이란 내전의 이면: 지정학적 충돌이 드러낸 민간 피해와 내부 역학관계
Travelling through Iran reveals no single narrative about the US-Israel war - The Guardian
지정학적 비극은 맥락을 제공하지만, 즉각적인 방향성 움직임을 유발할 직접적인 재무적 촉매제는 부족합니다.
핵심 요약
미사일 공격으로 156명이 사망한 사건을 통해, 지정학적 충돌이 이란 국민의 고통과 내부 역학관계를 드러냈습니다.
Original Article
Travelling through Iran reveals no single narrative about the US-Israel war - The Guardian
Some believe conflict strengthened national unity, others say it deepened repression, but all mourn the dead
T he excavator stops suddenly. One of the workers reaches into the rubble and pulls something free. It isn’t twisted metal or broken concrete. It’s a child’s exercise book. The pages are still intact, covered in neat handwriting. On the front is a name: Mahya Salari. She was eight years old.
Five months after a missile tore through Shajareh Tayyebeh primary school in Minab, southern Iran , excavators are still clearing the site. Workers search for the remains of one young boy still believed to be buried beneath the debris.
According to the Minab prosecutor’s office, 156 people, including 120 children, were killed here when a US-made Tomahawk missile struck on the first day of the war.
Across the city, portraits of the dead cover walls, shopfronts and roadside billboards, turning Minab into one of the defining symbols of civilian suffering.
When the US-Israeli attack on Iran began on 28 February, the US president, Donald Trump , had urged Iranians to “seize control of your destiny”. Instead, the conflict reshaped Iran in ways few expected. A journey the length of the country reveals the impact of the war on its people.
T he overnight train from Tehran to Bandar Abbas runs almost 900 miles (1,448km), linking Iran’s political heart with its strategic southern coastline on the strait of Hormuz. It passes mountains, desert and the nuclear sites of Natanz and Fordow before reaching the Gulf.
On board are students, footballers, businessmen and families. People from every corner of Iran, each carrying their own version of what the war has meant.
As the year began, anti-government protests had spread across the country after years of crippling sanctions, economic hardship, soaring inflation and growing frustration with Iran’s leadership.
The demonstrations were met with a sweeping security crackdown in which rights groups documented tens of thousands killed and many more who disappeared , although the full toll remains disputed.
Then came the war. Azadeh, a lawyer, says the first days of the conflict were frightening. “It is in every Iranian’s nature to adapt,” she says. “We tried to continue living our lives, to keep our routines and remain hopeful.”
When asked what she thought about the protests and about the many who believed war could bring political change, she pauses before quietly declining to answer and turning her head away from the conversation.
Inside the sleeper carriage, conversations drift swiftly between family, work and everyday life but politics is different. Speaking openly about politics in Iran carries obvious risks.
Her travelling companion, Sepideh, a beautician, is more willing to talk. “I love Iran,” she says. “I love it so much. But when I see my youth slipping away and my dreams disappearing, I have no choice but to leave.”
Further down the train, two young footballers are travelling home after the domestic league resumed following a months-long suspension. Asked what they remember most about the war, Abdollah says: “They attacked a school that was full of children … They were seven, eight and nine years old. Our whole country was upset. The day of the funeral … everyone cried.”
At Bandar Abbas, a road then turns inland towards Minab, a two-hour journey. It is a city known for its date palms and its busy Thursday market. Today, the war dominates almost every street.
Portraits of children killed in the school attack hang from buildings and lamp-posts. At the edge of the city, Shajareh Tayyebeh primary school remains a shell. Concrete floors have collapsed on to one another. Twisted steel protrudes from shattered classrooms while excavators continue clearing the site. Among the rubble lies Mahya Salari’s exercise book.
Mahya had been at school with her younger brother Ali. Their mother arrived to collect them shortly before the strike. All three were killed.
Amaineh Nademi taught first grade here for six years. “You can’t call it a school any more,” she says. “There are only walls that smell of death, grief and blood.”
She remembers parents running barefoot towards the building. “I thought everyone had escaped. I didn’t know they were all under the rubble.”
The Pentagon has so far provided no answers on the bombing, which came during strikes on an adjacent military compound.
Red Crescent responder Reza Besharati says he still relives that morning. “Even now,” he says, “I remember everything.”
For some Iranians who once hoped outside pressure might weaken the government, Minab became a turning point.
“I accepted there being a war,” one former protester said. “But not at the price of innocent people being killed. War destroys everything. It makes no distinction between good people and bad.”
At Minab’s cemetery, children weave between rows of small graves while families shelter from the afternoon sun.