Last night1, I managed to leave my phone on the other side of the room, charging, out of reach.
This morning, still half-asleep, I get up and start drifting toward it like I’m under a magnetic spell. I check a couple of headlines before heading to the kitchen to make coffee.
Next thing I know, I’m on my knees, scrubbing the inside of the cabinet under the sink, where the bio waste bucket hangs. A sponge in my hand. Stains resisting. And so am I.
It’s a warm Sunday morning. We’re sitting on the balcony, coffee in hand, half-reading, half-talking, swapping whatever strange, terrifying, or hilarious things the internet is serving today. And then, out of nowhere, he asks:
“Why do both those guys have such similar names? Khomeini and Khamenei. Is that, like, a Supreme Leader thing?”
I find his observation adorable. I tell him it’s just a coincidence. Their names come from two different villages in two completely different corners of Iran, Khomein and Khameneh. No relation. No grand plan. Just a phonetic accident, stamped into decades of Iranian history.
And yet, the fate of an entire nation somehow ended up in the hands of two men whose names sound almost identical. As if history were copying its own homework.
Then I tell my partner that I’ve started publishing my notes about the war.
“What if the Bad Guys find my writing and make my family suffer?”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I hear how irrational it sounds. I don’t have a big readership. I don’t have a viral post. But the fear is not logical. It’s old.
It belongs to a part of me I’ve recently started getting to know. I call it my Inner Censorship Officer.
You might imagine a stiff man in a white buttoned-up shirt, an unkempt beard, behind a fogged glass desk. Clipboard in hand. Frown lines deep. Red pen always ready.
I met him through a book I read this January by Dr. Richard Schwartz, the founder of the Internal Family Systems (IFS) model.
The book felt like someone finally explained what’s been going on inside me all along. That we all have parts. The fearful child, the inner critic, the performer, the protector. They show up when we try something hard or when life overwhelms us.
The Inner Censorship Officer wants to protect me from danger. He still lives in a world where being outspoken means punishment not only for me, but for the ones I love.
And it’s strange because, as a professional writer working with clients, I help others get visible.
I know all the strategies: how to optimize text for search engines, how to use the right keywords, how to write headlines that perform, how to link to authority websites, how to promote on social.
But when it comes to my own writing, the goal isn’t to be read. The goal is to get it out despite the fear. To show up, hit publish, and face the Censorship Officer inside.
So I reverse all the SEO lessons.
I’ve stopped counting. There are too many. Too many places hit. Too many columns of smoke. Too many names I recognize, not just as dots on a map, but as places where I’ve walked, met friends, lived life.
But it’s the footage from Tajrish that does something to me. I watch it over and over.
A brown flood rushes through the square. That square, where I used to meet friends to hike, to shop, to go to the cinema. The end of Valiasr. The street that connects the south and the north. The one that mirrors class and contrast so plainly, you can read the city’s power dynamics just by walking up it. Tajrish is the crown of that line, the soft landing.
And now, the water’s coming up through the ground like a spring. Cars are honking. People are standing ankle-deep, confused. Some buildings are in ruins. It doesn’t look like Tehran. It looks like memory collapsing in real time.
Somewhere between these images and the blur of updates, I see something else begin to circulate. Posts that are not just about war, but about how to survive it.
“How to take care of yourself when the bombs fall.”
“How to prep your pet for war.”
“How to regulate your nervous system.”
“How to make space for emotions in your body.”
One post lingers in me:
Check in regularly. What do you feel? Where in your body? Make space for it. Let it be there, without judgment.
It gives me hope.
Not in a naïve, everything-will-be-okay kind of way. But in the way a nation that’s been through everything knows something:
We can’t afford to forget ourselves.
Not again. Not like the last generation, who were either in service of others to the point of burnout, or so selfish that they soon turned into a tyrant.
Taking care of yourself is not a luxury. It’s survival.
We pack a bag. Table tennis bats. A handful of balls. Ice-cold drinks because it’s one of those Berlin days when the sun doesn't hold back. On the way to the park, he holds my hand. My nervous system exhales. I feel safe.
The ice cubes click against the bottle as we walk. I can’t stop thinking about the war.
We set up next to the table, place our speaker down, and play music. I start dancing between points. My hips move. I laugh. Somewhere deep inside, a voice sneers: You’re not supposed to dance. You’re not supposed to be happy.
The Bad Guys say dancing is degenerate. That joy is criminal.
Am I happy now? Is that allowed? I don’t know. I just know I need to move. I need the physical expression of uncertainty, of not knowing what comes next.
We keep playing. The game is good. My serve has improved.
The sun is too much. I take breaks, sip cold water. And then it comes an unwanted image comes into my mind: My mom is missing. I see her in the rubble. Dust-covered. Lifeless.
I freeze. He notices. Asks if I need a break. I nod. We sit in silence for a moment, side by side in the shade.
Us, a lonely teenager on his phone, and a homeless woman circling the bins with a stolen shopping cart are the only ones in the park. Later, she stretches on a bench in the shade, eyes closed. Cooling off. Resting.
Later today, I talk to an old friend. We’ve known each other for nearly twenty years. We've seen each other go through heartbreaks, visa applications, first jobs, therapy breakthroughs. This time, we have the same fatigue after being through all this and our desire to sleep and cancel social commitment.
We also talk about the solidarity extended from our western friends and how it feels like they’re watching a documentary about our pain while we are inside it. Something about these kinds of conversations, one-sided, well-meaning, distanced, adds to her exhaustion.
The family group call today is short and efficient. We talk about strategic plans. Meeting points if the internet goes out. How to pack the emergency bag, the possibility of evacuation.
The roads are already blocked. People left the city, waited in traffic for 6 hours without moving an inch, then turned around and came back.
After I hang up, I feel proud for a while: Look at us, we are functioning without going crazy. But the stress creeps back.
I drink the second bottle of beer. Then a third. The a fourth. Why is alcohol not serving its purpose, the numbing warm sensation that makes you forget, is not created?
That night, I almost finish the entire jar of candies in bed. The good kind, vegan sour sugar-coated gummies. And I decide not to brush my teeth tonight. The thought of leaving bed again feels unbearable.
I lie there, sugar-sticky and tipsy, body humming with the soft static of everything left unsaid.
I wrote this on June 15, the third day of the attacks, and published it two days later on June 17.