Writing on the Eve of Fall

Seeing the fall of the Dictator in my early 20s

I still remember the sadness of it all, the moment I said my last goodbyes, hugging everyone who was dear to me. It was time to leave. Imam Khomeini International Airport carried a heavy atmosphere that night. We weren’t alone. There were others, too, people who didn’t want to believe this was their last goodbye to their families. For many, this was not a simple pleasure trip. It was something far heavier: leaving in search of another chance at life.

I remember one of my family members waking up around 3 a.m. to drive us to the airport. Nothing felt easy. Nothing felt exciting. It was the opposite, filled with sadness and tears; everyone tried to hold back until the very last minute. We couldn’t finish a sentence properly. And we weren’t the only family like this. Hundreds of families filled IKIA, carrying the same grief.

When I said goodbye to my dad, I turned my head so he wouldn’t see my tears. As I did, I noticed others doing the same, turning away, swallowing their pain. A bitter truth hung over the airport: the place we called home had not given us a chance to live or grow. There was only what the government wanted, or you had to say goodbye to your dreams.

Iran was on the verge of one of its worst economic crises since the 1979 revolution. I was only seventeen years old, coming from a small town in southern Iran, a place marked by the scars of the Iran-Iraq war and still deeply underdeveloped, despite everything it had given to the country.

At the airport, you saw students leaving to study, hoping to find work and never return. It breaks my heart to say this, but for many of them, home had become hostile. Home labeled them traitors. Home felt like an ill mother; her consciousness poisoned by the Islamic Republic. There were families like ours who had just received visas or sold everything they owned to get their children out. The country we loved had become an abusive partner, demanding obedience: Believe what I believe, live how I want — or leave. And if you leave, you are a traitor.

I was too young to fully understand what it meant that I wasn’t coming back. What it truly meant was fear, fear of returning, fear of punishment, fear of everything that would unfold later, once I was already in the United States.

I said goodbye and walked toward the gate, waiting for our flight to be announced. I hadn’t left Iran yet, but it had already started. Messages echoed in my head: If you leave, you have no right to speak about Iran. I can’t believe you chose to leave — you’re going to change, and that’s bad. Without even realizing it, I had become an enemy.

That is how an ill-intentioned regime plays its game. It claims to stand for the oppressed, yet it is the very force that oppresses its own people.

The messages became far more explicit and foul. Knowing this burned me to the ground. But what hurt even more was the realization that the group of friends I once had, the same people I went to middle school and high school with, the same people who survived the crushing years of ISIS, were now becoming memories. Memories layered within other memories of a place I once called home.

On the airplane, there was a painful mix of everyone. People who had to leave or face punishment simply for their ideology. “Criminals” whose only crime was asking for basic human rights, the freedom to be themselves, to be left alone, to stop worrying about food or shelter. There was a young man who had grown up and fallen in love, hoping to marry the person he loved, but the economy denied him even the possibility of a peaceful, simple marriage. That was the beginning of something much bigger.

Of course, there were people traveling for pleasure, and businessmen seeking profit beyond Iran. And then there were families like mine. Realistically, there was no immediate threat against us. But for the sake of growth, for the sake of peace of mind, for the chance to live freely, we had to leave and start somewhere new. Somewhere we could actually live, even if it cost us a lifetime, even if all we gained in the end was the right to a basic life.

But there were others on that flight, too, people from the government. The same officials from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs were involved in post-JCPOA negotiations following Trump’s withdrawal. The same people who played political games to keep the regime alive, relying on other nations to sustain it. One of them sat there in a dark navy suit, heading to Austria, searching for another way to preserve a dying system. A politician. A deeply evil man.

The flight was only three hours long, but it felt like a lifetime.

We had to wait for 7 hours at Vienna International Airport. It didn’t bother us; we expected it. We were becoming modern-day nomads. Immigrants. But right before boarding the plane, we were stopped.

“There is a travel ban on your country, sir. How did you acquire a U.S. visa?”

I tried to explain that we had waited 17 years, gone through multiple U.S. embassy interviews and FBI background checks, and that this was a legitimate visa. They didn’t believe us. We were forced to wait while they confirmed everything with the U.S. embassy.

That waiting felt like hell.

Eventually, they let us board the plane, but without respect, without acknowledgment, without a word. Just silence.

We flew directly to Chicago. There, we faced the final interview with an American officer. It was stressful, but human. And then it happened:

“Welcome to the United States.”

And just like that, a new life began, an immigrant continent away, oceans away from where I was born. With limited English, heavy dreams, and a broken heart.

It didn’t take long, maybe a couple of months, maybe less, before Bloody September erupted in Iran. Unofficial reports spoke of 7,500 deaths: protesters killed by live fire or executed after arrest. Why did they protest? Gas prices increased by 200 percent. The national currency collapsed day by day. Young people, full of life, dreams, and hope, were shot, imprisoned, or executed simply for holding different beliefs. For wanting to live like normal human beings.

And there I was, far from home. Unable to stand beside them. Unable to fight with them. Trying to understand why such cruelty was necessary for a regime to survive.

But this was an awakening.

In this series, I will share my personal experiences with various Iranian social movements and protests, leading up to the 2026 uprising. I am not a political analyst. I am not a journalist. I am simply writing these memories to share them with the world; a different perspective, a personal one. A story I hope is worth your time and helps you understand what is happening.

“Light triumphs over darkness.” — Queen Farah

I left Iran in August 2019.

To be continued…