I cry quietly. It comes in waves. I’m mourning the destruction of a beautiful country and it's resilient people. I mourn the loss of that lighter, less bruised and more hopeful person I used to be before all of this started.
As the tears roll down my face I start thinking about our friend who left us so suddenly. I used to be angry at him, for leaving us. For not knowing that the last time I sat next to him at our performance in Stanford was the very last time I would see him. Surprisingly, now I think of him and I smile. The thought of him brings me light and peace away from this world of darkness. It brings his voice and his music to my shattered mind and broken heart and gives me a unique form of relief.
I think of how hopeful I was to leave 2025 behind and start a new year. I think of what I secretly wished for as we were dancing our way into the new year with my high school friend to Persian music from our childhood. I think of a version of me that had no idea how quickly the world can turn dark. I wonder what this experience is doing to me, to my parents, to my family and all the people in Iran and the region. I wonder what will be left of us. I wonder what it’s doing to the whole world and our sense of security and safety and our understanding of law and order. I think of nature and animals. All the cats stranded in the charred streets of Tehran looking for food or shelter. I think of where we are headed and I start feeling dizzy. But mostly, I feel numb. A month has passed. Am I starting to accept this as my life; living with constant worry and my stomach constantly twisting in knots? I think of how hard it is to genuinely smile sometimes. Can life on this planet ever make any sense again?
(photo by Rouin F.)


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