A Messenger from the Silence
A special edition on hope, connection, and the stories we carry across borders.
👋 Welcome to a special edition of Pursuit. Normally, I share four distinct ideas here. Today, I’m sharing just one—a personal story from my recent trip to Iran. It’s a story about light, darkness, and the fragile threads that connect us all.
As I write this, I am flying back from Dubai to Berlin, suspended in the quiet hum of an airplane cabin. Below me, the world looks peaceful, borderless. But the silence I carry with me is different. It is the silence of a country cut off from the world.
A few days after New Years, I flew to Tehran to visit my family. It had been four years since my last proper visit, and I was adamant to return. I wanted to embrace the new energy moving through the city—an energy permitted by the brave Iranian women who have given a new face to the streets. I wanted to connect with my roots, see my cousin’s son in Shiraz, and remember what it feels like to belong.
I came prepared. Before the trip, I spent weeks setting up a dedicated server in London to route my parents’ home internet, ensuring I could work securely. It’s a strange reality: going to such lengths just to access the basic right of connection without fear. When I arrived, it worked perfectly. I felt clever. I felt prepared.
I had no idea that we were about to be cut off completely.
The Darkness and the Fire
The protests began differently this time. It wasn’t just about politics; it was about dignity. The currency had devalued so sharply that business owners and families were facing ruin. When people have nothing left to lose—no means to feed their children, no future to protect—shame turns into a warrior’s spirit. They fight to restore their dignity.
On Thursday evening, as I was wrapping up work, the connection snapped. Not just my server—everything. Mobile networks, landlines, global and local. Total blackout.
I had experienced this before, years ago. The silence that follows a blackout is heavy. It breeds fear. I was torn. Part of me—the part that lives in Berlin, the part that “got out”—felt this wasn’t my battle anymore. I told myself I had too much to lose.
Then I saw my mom.
My dad was out hiking, and she was pacing the kitchen, anxious. I asked if she wanted to watch a movie. She said yes, but her eyes said something else. I paused.
“Mom, do you want to go out and see what’s happening?”
Her “yes” came from her whole heart.
When we stepped onto the streets, the air was vibrating. We drove toward a famous junction, passing scattered groups in dark clothes. When we arrived, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Thousands of people blocked the junction. They weren’t just walking; they were claiming their space.
I looked at my mom. She was weeping. “This reminds me of 47 years ago,” she said. “When we went to protest against the Shah.”
I tried to imagine what it feels like to witness mass uprisings twice in one lifetime—to see the same cycle of hope and struggle loop across generations. The energy of the crowd moved through the car walls and settled in my chest. I felt a fire in my heart. Could this be the moment?
The Street Sweeper
That night, we drove through the city, witnessing a people unafraid. But the moment that broke me wasn’t the chanting crowds. It was a moment of quiet in the storm.
We stopped near a BBQ restaurant. I suddenly craved liver skewers, a street food I hadn’t tasted in years. As I ordered, my mom told me to get an extra meal.
“For whom?” I asked.
“For the street cleaner,” she pointed. “Over there.”
Amidst the revolution, amidst the shouting and the history being made, an old man with calloused hands was quietly picking up trash from the sidewalk trenches.
I took the food to him. When I handed him the warm bag, he didn’t just say thank you. He kissed the package. He pressed it against his forehead. Tears filled my eyes. In that gesture, I saw everything—the hunger, the gratitude, the immense dignity of a man who, even on a night when the country was burning, was keeping his street clean.
People here deserve better. We are a rich country—rich in resources, in culture, in educated youth. But when a decent monthly salary is 120 EUR and a kilo of meat costs 10 EUR, you understand why people are on the streets. They are fighting for the right to live.
The Messenger
Leaving was surreal. With the internet still down, I felt like I was fleeing a war zone. I managed to find a seat on a flight to Dubai at three times the price.
As I prepared to leave, people began handing me “envelopes” in the form of verbal messages.
“Tell my family I’m safe.”
“Tell my business partner how to keep things running.”
I became a messenger from the silence. It broke my heart to see how we—people from the same soil—can be stripped of our basic rights by those meant to protect us. It felt like a chronic autoimmune disease: a body turning on itself, attacking its own cells.
I am writing this now from the sky, safe again. But my heart remains on the ground. The internet is still down. They are keeping the country in the dark to hide their crackdown. But they cannot hide the light I saw in my mother’s eyes, or the dignity of the street sweeper.
I used to tell myself not to be hopeful, to protect myself from the heartbreak of failed movements. But maybe that is the wrong path. Maybe the only way forward is to be hopeful for a better world, and to do our little piece to keep the light alive for those who are still in the dark.
If this story resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Sometimes the most important pursuit is simply bearing witness.
Amir 👋
Previously on Pursuit:
The street sweeper moment is devastating in the best way, that image of him kissing the food package cuts through all the grand narratives. Your role as literal messenger carrying peoples messages out of the blackout really underscores how fragile our modern connectivity actualy is. I've been wrestling with this feeling of being too far away to do anything meaningful when things like this happen, but maybe you're right that bearing witness and carrying the stories forward is more powerful than we give it credit for, dunno.