Draw breath

...and put one foot in front of the other

Ten weeks have passed since my previous post - the longest hiatus ever in the life of this newsletter. The post you are reading now has spent weeks in the drafting: an odd thought here, an image there, an open tab on my desktop reminding me of the commitment I’ve made to myself. But it has been impossible to write what needed to be written and impossible to write anything else appropriate for the newsletter (other writing is happening; I’ll come back to it below.)

This is how fast world events had been moving for months: I had drafted the previous post and scheduled it for publication on Saturday 28 February - a momentous day as turned out. I woke up early to have a last look before pressing the ‘publish’ button,, promising to myself to turn on the wifi on my phone only after the post was published. And when I did…the US/Israel had attacked Iran!

Writing and posting about Iran has become increasingly difficult since the beginning of the war. I cannot even begin to write about it in the maelstrom of newsfeeds, the alternate media wars on all sides, and the polarisation of Iranians themselves inside the country and in the diaspora. I can only put down some of my, mostly incoherent, personal impressions - for what they are worth.

The Year of the Fire Horse literally came in with bangs - lots of them - and fire. There had been signs of an imminent attack, but the suddenness of that first attack was shocking. The Supreme Leader with most of his immediate family was targeted and killed, except his son Mojtaba, who was eventually elected to succeed him. A girls’ school in Minab was targeted in a double-tap strike and more than 168 children were killed. It turned out that the US was responsible for the attack.

The following day, 1 March, a police station a few hundred metres from our flat in Tehran near Niloofar Square was repeatedly targeted and flattened. Eyewitnesses sat at a cafe heard the rumble, and saw a sudden flash and body parts flying through the air. The house of my son’s best friend was severely damaged; another cafe nearby was destroyed; the baker two doors away was killed in the blast. (The destruction at Niloofar Square had the bitter distinction of making it to the front page of the Metro paper.)

I have lived a total of fourteen years in this Tehran neighbourhood. I was in shock, unable to reconcile the peaceful images of the city stored in my mind with the images of death and destruction of familiar places.

The first days, dragging on and rushing by at the same time, passed like a nightmare. A week later, 7 March, massive oil depots around Tehran were set on fire and on the following day oily, slicky rain fell all over Tehran. Residents are saying that the greasy residue is still lurking in the nooks of windows. All the family of the Tall Dark Stranger and close friends of my children live in Tehran. We established minimal contact with one sister, who had been unable to sleep through the nights for the first weeks, and had to crouch behind the sofa as soon as she heard the bombs whizzing overhead.

I know that not everyone has been so fortunate to have news from loved ones, as internet connection has since been severely limited. I have also lost contact with the tens, maybe hundreds, of people I’ve worked with, taught and crossed paths with during my time in Iran. At times, their names or faces float in my awareness or in dreams; I wonder how they are and pray for peace.

The dissonance between the everyday calm here in London with its reassuring rhythm and the upheaval in Iran has weighed heavily on me ever since. Ordinary actions that I would give no second thought to acquired another layer. As I sat in my study, I felt sad and for those, like my son’s friend, whose homes are damaged and they now live in temporary accommodation, and guilty that we are out of it; as I settled down to sleep, I thought of the thousands of Iranians who lost loved ones and homes and livelihoods in one instant.

Now that some time has passed, and the precarious four-week ceasefire seems to be holding, I am thankful for everything and everyone who helped me cope, even if they don’t know it.

I am grateful to:

• The olive tree in my garden. On the end of the Iranian New Year feast, Nature Day (2 April), young Iranian women used to tie blades of grass so that they marry in the same year. In folklore the ritual of tying a knot has multiple meanings (the subject of another post?) but in this case, I tied three tricolour ribbons for peace all over the world.

• My good Fairy no 1: Kathryn Koromilas, who checks in with me weekly, and gently leads me and my writing to where we need to go.

• My good Fairy no 2: Meta Powell, who apart from opening up new avenues with my singing voice, often reminds me to meditate and to witness the world rather than judge, react to or become entangled in it.

• My singing friends at the City Lit in London; especially one of them who made a point of asking me how I was at every lesson ever since.

• A colleague at the examination body I mark for every year: her kindness and empathy, not only in this instance but on a couple of times before, made me feel seen and held.

• An acquaintance from my native island Kasos: I haven’t seen her for decades, but she’s been asking about our family in Iran and sending me supportive messages over Messenger. She warmed my heart.

• Anna Wilson, for writing this resonant post on how hard writing can be when too much life happens. This post made me feel less guilty for not writing on Substack for so long.

• The story that has lived on my mind for decades, and which I am finally able to spin onto paper and laptop - in Greek, which I found difficult at first. The story explores how the need to control others can ultimately lead to grief. (That’s all I can say for now, lest I jinx it)

• Being able to draw breath and to put one foot in front of the other

• Every single one of you who have read this post and my other writing - thank you for being here.

The heart meets the (left) hand in an embrace of imperfection