A story about Iran and ordinary Iranians
This is a personal story of how do Iranians feel about Israel Iran war 2025. I am an Iranian astrophysicist living abroad with my whole family and friends in Iran. I decided to write my story as ordinary Iranians don’t have voice to share their point of view, especially via the Western media. At the moment that I wrote this story I was in Namibia for observing with the big telescope. (This is a series of stories. You may read part 4, part 3, part 2 and part 1 here)
I finish my night shift and crawl into bed at seven in the morning.
Three hours later I wake with a jolt, heart racing. I grab my phone.
“We’re heading home now. There’s a cease-fire.” — Mom
There is also a tweet from Trump. I don’t believe either of them.
He has changed his mind about Iran a hundred times. This war isn’t only drones and missiles. It is mental war, too.
I put my phone away and went back to sleep.
Woking up a few hours later, my mother and my sister had thanked my brother in our family group chat because he let them stay with him all this time as we all thought his apartment was safer. Seven people crammed together, with no personal space, they were exhausted and sick of each other, but alive.
I talked with my sister, did my laundry, ate something, and went for a short run before my next shift. The sun was setting. I still couldn’t believe it was over. The night before had been the deadliest attack: about a hundred people died in Tehran alone. None of my friends could sleep that night and everyone were terrified.
My sister said smoke still hung in the streets this morning and many buildings were broken. More than two hundred strikes hit Tehran in 12 course of 12 days, and Israel had attacked targets in twenty‑seven provinces. It felt like a show—not the kind you watch on TV, but one you act in while doubting it is real.
How I felt after Israel Iran ceasefire
Today I felt better. I went to work and worked on some plots that I need to prepare for my paper that I need to submit to a scientific journal, and marked the students’ lab reports—things I should have done two weeks ago. I finally answered the messages that had piled up on my phone. It is easier to focus now, though I still don’t trust the calm.
I keep picturing my family and friends waking up each night, looking out of the window, counting the red flashes, ready to run if they had to.
One bright flash brightening up the night sky and everything could end that fast.
Twelve days of Israel Iran war 20205, passed like twelve years.
Twelve days hearing my twelve‑year‑old niece explaining how she stayed close to everyone so that if something happened, it would happen to all of them together and she won’t become an orphan. Twelve days and hundreds of videos and photos of my city being torn apart. Twelve days asking ChatGPT for predictions, reading English and Farsi reports to understand what was real.
Three generations in my family have lived through wars: my grandparents, my parents, and now us—and the children after us.
Even a fake Israel Iran ceasefire changes everything. Friends in Tehran are meeting for coffee; my mum is scolding my dad for speeding and getting a ticket.
All of this—because one blond man on the other side of the world decided to bomb my country one night and two days later asked for a Nobel Peace Prize.
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