I belong to a generation that lost much of its youth to Beheshte Zahra's Block 24 during the first months of the eight-year war with Iraq. These were some of the first martyrs of that war and some of them were my closest friends. We call this generation “the burnt”. A few months ago, I had a chance to visit them, brining back many memories from those days. These memories are mostly a combination of bad events that happened to good people. Looking back at it today, I realize that the fate of good people always rests in the hands of pricks. There is an expression that says history repeats itself. The first time, it is tragedy and the second time, it is comedy. I hope that the experience of the past two decades never happens again, in tragic or comedic form. My discovery has been that after losing great people, you will not be able to find anyone quite the same.