’s no such a thing as “inside” or “outside” anymore—the system is everywhere.

Seems like I was born to work endlessly, while others enjoy the profits.

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The Islamic Republic is everywhere. Its shadow stretches far and wide.
Some of its agents now wear the mask of human rights defenders, but they silence writers and drag them into ruin.

And me?
I continue.
I work.
I write..

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