They had chosen his name from the depths of this land’s ancient myths: Rostam. Rostam Azarbad, a son of the city of windcatchers, was born on April 21, 1965 in the Zoroastrian quarter of Yazd. A small neighborhood where its people, despite their differing faiths, are united in their love for the soil of Iran.

Rostam grew up in a modest family; his father was named Mehraban and his mother Homayun. Life was simple, yet filled with the values that prepared Rostam for a greater path. He began his elementary education at Diniari School and received his high school diploma from Keykhosrow High School. He had a great passion for basketball and became a member of the Yazd Zoroastrian Youth Club team. Rostam was an agile and hardworking player; he was mostly known with a ball in his hands.

Every leap Rostam made toward the hoop in Yazd’s sports halls seemed like a rehearsal for a far greater flight; for the moment when he would one day have to spring from this earth to the heavens. But fate changed his playground and his glory from the sports halls to the battlefield against terrorists.

After receiving his diploma, he donned the uniform of military service. He completed his training and was sent to Shiraz, and after a short time, he was dispatched to the west of the country to confront the separatist groups that had disrupted the peace of the people of Kurdistan. This was a region where, practically since the beginning of the Revolution, a new front had formed against the revolution, and terrorists, in pursuit of their sinister goals, had stolen sleep from the eyes of the people and shed countless precious lives.

Rostam Azarbad put his life on the line and feared no enemy. He was a radioman, his ear attuned to coded messages. Day and night, he defended a soil loved equally by Zoroastrians, Muslims, and Christians. In the heart of battles, Rostam was calm and resolute, as if he knew he had come to do something great—and to pay the price for it. Perhaps all those years of leaping for a ball had prepared him for one final jump.

That day arrived. On June 20, 1986, near Saqqez, they engaged with Komola terrorists, and in the midst of the clashes, Rostam was taken captive by the terrorist group. The enemy, realizing he was the radioman and possessed critical information, began their torture—ruthless and relentless. But Rostam Azarbad, this 21-year-old youth from Yazd, refused to speak and did not betray his homeland. It was as if the spirit of Rostam Dastan, the legendary hero of the Shahnameh, had breathed into him. The same Rostam who never bowed his head to any demon. The same Rostam who never yielded to humiliation and stood tall until his final breath. Rostam Azarbad too stood firm against the demons of Komola, and they, driven to despair by his silence, opened fire on him.

The body of Rostam Azarbad fell to the earth. But this time, he had made the ultimate leap—a one-way leap, from the dust to the heavens. His soul soared; the soul of a man who proved with his choice and his defiance that for the defense of this land, faith and ethnicity are not boundaries. What defines the border is love. A love that Rostam embraced with his entire being and forever inscribed in the history of this land.

Today marks the 40th anniversary of the flight of Rostam Azarbad—a flight that began from a basketball court in Yazd and joined eternity in the sky of Kurdistan. His memory is cherished.

DID