My Iranian College Roommate, Cyrus - What He Taught Me

The Higgins 6 Crew from 1977 with Cyrus in the middle (with blue jacket) & me in gold dorm shirt

Today’s news about the US and Israeli attack on Iran takes me back to the fall of 1977 — my first year at Western Illinois University in McComb, Illinois.

WIU had around 17,000 students at the time and a noticeable number of international students, including several from Iran. Most of the Iranian students kept to themselves. They dressed in dark clothes, spoke Farsi, and rarely mixed with American students. To an 18-year-old kid from Illinois, they seemed distant and mysterious.

Then I met Gholam Hussein Soltani — better known as Cyrus, because nobody could pronounce his real name.

He was the only Iranian student I really got to know, and he was nothing like the others.

The first time I saw him, he was wrapped in bandages. His car had overheated, and he’d opened the radiator cap too soon. Scalding coolant sprayed across his face and chest. He lived down the hall from me on the sixth floor of Higgins Hall. He wore a sailor’s cap and a denim vest with no shirt. His smile was wide, his handshake strong. He was eager to meet everyone.

It didn’t take long before Cyrus became part of our group — a ragtag collection of mostly Chicago-area guys thrown together by dorm assignments and fate. There was Marty, the boxer from the South Side; Tom, the artist from Elk Grove Village; Gomez, our Puerto Rican buddy; Tim, the Vietnam vet; me — and Cyrus. We were there to party and, with luck, earn a degree. Mostly, we majored in beer drinking, skipping classes to go fishing, and chasing girls. It was the 1970s. That sort of behavior was considered normal.

But Cyrus was different in the best possible ways. He was a terrific cook, could cut hair like a pro, cleaned fish with surgical precision, and drank vodka straight from the bottle. He blasted Neil Young and Crazy Horse at full volume. And when it came to politics — especially Iran — he was light years ahead of the rest of us.

That fall, unrest in Iran was building toward revolution. Cyrus explained the Shah, the protests, and SAVAK — the secret police who monitored dissidents at home and abroad. When we invited him to move into a rented house with us for the following school year, he hesitated. He told us he might be under surveillance. SAVAK kept tabs on Iranian students in the U.S., especially those suspected of opposing the Shah. They liked to abduct and torture them. Sound familiar?

We told him we didn’t care who was watching as long as he paid his share of the rent and bought beer occasionally.

Through Cyrus, I had my first real education about the wider world. The Shah, backed by the United States, was seen by many Iranians as corrupt, repressive and brutal. Protests were massive. The regime answered with censorship, arrests, and torture.

In early 1979, the Shah fled. Ayatollah Khomeini returned from exile and established the Islamic Republic of Iran. It was a seismic shift. I asked Cyrus whether it would be better.

He shook his head.

Khomeini, he said, was a religious extremist. The repression would continue — just under a different banner. The culture clock would be turned back about a thousand years.

That regime has held power ever since, at least until this morning.

After graduation, I moved back to Joliet. Cyrus visited once before returning to Iran. We said goodbye, not knowing it would be the last time. Five or ten years later, I learned through a mutual friend that Cyrus had been killed in the Iran-Iraq War.

The news hit hard.

Cyrus wasn’t a caricature from a headline. He wasn’t “Iran.” He was my friend — smart, funny, principled, and hopeful. He wanted what most people want: honest leadership and a country worthy of its people. He would have made a good leader himself.

I still think about him. And today, as the drums of war beat again, I can’t help but wish that the kind of future he hoped for — for himself and for Iran — had somehow come to pass.  Especially today.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Have you ever known someone like Cyrus? If so, did knowing that person change or inform the way that you thought about their country?  I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive. 

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Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.

While the World Watches the Games

 

We’re a little more than halfway through the Winter Olympics as I write this. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve been a complete junkie for the Games—the competition, the glamour, the drama of it all. I could never get enough.

But this year, I haven’t watched a single minute.

Why?

Four years ago, while I was soaking in every Olympic moment, Russian troops were massing along the borders of Ukraine and Belarus. The signs of invasion were unmistakable. President Biden issued warnings and declassified intelligence in an effort to alert the world. Vladimir Putin denied everything.

On February 24, 2022, he launched a brutal invasion of Ukraine.

No one gave Ukraine much of a chance. The consensus was that Kyiv would fall within days—three at most. I knew almost nothing about Ukraine beyond the fact that it appeared to be doomed. I felt sympathy, certainly. But I assumed it would be over quickly, and life would move on.

Ukraine, however, never got the memo.

When offered evacuation by the United States, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy reportedly replied, “I need ammunition, not a ride.” It was a David-versus-Goliath moment that will live in history.

For the first year, the American people—and our government—stood firmly behind Ukraine. But wars that drag on lose their headline appeal. The daily updates blurred together. Attention spans shifted. Then came the presidential election circus, and Ukraine slipped quietly out of the spotlight.

Now, three years later, much of the world has moved on.

Meanwhile, Ukraine has endured relentless bombardment—attacks on power grids, heating systems, and civilian infrastructure, especially during these past brutal winter months. Millions live with rolling blackouts and freezing nights of below zero temperatures and wind chills. Russia’s campaign is not merely territorial; it aims at erasing identity, culture, and sovereignty. That would be a genocide larger than the holocaust.

And still, Ukraine fights on.

Ukraine is now home to the most battle-tested military force in Europe. No other European nation has comparable recent combat experience defending against Russia. If Ukraine were to fall, that hardened force would not simply disappear. It would become part of Russia’s expanded war machine—the tip of the spear for further aggression.

Imagine the consequences.

The European Union represents one of the three largest economies on Earth, alongside the United States and China. A broader European war would not remain “over there.” It would ripple across global markets, supply chains, energy systems, and financial institutions. Refugee flows would surge. Factories would go dark. Trade routes would fracture.

Southwest Virginia would feel it. So would every other corner of this country.

Yet as I write this, much of the United States—and much of the world—is captivated by figure skating scores and downhill finishes. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating athletic excellence. I’ve loved it my whole life. But this year, my mind isn't able to process the horrors of war with the glitz and glamor of the games. It feels like a betrayal of my values and I refuse to be distracted from the hard realities that exist for Ukraine, Europe and the rest of us. So I choose to pass on the Olympics this year. 

Autocrats count on fatigue. They count on short memories. They count on the world’s attention drifting to something shinier. Four years ago, many of us assumed Ukraine would collapse in days. It didn’t. Today, assuming the threat has passed would be an equally serious mistake.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, civil discussion is the bedrock of democracy. I hope our exchanges remain thoughtful, respectful, and productive.

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Thank you for reading—and for walking this road with me.

Former Fictional Candidate On Our Next President

If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, you may remember that two years ago I launched a fictional campaign for President of the United States. It was a useful exercise: a way to define my platform and articulate how I’d run the country if elected. Because the campaign was fictional, it stayed within budget and required no fundraising, no influence-peddling, and no selling of my soul.

The outcome was predictable. I received too few votes—fictional or otherwise. Still, the exercise accomplished exactly what it was meant to do. And while today is February 2, 2026—Groundhog Day—I have no intention of repeating it.

Having now retired from fictional presidential politics, I have entered the revered role of elder statesman, a position that automatically increases the value of my opinions and qualifies me to comment freely on matters of public concern. I trust the cable networks and print media will be in touch shortly.

Today marks the beginning of what I expect to be a semi-regular feature on this blog: advice offered to voters and candidates alike. Some of it will be playful. Some of it will be deadly serious. I will not be labeling which is which. If you’re unsure, then the column is working as intended.

Whoever becomes our next President will need the wisdom, strength, and moral clarity of Abraham Lincoln to govern a nation this fractured. Healing it will not be easy. But on day one, I hope the President requests the resignations of all nine Supreme Court justices. He need not accept them—but anyone considered for appointment should face a clear, non-negotiable test.

They must commit to reversing the Supreme Court’s 2010 decision in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission—a ruling that demolished a century of campaign finance law and legalized the unlimited purchase of political power. That decision is the foundation of our current corruption: billionaires buying elections, installing compliant judges, and bending government to serve wealth instead of citizens. Truth and justice were the first casualties.

The question before us is simple: can we reclaim a democracy that has been sold to the highest bidder, one transaction at a time? I believe we can—but only through the same courage and civic responsibility that created this nation 250 years ago.

That means standing up. Getting involved. Supporting candidates who refuse dark money from PACs and Super PACs. Knocking on doors. Making calls. Writing checks. Democracy is not a spectator sport, and freedom comes with a participation requirement. This is what the founders understood. As Benjamin Franklin warned, we were given “a republic, if you can keep it.”

Whether we do is no longer a theoretical question. It’s a choice.

I’d genuinely like to hear your thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, civil discussion is the bedrock of democracy, and I hope that all such exchanges are both civil and productive. Please feel free to share your experiences in the comments below, and share this post with others who appreciate both humor and thoughtful reflection about this blue marble we all share.

If you’d like to leave a comment but receive an error message, it’s probably because your browser is set to reject third-party cookies. You can select “Anonymous” in the “Comment as” window and simply leave your name or initials if you wish. Thanks for reading — and for walking this road with me.