UPDATE: We have successfully raised over $11,000! We now have what it takes to secure Khashi and Sajad's lives for a year!
I am so unfathomably thankful for everyone who donated. In a world where it's easy to feel overwhelmed by injustices beyond our control, they've chosen to bring justice to two people who love their lives. That choice—to see the value in helping a person who wants to help himself—reflects the kind of compassion that truly makes the world a place worth living in, even for those facing some of the greatest injustices.
Link to the fundraiser: https://gofund.me/bd2a10af
Some friendships are forged in shared interests. Others bloom from proximity or convenience. But then there are those rare bonds—the ones that make you recognize each other across a crowded room, the ones that make you able to see the world through each other’s eyes.
He is your best friend. Not the best of your friends, but he is your all-in type of friend. A friend with whom you share a part of your soul. A friend who knows everything about you. A friend who sees you better than you see yourself. A friend who you love so much that their laughter and tears never cease to make you laugh and cry. A friend so irreplaceable that you're confident nothing short of death can tear you apart.
I found that kind of friend in 2014, in a cramped high school classroom in Esfahan, Iran's third-largest city. The moment I walked through the door, he stood out like a beacon. While everyone else seemed to blend into the drab uniformity of our small public high school, he looked like he belonged in a futuristic art gallery—beautiful in a way that was almost unreal in our conservative corner of Iran.
The principal assigned me to sit beside him, and it was during one particularly tedious lecture that it happened. I caught him doodling in his textbook—not the usual drawings or Persian poetry, but a carefully written list of American actors and singers, their names spelled out in English letters.
My eyes widened as I read over his shoulder. His first instinct was to cover the page, a flash of panic flickered on his face. These were forbidden names—the "evil American sinners" that good Iranian students weren't supposed to know, let alone admire.
"How do you know them?" he whispered, his voice tight with incredulity.
"How do you know them?" I asked back, equally startled.
We stared at each other at that moment, both suddenly exposed, as if we'd been caught completely naked. Here we were, two teenagers who had been hiding the same secret shame—our love for Western culture, our fascination with a world we were told to despise.
While our classmates turned away from American music and movies with practiced disgust, muttering about indecency and sin, we began to share our forbidden treasures. In a place where women disappeared beneath dark hijabs and men cultivated rough, unshaven,—almost brutish—appearances, we secretly passed photos of Western celebrities, marveling at their beauty and freedom.
We opened up about everything—our dreams, our fears, our growing awareness of who we really were. And eventually, without ever needing to say the words aloud, we both understood that we were different from others in our sexuality, too.
Our friendship became our lifeline. In a school that operated like a prison, in households ruled by abusive fathers, in a country that seemed like a 6th century Islamic caliphate, we found sanctuary in each other. Even after classes ended, we'd spend hours on the phone, talking until our voices grew hoarse. It's hard to explain what those conversations meant to us, but I know this: without each other, we would have lost our minds, would have been crushed by the weight of conformity.
When I finally escaped Iran, our bond only grew stronger. He became the only person I could trust with my darkest secrets—including the trauma of being trafficked and raped by an old businessman. He stood by me through it all, even as he faced his own daily persecution. People on the streets would beat him regularly, calling him simply for using sunscreen, styling his hair, and wearing clean, pressed clothes.
After I made it to America, I found him a job as a digital assistant for one of my friends' businesses. The few hundred dollars he made online finally enabled him to escape Iran. Khashi fled Iran with his boyfriend, Sajad, a photographer who sold his camera to buy two plane tickets out of Iran.
Turkey wasn't paradise, but it was better. They still faced violence, but at least the government wouldn't execute them for being together. For a brief, shining moment, they thought they were safe.
Then the ground shifted beneath their feet. The local immigration office revoked their refugee status. They joined the ranks of hundreds of refugees facing deportation back to Iran despite having committed no crimes—back to a country where their love was punishable by death.
We fought through the courts, but they only gave him a 30-minute, ceremonial trial. The judges denied their request to stay, claiming Iran was "safe." Safe. The word felt like a cruel joke.
I've barely slept since. Every day is a struggle against panic. I can't write, can't laugh, can't focus on anything except the knowledge that my best friend—the person who helped me survive the darkest years of my life—might die because of who he loves.
I threw myself into research, contacted embassies, and studied immigration laws. Everything seemed hopeless. No country issues visas to refugees. Period.
Then we found it—a small crack in the wall. Malaysia. A country that would issue student visas to refugees, and for only $4,000 instead of the tens of thousands required elsewhere.
I enrolled them in a language school. They're going to make it.
But getting there requires money we don't have—plane tickets, tuition, temporary housing. That's why I'm here, sharing this story with you.
For me, this isn't just about saving two young men from persecution. It's about preserving the kind of friendship that makes life worth living. And I’m going to do anything to get that money.
One of those things I could do is to reach out to you, my dear readers.
If their story moves you, if you believe that love should never be a death sentence, please consider donating to their Gofundme campaign.
If you are moved by my story, and would like me to have enough bandwidth to write more articles, please consider donating to their Gofundme campaign.
I am frustrated that I didn’t write this well enough. I didn’t do their incredible stories justice. But time is short, and my mind cannot do better than this until they’ve landed in safety.
If you've ever had a friend who saw you when you felt invisible, who stood by you when the world turned away, then you understand how I feel. You know that I can't give up on them now.
Some friendships are worth fighting for. Some are worth everything.
Link to the fundraiser: https://gofund.me/bd2a10af
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