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| Lake Urmia is just one of many cases where decades of empty promises have slowly eroded public hope. |
A dear friend, whose mind always seems to be lingering in some corner of an ongoing novel, when the conversation turned to Bartleby, spoke with a tone as layered as the narrative itself. He was captivated by it. Naturally so—someone like him, who dwells on the text while reading, knows exactly when to pause and stare at it. Bartleby, the silent and defiant clerk in Melville’s story, appears to say nothing except for the repeated simple line: “I would prefer not to.” Yet this simple repetition gradually erodes the order around him. While Bartleby seems entirely withdrawn on the surface of the narrative, his refusal disrupts the dominant structure, wearing it down—though it does not entirely collapse. Revisiting Bartleby in that friendly conversation sparked a short piece that you now have before you: a brief reflection on refusal.
The following note describes the state of refusal, not a recommendation for passivity. Sometimes, the mechanisms of power compel society—or parts of it—to withdraw. In such circumstances, refusal is a forced consequence rather than a choice. Therefore, advising someone to adopt a compulsory act, rather than a possible one, is not only impractical but also absurd.
For the existing structure, hope is dangerous. Because hope stirs demands, promises are made not to fulfill but to manage those demands. These promises are neither fully implemented nor entirely abandoned; instead, they are worn down in perpetual suspension, so that even if hope does not entirely vanish, it appears futile, and the cycle of demands stalls. This mechanism is not necessarily deliberate; it is part of the institutional logic of power, the result of an internal adjustment that prioritizes preservation over change. Within this framework, the issue of Lake Urmia—with all its environmental weight and political significance—falls into the same logic of suspension. From conservative governments to moderate ones, from Rouhani’s promises to Raisi’s slogans, all have mentioned Lake Urmia and promised its revival. Yet none have delivered. The lake’s restoration, rather than resulting in a clear commitment or tangible outcome, is continually postponed to an ambiguous future, where no effective pressure exists to hold anyone accountable.
Lake Urmia is not the only case trapped in this repetitive cycle. This mechanism has operated for decades across all domains, continuously making and forgetting promises—promises designed not to be fulfilled but to erode remaining hope. Lake Urmia is merely one of hundreds of examples that reveal this process. Yet even this single example clearly shows how a public demand, born from passion and concern, can be pushed toward silence and withdrawal. Initial anger at inaction gradually gives way to cold silence. When no one expects a promise to be fulfilled, when despair replaces hope, the government faces a more fundamental problem than protest: indifference. In this state, there is neither questioning, demand, nor participation. Those who are disillusioned neither critique the government nor engage with it; instead, they effectively remove it from their attention, desires, and conversation. Because in this condition, they cannot envision any encouraging or meaningful horizon.
This indifference is not political passivity; it is a form of refusal—a negative action that fundamentally rejects the rules of power and withdraws from the political arena. This is the precise moment when the government is confronted not with the people’s anger but with their absence. There is neither a voice of protest nor an audience for commands. Those who protest still hold the government accountable, but the indifferent have no relation to it. In the absence of these individuals and relationships, the very logic of governance ceases to function. In the extension of this condition, even the minimal legitimacy that sustains the structure collapses. This, perhaps, is the most dangerous state for any system.