Personal story
Nightmares of War, Realities of Life
What media never shows about the Iran-Israel situation
I woke up to news of an attack in Iran. I have been checking the news every day to see what’s going on back home. This time, though, before I even looked, I saw a message from a friend in my Iranian group chat asking if anyone had heard the missiles last night.
“Attack? Wait a sec…” a storm of questions and feelings that hit me suddenly.
As I scrolled through my screen, my heart started to beat faster. There it was — a video of drones lighting up the sky over my hometown, my city, where my family lives.
I called my father immediately. I wanted to make sure everyone was safe. He was at work, having a normal day, like nothing had happened. He told me that everyone was fine. His voice was calm, and he wasn’t panicking.
That’s the thing about life back home — it’s always calmer than it seems from abroad. It has always been that way, as far as I remember. When I was living there, everything felt less dramatic. I think it’s because everyone is in the same boat, so accustomed to hearing news like this for so long that they don’t panic instantly.
I don’t remember how old I was — probably four or five — when I saw a video of a Palestinian kid and his father hiding from Israeli soldiers on our national TV.
I guess most of the kids in the Middle East, like me, grew up with such news of war and the constant threat that either Israel or the U.S. might attack their homes. In that video, the kid was killed first, in front of his father’s eyes, before they killed him too.
As a kid, it was so complicated to understand what was going on. All I knew was that video and a deep fear of losing my family or being killed. I used to think that I’m terrified because I was just a kid, like all the other kids in the world. I was always so afraid of ending up like that kid, terrified of soldiers coming into our apartment. And I used to think that all the other children in the world share the same fear.
Since the ’70s, Iran has been quite isolated. I hadn’t met many people from other countries while I was living there, so I held onto the belief that all children shared the same fears I had. It wasn’t until I moved to Europe in my 20s and began meeting people from different countries that I realised not all children have the same childhood fears of war — and that what I experienced was trauma.
Every single nightmare I had as a kid featured the shadows of soldiers passing our window, just seconds before they ran to break into our apartment and kill us.
As I got older, those nightmares slowly faded — until a few nights ago. My childhood nightmares returned, exactly as they had been. I woke up with an intense feeling of terror. It took me a few minutes to remember what I had seen.
I was back in my childhood apartment, even though my parents left that apartment when I was fourteen. I haven’t seen that place for years. I looked as I do now, and my mom was older too — as she is today. She started running, and yelling,
“Run! Run! The soldiers are here!”
We all began to run, but she got shot in her back and fell.
I woke up right after.
Like my childhood nightmares, in this dream, I wasn’t the one who was being killed. My family was. I was the one left behind, terrified at the thought of living on my own. I was just a kid, helpless and alone.
Sometimes it feels like living in a different reality. I look around me and feel nobody has constant fear that their families must be in danger. I feel so isolated, so alone.
“Do you experience some kind of dissociation” my therapist asked me.
“I’m not sure — maybe.” I replied.
I feel so lost in my thoughts and worries about home sometimes that I feel very disconnected from my surroundings. I zone out, my boyfriend notices — I see it in his face before he speaks.
“Where did you go just now?” he asks.
“Nowhere. sorry!” I reply.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Later, I’m too overwhelmed to find words to talk.” I say.
Yesterday, I forgot that I had therapy. It was the first time that it happened. My therapist called me and when saw his name on my screen, I thought that he was calling by mistake.
For the past two months, all I’ve talked about is home, the Middle East or the war. I haven’t spoken a word about work, my relationships, or anything else— just home. This constant feeling of being in danger shadows every aspect of my life and well-being.
I’m stressed all the time. Whether I’m grocery shopping, working, taking the train, or even talking to my family — there is always a part of me that’s on edge. It’s like a background app running on my mind. I don’t always notice it, but it’s always there, draining my energy nonstop.
I still feel like that little innocent girl 20 years ago, the same girl with the same worries, the same fears. The one who had nightmares of war, who felt unsafe, and was terrified of losing her family.
I’m still that little girl, but now, I hope that everything happening around me is just a nightmare. A nightmare I can finally wake up from.
