Ali Rezaei Majd still looks toward the rugged peaks of the Zagros Mountains — just beyond them now, across the border in Iraqi territory.
More than six feet tall, with a muscular build, tattoos etched across his body, and long, thick, curly hair, Majd is a presence that’s hard to ignore.
He looks like a fighter. The truth is — he is one.
A proud Lor from Iran’s tribal province of Lorestan, Majd comes from a people known for their deep connection to their land — and for their resilience. The Lors are an Iranian ethnic group rooted in the Zagros region, with a long history shaped by life in the mountains and a culture that values strength, independence and loyalty.
His life has been on the run since early January, when he posted a video from his hometown that would soon be seen around the world.
In it, holding up his Iranian ID, he made a direct plea to then-President Donald Trump and the American people:
“I’m speaking to you from inside Iran… not as a politician, not as a soldier, but as a human being living under fear and oppression every single day… Please don’t forget us.”
The video struck a nerve — garnering over nine million views on Instagram. The English version was also viewed nearly two million times.
But it also made him a target.
Majd says the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) began searching for him. With operatives closing in, he fled — crossing mountainous terrain with the help of Kurdish people.
“I was in a prison for 30 years. Iran was like a prison for me,” he told the Eye for Iran podcast.
“When you grow up in a prison, you risk everything for freedom — even for one day.”
Today, his safety remains uncertain, with threats from a regime never far behind.
Now in exile, he is speaking out — with one message above all:
“We cannot make a deal with them. Dealing with them means letting this cancer continue.”
Majd says many of his friends were killed when the regime unleashed force — including heavily armed units — against what he describes as a largely defenseless population.
“When you come to the streets in Iran, you’re going to die,” he said. “They don’t shoot to stop you — they shoot to kill.”
He also has a message for the West — and for the media.
Watching coverage from abroad, Majd says he is frustrated by calls to halt military operations, arguing they misunderstand the reality inside Iran.
“I see many channels trying to stop this operation… saying this is the wrong way,” he said. “But this regime is a threat to the whole world.”
For him, this moment represents something else — a rare opportunity.
“This is the best chance to stop this regime,” he said. “If you don’t stop them, they will become more dangerous.”
He considers himself lucky to be alive.
And now, he says, it is his responsibility to carry the voices of those who can no longer speak.
“The best of us — the bravest — they are gone. So I have to speak for them.”
Majd described the violence he witnessed in chilling terms: “It was like a video game. They were just shooting people — so easily.”
Despite the danger and despite what he says are ongoing threats from regime operatives — Majd continues to speak publicly.
Because for him — and for those who can no longer speak — silence is not an option.
