The Truth About Iranian Protests Abroad
A story about what happened during Iranian protests when I was in beautiful Italian mountains
It was a Monday in September 2022. The old clock on the wall was dead but still making noises. It constantly showed the same time: 12:50, yet it kept on ticking. Each sound echoed in the quiet room, like the clock was complaining about its fate — being lost in time.
I was with Valentin in a small house in the mountains of southern Italy, not too far from Naples. The fog outside had slightly touched the windows. I was sitting on the couch, writing, and he was sitting beside me scrolling through his messages.
There were some things on the couch: a few blankets, a local musical instrument that is very similar to an Iranian instrument, Valentin’s jean coat, and a pillow.
The house belonged to the family of our mutual friend. Though he wasn’t around, we were living in the house next door with his parents. I was in the transition phase between moving from Italy to Germany and had no place to stay for a month.
Valentin was trying to graduate and find a job anywhere in Italy, so he had also been without an apartment. This was our best option to cope with our nomadic life and avoid hostels.
When I looked out the window, I saw nothing but green fields stretching toward distant mountains. Everything seemed so calm, and the only sound was the wind lightly shaking the windows every now and then.
I picked up my phone. My WhatsApp was full of unreplied messages. I had asked my parents if they were alright, but there was no answer. The internet had been down in Iran for a couple of days. No internet for the whole country; I had no way to reach my family and friends back home. It was scary.
The next morning, the grocery man from the village came by in his car, selling fresh fruits and vegetables at low prices. When he saw me, he asked my name and teased Valentin, making a few jokes about whether we were a couple or just friends. I didn’t understand much Italian, but I tried to follow along.
Valentin told me to choose whatever I liked.
It reminded me of how my dad used to do the same back home whenever we went grocery shopping together. We always went to the fruit section, where he usually picked apples or grapes. And if I ever complained, he would say I wouldn’t catch a cold if I ate an apple a day. He would always buy me an ice cream or a snack after we finished shopping.
I picked a few peaches, oranges, and bananas. The salesman joked that if I paid for them, it would be cheaper than if Valentin did. He packed everything into a plastic bag and handed it to me, adding a small bunch of grapes.
“This is my gift to you,” he said, with a big smile on his face.
It was a Wednesday in September 2022. We were at the house of Maria and Antonio, our host parents. They reminded me of my own mom and dad.
Maria had made some homemade lasagna, just like the one that Italian grandmothers bake in old movies. It looked so tasty. I called it the miracle of lasagna. There were many layers piled on top of each other, with a rich, flavorful sauce in between.
She placed a bowl of salad on the table and said, “Now that you don’t eat meat, have some salad.” She wasn’t a fan of vegetarianism, but she’d made it from lettuce and cherry tomatoes, seasoned with olive oil and vinegar.
I missed home. On weekends, my mom would cook the best meals she could, and we would all sit down and eat together. Afterwards, my dad would give us a talk about the economy or politics, or share a story from when he was young. Sometimes my mom would bring ice cream for dessert.
Maria took the ice cream from the freezer and served it in tiny cups. It tasted like honey, nuts, pistachio, and something else I couldn’t name.
I felt a lump in my throat. There was still no word from my parents. My phone was full of videos from Tehran, streets I knew well and had walked many times.
I scooped up a spoonful of the ice cream and paused. Its cool sweetness trembled in my throat. My eyes got tearful, but I blinked fast, hoping they wouldn’t notice how close I was to breaking down. I swallowed the ice cream down along with my tears.
I wrote a short SMS in Persian to my sister: “Hello, my darling, are you all fine? I’m so worried about you.”
The next day, Maria made pasta with shrimp. She put a big bottle of wine on the table and started talking with Valentin. I didn’t understand much, but I kept smiling. When I finished eating, they asked me to have more. Their house was full of kindness and love, just like mine back home.
I put some veggies on a piece of bread and began to eat. Antonio looked at me in surprise. I guess I was not supposed to eat them that way. He then told some Italian jokes, maybe hoping to cheer me up.
I thought about my mom when she came into my room holding a plate and said, “At least eat something here in bed if you’re not coming to the table.” I took the plate and began to eat. Then she continued, “Don’t worry, my love. You will get your visa, and you’ll go to Italy. Don’t worry about it.”
Last night, I started breathing heavily in my sleep. It was a bad dream. My palms were sweating when Valentin woke me up.
“Hey, you’re having a bad dream. Wake up,” he said.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” he continued.
I opened my eyes, then closed them again.
When I had nightmares back in Iran, my sister would come to my bed and hold me close, making everything feel safe. I wished I could freeze those moments forever. I wished I could pack her warm hug in my suitcase and carry it with me wherever I go.
It was a Saturday in September 2022. I ordered four-cheese pizza. Maria and Antonio were already waiting for us at the restaurant. I was wearing my plaid dress.
My mom had made it for me, thinking I’d need a new dress for the airport. I wore the blue plaid dress as she hugged me by the gate. She was crying, and I still didn’t seem to understand that I was leaving. I was numb, showing no emotions. Dad kissed my forehead, and I passed through the gate. I loved that dress a lot that I hadn’t worn it so much during my years abroad.
I looked beautiful that night. I could feel people’s eyes on me. Maybe they wondered what this Middle Eastern girl was doing in a remote village near Naples, where you rarely saw any foreigners.
There was red wine on the table. I was sure its bitterness could wash away the bitterness of all the bad news coming from home. After a glass or two, I my cheeks were red. I couldn’t recognize myself. I got angry and felt like a stranger there. The pizza no longer tasted good, and the Italian village had lost its charm. I couldn’t understand what I was doing there anymore.
I was feeling angry and, before I realized it, I was raising my voice at Valentin for something so stupid: “Why are you on your phone so much?” I asked him angrily. He could see that I wasn’t doing well and didn’t say anything.
We went over to Maria and Antonio’s place. They handed me a bottle of sparkling wine and asked me to open it. I did so with trembling hands and took a few sips, but it made me nauseous. All I wanted was to hide beneath my blanket and disappear.
I told them I felt sleepy and needed to leave, but that was a lie. I left because a hard lump in my throat pushed me out the door. I needed to be alone and let all the sadness and bitterness spill out. I collapsed in bed and cried.
Valentin entered the house. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and tried to pull myself together, but I couldn’t control my feelings. Tears flowed down my cheeks like a flood. He hugged me and tried to calm me, saying he understood me.
I relaxed in his arms and closed my eyes.
It was a Sunday in September 2022. My phone was full of news about Iran, full of videos of women taking off their headscarves, cutting their hair in public, and people in the streets who were protesting.
The internet was still down back home. The old clock on the wall had stopped at 12:50, yet it still made a ticking sound. Time had stopped, like my family’s messages that had paused back home. I was worried about my family and friends.
Outside, fog covered the landscape. I looked through the window. Everything seemed calm out there, but there was a storm inside me.
