June 17
The hours pass without me noticing. I’m glued to my phone. I look up and realize I’ve been scrolling the news since 5 a.m. and it’s already noon. Time moves on, unbothered by what is happening in my country, Iran, just like the people I hear outside my apartment window.
Friday night. Saturday night. Sunday night. I stay on FaceTime, listening for the sound of missiles from a loved one’s rooftop. The chaos of Manhattan’s Lower East Side blurs the sound.
How can life go on? I’m confused. But then I remember, it always has. Life has gone on for years, while people in Gaza died. It went on as Sudan bled. As Ukrainians were displaced. And now, of course, it will go on while my people shiver in fear.
I wish I was home. That surprises people. Why?
Of course I’d rather be home. I’d rather be afraid with my family than be a world apart, walking the streets of New York City, riding the subway, locking eyes with people who have no idea their country is complicit in murdering mine.
I know they aren’t personally responsible for the war. No one asked them whether they thought bombing Iran was a good idea. Yet I can’t help but ask myself: How am I supposed to smile at them?
To imagine life after war, after my country is struck, to even fathom waking up, eating, breathing in a world where I’ve lost my family, my best friends, my partner — is unbearable. I want to be back home because the guilt I feel right now is heavier because I’m safe. At least if I were home I wouldn’t be scared alone. At least then I wouldn’t have to hear “thank God you’re safe,” because even if my life isn’t in immediate danger, I am not safe.
You’d have to think deeply about the meaning of safety to understand that feeling. A few days ago, we thought we were safe. Then, we saw the photos: buildings in Tehran reduced to rubble. If safety is this fragile, were we ever truly safe? Not even the New Yorkers I pass on my way to class are….
Auteur: Atash Nowroozian
