War—this word has become entangled with our lives in the Middle East, as though the region has no other identity without it. At the time of my birth, the 1979 Revolution had just happened, and by the time I entered elementary school, I was fully experiencing war—red sirens and teachers who would take us under stairwells to shield us from Iraqi airstrikes. Life, for me, took on a different excitement after the end of the eight-year war; we finally tasted bananas and canned sodas, and our parched hearts rejoiced. But it seems my fate is to witness everything more than once—I encountered war again at the age of 47, this time in Tehran. A war I had spent the past twenty years reporting from every corner of the Middle East—from Iraq to Syria, Libya, and Palestine—had now arrived above my own home, filling our ears with the whirring motors of drones in the middle of a strange night.

That night, it felt as if we all knew war was coming. Military movements and relocations signaled yet another ominous development in the Middle East. We were awake, monitoring and reporting the news moment by moment—just like in every other Middle Eastern crisis over the past three decades: like the night of the coup in Turkey, or the night ISIS surged out of Iraq, its tanks rolling into Mosul and on toward Syria.

I’ve witnessed many bloodstained dawns. That night, too, the smell of blood kept us awake. At 3 a.m., massive explosions shook our house. Many people on Twitter began reporting the sounds of blasts in Tehran, followed by more detonations, and the official bells of war were ringing.

For the first time, Iran’s state news channel delivered its most professional and unprecedented media coverage from the very first moment of the bombardment. Its reporters sent real-time updates from the bombed sites. By 5 a.m., they even reported the deaths of senior IRGC commanders and Iranian nuclear scientists. It was as if the media had transformed—but sadly, that professionalism lasted only four hours. By 8 a.m., the channel had completely reverted to its usual programming.

Tehran had become a defenseless city. In the first 24 hours, there was no sign of any air defense. Bakeries and gas stations were scenes of chaos. I, myself, waited more than four hours for a tank of fuel—in the middle of the night. People, spurred by Trump’s evacuation warning, began scrambling to buy supplies and flee Tehran. The volume of shopping was extremely high, but the government did not allow store shelves to empty and quickly restocked goods. We decided to stay in Tehran, both because we were journalists and because we told ourselves the war might be long, and the capital might need our help. After the initial evacuations, the city returned to a semblance of normalcy. The queues disappeared, and although Tehran was emptied out, life still went on.

The internet blackout worsened the situation. The heavy bombardment was now near us. I would sleep repeatedly out of sheer exhaustion and be jolted awake by every blast, rushing to find Mena—usually standing on the balcony or at the kitchen window, watching the strikes. The streets had turned intensely militarized. IRGC, Basij, and police forces had set up checkpoint nets piece by piece, hunting for drones and drone operators. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of these checkpoints. In fact, during the nights when they weren’t there, I would ask why they weren’t stationed 24/7. Gradually, with each explosion, my throat would tighten, and I felt as if a dagger had been driven into the body of my mother—Iran—and they wanted to tear it apart piece by piece.

But the final night of the war was something else entirely—pure terror. The enemy had issued evacuation orders for two central districts of Tehran. Many people had taken refuge on the edges of the highways. Mena and I, along with several political friends, sought shelter in a comrade’s home in the middle of the night. As the bombardment began, we ran to the rooftop. Not far from us, a powerful bomb struck, and its shockwave jolted me hard. Instinctively, I ran down the stairs. My entire body was drenched in sweat. Fear consumed me. The bombs roared continuously. The building shook. It wouldn’t end. We sat there until finally the sun rose. With the ceasefire announced, we returned home. But truly, that last night of war in Tehran was a living hell—the symphony of terror rang on until morning.

The twelve-day war ended—but no one in this city can confidently say they’ve truly seen “the end.” The sky still bears the image of drones, micro-drones, and missiles, and an indistinct fear lingers in people’s eyes, ready to awaken at any moment. In this heavy limbo, I came to understand that war is not a stage for courage—it is a relentless factory of death and erosion, a place where human lives are reduced to numbers in reports, and no flag—none—can justify a single drop of a child’s blood.

My one-year prison sentence was also upheld during these days of war. Now I stand on the threshold of incarceration, and yet, all my worry is still for Iran. This war proved one thing to me, as a leftist: I loved my homeland—and I didn’t even realize how deeply I did.

Even if we all fall silent, the ruins will testify that war breeds no honor and leaves no dignity. What endures after the explosions are the mourning of mothers and the wasteland left behind in the name of “security.” No heroic narrative can beautify the ugliness of a bomb, and no argument should ever place death on the shoulders of the people.

If there’s still a sliver of hope left, it lies in our shared voice—the voices of journalists, teachers, nurses, and every citizen who knows that peace is not a sign of weakness; on the contrary, it is the bravest response to the cycle of blood and vengeance. I write to remind everyone: a homeland is measured not by its trenches, but by the lives of its people—and the greatest betrayal is normalizing war. These words are my eternal protest against every phenomenon and decision that turns the Middle East, again and again, into a battlefield.