The Business of Peace: Iran’s Deadly Dance Between Diplomacy and Destruction
Peace, Love, and Drones
Chapter 1: "Peace, Love, and Drones"
The moment Masoud Pezeshkian stepped onto the podium of the United Nations General Assembly, he felt a surge of righteous purpose. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. His inner circle assured him that the speech he was about to give would be nothing short of historic—a testament to Iran’s commitment to peace and stability on the global stage. They had worked tirelessly for weeks crafting the words that would paint his regime as not just a mediator, but a benevolent force, balancing the scales of global justice.
The hall itself hummed with the quiet murmur of diplomats and officials from nearly every corner of the world, all pretending not to know what they already knew—that Pezeshkian’s grand gestures toward peace were as thin as the vapor trails of the Iranian drones that streaked across the Ukrainian sky. Still, the atmosphere buzzed with a kind of ceremonial gravitas, the kind that could only exist in a room filled with people who were paid to nod seriously while ignoring the obvious contradictions.
He smoothed down the front of his dark suit, adjusting his tie with the kind of deliberate precision reserved for men who had just finished overseeing arms shipments to conflict zones. Today, however, was not about arms. Today was about peace—specifically, the kind of peace that sounds excellent in a speech but means absolutely nothing in practice. He took a deep breath and looked out over the crowd. This was his stage. His moment.
The speech began in the way all these speeches did, with pleasantries and acknowledgments to the host nation, a nod to the Secretary-General, and a vague statement about global unity. But then Pezeshkian dove into the heart of his address, the crescendo that his advisors had meticulously prepared for him—the call for a “peaceful resolution” to the “Ukrainian conflict.”
"We, the people of Iran," Pezeshkian declared, his voice steady, resonant, "are committed to peace. We support all peaceful solutions and view dialogue as the only way to resolve this crisis."
The irony of his words seemed to hang in the air, though no one dared to acknowledge it. In fact, his audience remained remarkably composed, nodding along in a performance of diplomatic seriousness that had been perfected over decades. After all, it was standard practice to applaud the call for peace from nations that were, at that very moment, fueling war. And Iran was no different. The applause, when it came, was polite, restrained. Diplomats glanced at each other knowingly but clapped nonetheless.
Pezeshkian continued, undeterred by the uncomfortable truths that lingered behind his words. "Iran, as a nation that has itself experienced the horrors of war, understands the necessity of peace. We are here today to stand with the international community in seeking a peaceful resolution for Ukraine, where lives are being lost needlessly every day."
He could have won an Oscar for the sincerity in his tone. To an outsider, perhaps an alien freshly descended to Earth, his words would have sounded noble, inspiring even. But in the minds of the diplomats seated before him, something very different was playing out. How could they not remember that just weeks before, the skies over Kyiv had been filled with the unmistakable hum of Iranian-made drones? Drones that had left a trail of destruction in their wake, a reminder that Iran’s version of peace came with a payload.
In the back of the room, a Ukrainian representative stifled a laugh—though it came out more as a grunt of disbelief. For him, and for many others who were intimately aware of Iran's real contributions to global "peace," this was theater. And in the grand stage of international politics, Iran was the unwitting clown, playing its part with grim determination.
Still, Pezeshkian pressed on. "We condemn all forms of aggression and call upon all parties involved to return to the negotiating table. Violence will only perpetuate suffering, and as a nation committed to the principles of sovereignty and territorial integrity, Iran will do everything in its power to support a diplomatic solution."
It was the kind of statement that could have been plucked directly from the mouth of a seasoned peace negotiator—someone who hadn’t spent the last several months sending drones to a belligerent state intent on expanding its borders through force. But this wasn’t about truth. This was about appearances. And in that, Pezeshkian was a master.
Behind the scenes, though, things were quite different.
In Tehran, several thousand miles away, General Aref Zadani was monitoring a very different kind of performance. Pezeshkian’s speech played on a muted television screen in the background, but his attention was focused elsewhere. His office, buried deep within the Ministry of Defense, was a far cry from the polished elegance of the UN hall. The walls were lined with maps, blueprints, and surveillance photos, most of them showing Ukrainian cities before and after they had been hit by Iranian-made munitions. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke, the lifeblood of Iranian bureaucracy.
A young officer entered the room, standing at attention. "Sir, the latest shipment to Russia has been completed. The drones are en route."
Zadani barely acknowledged the officer. His eyes were glued to a satellite image of Kyiv, the city’s skyline dotted with the black marks of recent missile strikes. Drones, after all, didn’t just fly themselves. They required coordination, intelligence, and, most importantly, deniability. The latter was something Zadani excelled at.
"Good," he muttered, not turning away from the map. "Ensure they’re delivered without any traceable components."
The officer nodded. That had been standard practice for months now. Iran had perfected the art of plausible deniability, stripping their drones of any identifiers that could link them directly to Tehran. Officially, Iran was neutral in the conflict. Unofficially, they were one of Russia’s biggest arms suppliers. It was a delicate balancing act, one that required careful orchestration.
Zadani turned away from the satellite image and glanced at the muted TV screen, where Pezeshkian was now reaching the climax of his speech. The words "peace" and "dialogue" scrolled across the teleprompter, each one delivered with the precision of a politician who had long since learned how to separate rhetoric from reality.
"I wonder if he even believes himself," Zadani mused aloud.
The officer standing nearby shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. It wasn’t his place to question the wisdom of the regime’s leaders, even when that wisdom was, at best, a carefully constructed lie.
Zadani had no illusions about the speech. It was a necessary facade, a smokescreen to keep the international community distracted while Iran continued to profit from the war machine. His job wasn’t to worry about speeches or appearances. His job was to ensure that the drones kept flying, the missiles kept launching, and the profits kept rolling in.
In some ways, it was simple. The world wanted to believe in peace, and Pezeshkian was more than happy to sell them that illusion. Zadani’s role was different. He didn’t deal in illusions—he dealt in hard realities. And the reality was that Iran’s so-called "peaceful resolutions" were underpinned by a thriving arms trade that kept conflict zones like Ukraine well-stocked with the tools of war.
The officer hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. "Sir, do you think the international community will ever catch on to the full extent of our involvement?"
Zadani chuckled. "They already know. They just don’t care. As long as we maintain the appearance of neutrality, they’ll keep pretending we’re not part of the problem."
It was a cynical view, but one that had served him well throughout his career. The West, with all its moral posturing, was perfectly content to look the other way as long as their own interests weren’t directly threatened. And as for Ukraine? Well, Ukraine was a convenient battleground—far enough away that no one in Washington or Brussels had to feel the immediate impact of the war. Iran’s role in the conflict would remain a footnote, buried under layers of diplomatic doublespeak and carefully crafted denials.
Zadani turned back to the map of Kyiv and sighed. Peace, as Pezeshkian liked to say, was a noble goal. But nobility didn’t pay the bills.
Meanwhile, Pezeshkian was wrapping up his speech at the UN, the final flourish of rhetoric echoing through the hall. He spoke of a "new era of diplomacy" and "global cooperation," his voice rising with the practiced cadence of a man who had given the same speech a hundred times before. The applause, when it came, was muted but respectful. Diplomats exchanged glances, some amused, others resigned. The game had been played, the charade complete.
As Pezeshkian stepped away from the podium, he felt a wave of satisfaction. He had done his part. He had said the words that needed to be said, and now the world would move on to the next crisis, the next conflict, the next speech. In the grand theater of international diplomacy, Pezeshkian was an actor who knew his role well.
But as he made his way out of the hall and into the waiting black limousine that would whisk him back to his hotel, a nagging thought crept into his mind. He had spoken of peace, of dialogue, of the need to end violence. And yet, even as he had uttered those words, he knew that somewhere, in a factory far from the pristine halls of the United Nations, Iranian engineers were hard at work building the next generation of drones.
Because in the end, peace was just a word. And words, as Pezeshkian knew all too well, were cheap.
In Tehran, General Zadani received the report he had been waiting for. The drones had arrived in Russia without incident. Another successful operation. Another shipment delivered. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, the glow from the TV screen casting long shadows across the room.
On the screen, Pezeshkian smiled for the cameras, shaking hands with diplomats and basking in the glow of his own performance.
Zadani exhaled a cloud of smoke and muttered to himself, "Peace, love, and drones."