An Iranian woman’s war diary: 'The hellish sounds have become normal'
Two women and a child holding an Iranian flag walk toward the Imam Khomeini Grand Mosque to attend Friday prayers in Tehran. Photo: AP/Vahid Salemi
Life these days feels like a tender, thin green sprout emerging in early spring; the sounds of fighter jets and explosions outside our walls are an absolute darkness — a brutal monster that disregards this green stalk and tears it out by the roots.
The most tangible sign of my helplessness against the war is practicing breathing techniques, muscle relaxation, intentional limb shaking, and taking those cold showers.
It feels as though I’m wearing a circus clown’s costume in the middle of a massive ruin filled with death and destruction, trying to protect a mental health that doesn’t even exist.
Tonight was one of the bad ones; the explosions were continuous, close, and long. My grandmother called to say that when they hit the IRCG [Islamic revolutionary guard] housing complex near her home, the shockwave blew their doors open.
Terrified, they poured into the street, bewildered and waiting for someone to wake them from this nightmare. She won’t come to our house and said she will stay awake until morning to see what happens; she told my mom her only fear is being blown to pieces and having her remains pulled from the rubble.
I thought about this apocalyptic, inhumane image and whispered to myself: “At that point, we won’t even realize. We’re dead.”
The crazy ‘H’ sent a photo to the group tonight showing the Blue Shield International symbol being installed on historical and cultural sites to protect them from airstrikes.
She asked: “Do you guys know where they sell these? I want a few for personal use – I want to pin one on myself.” She joked: “I’m a piece of cultural heritage with a 30-year history.”
We decided to have some mass-produced so we could each wear one.
I was finally able to translate my writings into English using AI and send them to a few loved ones. Since the start of the war, I’ve had this worry and sadness that I might leave this world silently without saying a word.
Now, my heart feels at ease knowing people have read me and understood what has happened to us. It’s foolish that my only regret was this lack of writing and not being heard.
I wrote to my dear ‘Y’ that I feel the most important thing I want to do in life is write a book. With their usual kindness and sweetness, ‘Y’ assured me that I would write it one day soon.
Whenever I message my Iranian friends abroad — I remember the days when the last war broke out in Iran while I was abroad.
A few days ago, ‘M’ asked: “You’ve experienced both sides; which one is harder?” I wrote back that they are two separate, incomparable hells. Each is difficult and dark in its own way; neither is easier than the other.
When I was not in Iran, my internal reality didn’t match the outside world; I was falling apart, yet everything out there followed its normal routine.
I would get angry at the people, the city, and nature — at how they acted as if my people weren’t under fire somewhere far away and as if there wasn’t a turmoil within me.
That disharmony between the outside and inside was consuming me. I felt guilty about everything: that I could sleep without the sound of bombs while my family couldn’t, or that I could buy and use certain things while they couldn’t.
Now that I am inside the country, my inside and outside are the same. Everything has fallen apart; everything is ‘war-like’. Hardly anyone is doing well, and we all understand each other.
I feel less guilt now. Though, because they hit Tehran more often, I still feel bad that my friends are there while I am in Karaj.
But the point is, I can no longer leave my phone at home, go out, wander in nature for hours, and pretend no war is happening. I no longer have that “rented”, unstable peace I had when I was outside Iran.
Because of this, when I see the spring trees blossoming or hear birds singing, I am largely happy that spring is indifferent to human suffering and just does its work. It serves as a reminder to me that somewhere, light and peace still exist.
This afternoon, when my brother was going to the gym, he took food for the carpark cats. As soon as he opened the front door, he called for me.
I went and saw Edgar Allan Poe — the dearest cat of our car park — had come up four levels and was acting cute to get some affection.
I wondered if, because of the acid rain caused by the oil depots catching fire, his instinct told him to seek shelter with us. My heart remains with all the homeless birds and cats of the city in this apocalyptic situation.
When the previous twelve-day war began, I was abroad and started reading the book . It is a relatively thick book based on interviews and historical documents.
During those days of war, I took the book with me everywhere I went, constantly thinking about European countries and their people during those days of blood and madness.
I thought about the capacity of each person to endure such a situation, and how many were unable to bear it and bid farewell to life.
All I know is that both we, the people, and our country are utterly alone in this damned world.
For two days, the sound of explosions hasn’t been very close. Only yesterday, near the morning call to prayer, they bombed somewhere far away nine times in a row.
I was sitting on my bed, not even raising my head, just counting: “one, two, three... nine.” Later, I wrote in our group on that domestic messenger: “They hit here nine times; they might have headed toward Tehran.”
Then I thought about which day these hellish sounds became normal, to the point where we don’t even jump anymore.
I think tonight I’ll watch the final episode of the Korean series ‘H’ just finished it too, and at night we both gush over Kim Seon-ho, my favorite actor — how sweet he is and how well he acts.
I wish the production team of this Korean drama knew what a sanctuary they have become for our wounded souls these days.
- The Irish Examiner has verified the identity of M, a woman living in Iran who cannot be named for fears of reprisal
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