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People march during a rally calling for the Trump administration not to go to war with Iran, on June 18, 2025 in New York City.
Where are the voices of former presidents who once claimed to represent justice, human rights, and diplomacy?
‘There are moments in history when leadership is not measured by title or office, but by courage—the willingness to speak when silence is safest. We are living through such a moment right now. And yet, those who once held the highest office in the United States remain silent.
As a scientist trained to seek evidence and truth, their silence is deafening. As an immigrant who came to the U.S. in search of justice, it is heartbreaking. As a woman and mother living with Stage 4 cancer, I watch the devastation unfolding not only in Gaza but increasingly in Iran with profound sorrow and urgency.
Recent Israeli strikes, reportedly backed with U.S. intelligence and weaponry, have pushed the region to the edge of catastrophe. These attacks have extended beyond Gaza, with operations targeting Iranian infrastructure, nuclear facilities, and senior military leaders. Iran risks being pulled deeper into a violent regional entanglement—while its people, already suffocated by economic sanctions, political repression, and isolation, now face the looming threat of all-out war.
If former presidents truly believe in peace, now is the time to show it. They have platforms. They have credibility. They have nothing to lose, except history's judgment.
Where are the voices of former presidents who once claimed to represent justice, human rights, and diplomacy?
Former President Barack Obama, whose administration negotiated the Iran nuclear deal, knows better than most what is at stake. That agreement once offered a path to peace and global cooperation. It was torn apart for political gain, and now we are witnessing its consequences—diplomacy abandoned, escalation normalized, and entire populations treated as expendable.
In 2009, President Obama stood at Cairo University and told the Muslim world: "So long as our relationship is defined by our differences, we will empower those who sow hatred rather than peace...This cycle of suspicion and discord must end." He called for a new beginning between the United States and Muslim-majority countries, based on mutual respect and shared interests. What happened to that vision? How can that promise be reconciled with today's silence in the face of mass suffering?
Former President George W. Bush claimed to care about freedom in the Middle East. His war in Iraq shattered that notion. But what might it mean now, in retrospect, for him to publicly oppose the current militarization and collective punishment of Iranian civilians?
Even those whose terms seemed quieter—like former President Bill Clinton—could choose to stand for peace today. They could issue a joint statement calling for a cease-fire, denouncing attacks on civilians, or simply affirming that Iranian lives, like Palestinian and Israeli lives, matter.
Instead, we hear nothing. Their silence is not neutral. It becomes complicity.
Iranian scientists are assassinated without trial. Hospitals, power plants, and schools face sabotage. Families in Tehran and Isfahan live with the fear that the next drone won't be aimed at a military site—but at them. The already precarious state of women's rights and education in Iran now faces further erosion as war drums drown out every other concern.
This is not theoretical. I know what it means to grow up under threat. I was a child during the Iran-Iraq war, when bombing became part of daily life. I know what it's like to lose trust in institutions, to question the future, to long for stability in a world that seems to forget your humanity.
And still, in the face of this spiralling violence, American leaders of the past say nothing.
Maybe they fear political backlash. Maybe they worry that defending Iranian civilians will be misinterpreted as endorsing the Iranian regime. But this is a false binary. One can denounce authoritarianism in Tehran while also opposing war, sanctions, and collective punishment that harms ordinary Iranians most.
Maybe they are protecting diplomatic legacies, unwilling to criticize the Israeli government. But legacy without moral clarity is hollow. Comfort without conscience is betrayal.
The people of Iran are not monolithic. Many have risked their lives to protest for freedom and dignity. Iranian women, in particular, have led some of the bravest civil resistance movements in recent history. To remain silent as bombs fall, as sanctions tighten, as hopes for diplomacy vanish—is to abandon them.
This is not just a regional issue. It is a global moral reckoning. The war machine that consumes Gaza and threatens Iran is the same one that diverts trillions from healthcare, education, and climate action. It is the same system that prioritizes weapons over welfare, surveillance over science, destruction over diplomacy.
If former presidents truly believe in peace, now is the time to show it. They have platforms. They have credibility. They have nothing to lose, except history's judgment.
They could issue a joint call for deescalation. They could demand the protection of civilians, humanitarian access, and a halt to military actions that risk igniting a broader war. They could remind the world that diplomacy is still possible, and that the Iranian people—like all people—deserve a future free from bombs, sanctions, and authoritarianism alike.
They could speak. But they don't.
Meanwhile, young Iranians grow up watching rockets cross their skies. Iranian Americans worry for their families, their safety, their futures. And the rest of us grow more numb, more detached, more hopeless.
It doesn't have to be this way. Leadership is not limited to the Oval Office. It lives in action, in conscience, in the refusal to stay quiet when lives hang in the balance.
The world is watching. Iranians, across Tehran and in the diaspora, are watching. Young Americans yearning for moral clarity are watching. History is watching.
To the former presidents of the United States: Use your voice. Speak before it's too late. You owe it to the people who once believed you stood for something.
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‘There are moments in history when leadership is not measured by title or office, but by courage—the willingness to speak when silence is safest. We are living through such a moment right now. And yet, those who once held the highest office in the United States remain silent.
As a scientist trained to seek evidence and truth, their silence is deafening. As an immigrant who came to the U.S. in search of justice, it is heartbreaking. As a woman and mother living with Stage 4 cancer, I watch the devastation unfolding not only in Gaza but increasingly in Iran with profound sorrow and urgency.
Recent Israeli strikes, reportedly backed with U.S. intelligence and weaponry, have pushed the region to the edge of catastrophe. These attacks have extended beyond Gaza, with operations targeting Iranian infrastructure, nuclear facilities, and senior military leaders. Iran risks being pulled deeper into a violent regional entanglement—while its people, already suffocated by economic sanctions, political repression, and isolation, now face the looming threat of all-out war.
If former presidents truly believe in peace, now is the time to show it. They have platforms. They have credibility. They have nothing to lose, except history's judgment.
Where are the voices of former presidents who once claimed to represent justice, human rights, and diplomacy?
Former President Barack Obama, whose administration negotiated the Iran nuclear deal, knows better than most what is at stake. That agreement once offered a path to peace and global cooperation. It was torn apart for political gain, and now we are witnessing its consequences—diplomacy abandoned, escalation normalized, and entire populations treated as expendable.
In 2009, President Obama stood at Cairo University and told the Muslim world: "So long as our relationship is defined by our differences, we will empower those who sow hatred rather than peace...This cycle of suspicion and discord must end." He called for a new beginning between the United States and Muslim-majority countries, based on mutual respect and shared interests. What happened to that vision? How can that promise be reconciled with today's silence in the face of mass suffering?
Former President George W. Bush claimed to care about freedom in the Middle East. His war in Iraq shattered that notion. But what might it mean now, in retrospect, for him to publicly oppose the current militarization and collective punishment of Iranian civilians?
Even those whose terms seemed quieter—like former President Bill Clinton—could choose to stand for peace today. They could issue a joint statement calling for a cease-fire, denouncing attacks on civilians, or simply affirming that Iranian lives, like Palestinian and Israeli lives, matter.
Instead, we hear nothing. Their silence is not neutral. It becomes complicity.
Iranian scientists are assassinated without trial. Hospitals, power plants, and schools face sabotage. Families in Tehran and Isfahan live with the fear that the next drone won't be aimed at a military site—but at them. The already precarious state of women's rights and education in Iran now faces further erosion as war drums drown out every other concern.
This is not theoretical. I know what it means to grow up under threat. I was a child during the Iran-Iraq war, when bombing became part of daily life. I know what it's like to lose trust in institutions, to question the future, to long for stability in a world that seems to forget your humanity.
And still, in the face of this spiralling violence, American leaders of the past say nothing.
Maybe they fear political backlash. Maybe they worry that defending Iranian civilians will be misinterpreted as endorsing the Iranian regime. But this is a false binary. One can denounce authoritarianism in Tehran while also opposing war, sanctions, and collective punishment that harms ordinary Iranians most.
Maybe they are protecting diplomatic legacies, unwilling to criticize the Israeli government. But legacy without moral clarity is hollow. Comfort without conscience is betrayal.
The people of Iran are not monolithic. Many have risked their lives to protest for freedom and dignity. Iranian women, in particular, have led some of the bravest civil resistance movements in recent history. To remain silent as bombs fall, as sanctions tighten, as hopes for diplomacy vanish—is to abandon them.
This is not just a regional issue. It is a global moral reckoning. The war machine that consumes Gaza and threatens Iran is the same one that diverts trillions from healthcare, education, and climate action. It is the same system that prioritizes weapons over welfare, surveillance over science, destruction over diplomacy.
If former presidents truly believe in peace, now is the time to show it. They have platforms. They have credibility. They have nothing to lose, except history's judgment.
They could issue a joint call for deescalation. They could demand the protection of civilians, humanitarian access, and a halt to military actions that risk igniting a broader war. They could remind the world that diplomacy is still possible, and that the Iranian people—like all people—deserve a future free from bombs, sanctions, and authoritarianism alike.
They could speak. But they don't.
Meanwhile, young Iranians grow up watching rockets cross their skies. Iranian Americans worry for their families, their safety, their futures. And the rest of us grow more numb, more detached, more hopeless.
It doesn't have to be this way. Leadership is not limited to the Oval Office. It lives in action, in conscience, in the refusal to stay quiet when lives hang in the balance.
The world is watching. Iranians, across Tehran and in the diaspora, are watching. Young Americans yearning for moral clarity are watching. History is watching.
To the former presidents of the United States: Use your voice. Speak before it's too late. You owe it to the people who once believed you stood for something.
‘There are moments in history when leadership is not measured by title or office, but by courage—the willingness to speak when silence is safest. We are living through such a moment right now. And yet, those who once held the highest office in the United States remain silent.
As a scientist trained to seek evidence and truth, their silence is deafening. As an immigrant who came to the U.S. in search of justice, it is heartbreaking. As a woman and mother living with Stage 4 cancer, I watch the devastation unfolding not only in Gaza but increasingly in Iran with profound sorrow and urgency.
Recent Israeli strikes, reportedly backed with U.S. intelligence and weaponry, have pushed the region to the edge of catastrophe. These attacks have extended beyond Gaza, with operations targeting Iranian infrastructure, nuclear facilities, and senior military leaders. Iran risks being pulled deeper into a violent regional entanglement—while its people, already suffocated by economic sanctions, political repression, and isolation, now face the looming threat of all-out war.
If former presidents truly believe in peace, now is the time to show it. They have platforms. They have credibility. They have nothing to lose, except history's judgment.
Where are the voices of former presidents who once claimed to represent justice, human rights, and diplomacy?
Former President Barack Obama, whose administration negotiated the Iran nuclear deal, knows better than most what is at stake. That agreement once offered a path to peace and global cooperation. It was torn apart for political gain, and now we are witnessing its consequences—diplomacy abandoned, escalation normalized, and entire populations treated as expendable.
In 2009, President Obama stood at Cairo University and told the Muslim world: "So long as our relationship is defined by our differences, we will empower those who sow hatred rather than peace...This cycle of suspicion and discord must end." He called for a new beginning between the United States and Muslim-majority countries, based on mutual respect and shared interests. What happened to that vision? How can that promise be reconciled with today's silence in the face of mass suffering?
Former President George W. Bush claimed to care about freedom in the Middle East. His war in Iraq shattered that notion. But what might it mean now, in retrospect, for him to publicly oppose the current militarization and collective punishment of Iranian civilians?
Even those whose terms seemed quieter—like former President Bill Clinton—could choose to stand for peace today. They could issue a joint statement calling for a cease-fire, denouncing attacks on civilians, or simply affirming that Iranian lives, like Palestinian and Israeli lives, matter.
Instead, we hear nothing. Their silence is not neutral. It becomes complicity.
Iranian scientists are assassinated without trial. Hospitals, power plants, and schools face sabotage. Families in Tehran and Isfahan live with the fear that the next drone won't be aimed at a military site—but at them. The already precarious state of women's rights and education in Iran now faces further erosion as war drums drown out every other concern.
This is not theoretical. I know what it means to grow up under threat. I was a child during the Iran-Iraq war, when bombing became part of daily life. I know what it's like to lose trust in institutions, to question the future, to long for stability in a world that seems to forget your humanity.
And still, in the face of this spiralling violence, American leaders of the past say nothing.
Maybe they fear political backlash. Maybe they worry that defending Iranian civilians will be misinterpreted as endorsing the Iranian regime. But this is a false binary. One can denounce authoritarianism in Tehran while also opposing war, sanctions, and collective punishment that harms ordinary Iranians most.
Maybe they are protecting diplomatic legacies, unwilling to criticize the Israeli government. But legacy without moral clarity is hollow. Comfort without conscience is betrayal.
The people of Iran are not monolithic. Many have risked their lives to protest for freedom and dignity. Iranian women, in particular, have led some of the bravest civil resistance movements in recent history. To remain silent as bombs fall, as sanctions tighten, as hopes for diplomacy vanish—is to abandon them.
This is not just a regional issue. It is a global moral reckoning. The war machine that consumes Gaza and threatens Iran is the same one that diverts trillions from healthcare, education, and climate action. It is the same system that prioritizes weapons over welfare, surveillance over science, destruction over diplomacy.
If former presidents truly believe in peace, now is the time to show it. They have platforms. They have credibility. They have nothing to lose, except history's judgment.
They could issue a joint call for deescalation. They could demand the protection of civilians, humanitarian access, and a halt to military actions that risk igniting a broader war. They could remind the world that diplomacy is still possible, and that the Iranian people—like all people—deserve a future free from bombs, sanctions, and authoritarianism alike.
They could speak. But they don't.
Meanwhile, young Iranians grow up watching rockets cross their skies. Iranian Americans worry for their families, their safety, their futures. And the rest of us grow more numb, more detached, more hopeless.
It doesn't have to be this way. Leadership is not limited to the Oval Office. It lives in action, in conscience, in the refusal to stay quiet when lives hang in the balance.
The world is watching. Iranians, across Tehran and in the diaspora, are watching. Young Americans yearning for moral clarity are watching. History is watching.
To the former presidents of the United States: Use your voice. Speak before it's too late. You owe it to the people who once believed you stood for something.
