By now, most of you have heard about the attacks between Israel and Iran. As I write this, my hometown, Tehran, is being bombed. It’s been three days, and things are escalating rapidly.
Friends send me constant updates and videos. Our neighborhood was hit. The municipality building destroyed. Water pipes shattered, flooding the streets. People are left without clean water. Some friends line up desperately at gas stations as fuel supplies run low. Everyone scrambles for essentials, fearing the collapse of infrastructure. It’s surreal, chaotic, terrifying.
Like many Iranians living abroad, I’m glued to social media, feeling powerless. I check the news obsessively, hoping information might somehow grant control. But each update deepens my pain, making it heavier. Pain signals hardship, but suffering is what makes hardship feel endless. Lately, reframing that pain feels impossible. Whenever I try to distract myself doing something else, a voice whispers, “So what? Does any of this even matter now?”
This loop is paralyzing. I remember how my emotional response to the wars in Ukraine and Gaza faded over time. The initial shock wore off. I still cared, but from a safe distance. Because it wasn’t personal. But this time is different. It’s my home. My family. My streets. I fear that if this conflict continues, I’ll become numb again. What if I lose my capacity to truly feel? I’m afraid of becoming desensitized to my own country. Afraid of what that means for my humanity.
Watching from afar feels strange. Some friends carry on as if nothing’s happening, while others panic. I’m stuck somewhere in between—disconnected yet overwhelmed. We’re living through the most documented wars in human history, but none of it feels fully real. We witness catastrophe through screens, observing suffering without touching it.
Yesterday, I spoke with my parents. They happened to be in Tbilisi, Georgia, when the attacks began. Immediately, they asked me to help them find a way home—through Armenia or Azerbaijan, wherever the borders remain open. Logistics I never imagined needing to coordinate—hotels, transportation, visas. They’re in their 60s and 70s, determined to return because everything they cherish is there. I can’t stop them. I can only support their choice, even as it breaks my heart.
It feels unimaginable that this could escalate further, yet it might. We’ve seen what happens when power goes unchecked. More destruction. More excuses disguised as causes. Ordinary people bleed for the ambitions of men who understand only fear, never love.
This week, when I sat down to write my newsletter, nothing else seemed important. How can I discuss meaning or self-discovery when life itself feels so fragile? So I’m pausing this newsletter for now. I’ll return when my mind feels clearer, my heart lighter.
In the meantime, I’m hoping for the impossible. That ego gives way to humility. That power meets restraint. That history stops repeating because someone, somewhere, chooses compassion over domination.
Thank you for sharing, Amir. Sending you strength in these trying times. <3
I’m horrified at how quickly hatred has escalated into violence in so many places! I’m so sad but also angry that power like this ends up destroying so much! How difficult this must be for you and your family- I hope that helping them to get home will give you some comfort and a sense of doing what you can in such unpredictable circumstances. May they be safe and remain so.