It was around 5:00 a.m. when I heard my cousin Pantea calling, "Parisa, zadanemoon!" In Farsi, that means, "We're under attack!"

I opened my eyes, my heart racing. "Who? What's going on?". Pantea looked terrified on the bed across from mine. My phone was next to my pillow, filled with missed calls and messages: "Leave Iran ASAP!" "Are you okay?" "Call me!" Outside, Manjil's strong wind blew through the torn mesh of our window as the sun began to rise.

It was mid-June 2025. Just hours earlier, we had celebrated my cousin's birthday with cake, homemade pasta, and music. I had returned to Iran after fifteen years to visit my family and the places I missed. 

I could hardly breathe. My mind raced. What if I never saw, held, or kissed my dog, Dexter, again? I thought, That's it! This is how my life ends. I had left Iran in 2007 to pursue my dreams and build an independent life. The one time I finally came back, I was trapped in a war. What a cruel destiny!

I called my mother and sister. "We told you not to go!" they said. My mother offered to come get me. "Absolutely not! Are you out of your mind?" I answered. Oh, my sweet mom!

Minutes later, the internet shut down. It felt like my childhood, before the internet existed. In my aunt's house, surrounded by mountains, we were pinned to the international satellite news. Israel had attacked Iran. I was afraid of what would happen next.

As both an Iranian and an American citizen, I had mixed feelings. It reminded me of being six years old during my parents' divorce. You belong to both sides, but suddenly those sides are against each other. I hoped Iran's government might change, yet I was terrified for my family and everyone caught in the attacks.

Even familiar things felt different. The food that had tasted nostalgic the night before no longer tasted the same. The Manjil wind and the scent of the mountains no longer was pleasent. Everything was filled with fear.

That afternoon, the internet briefly returned through a VPN. Lufthansa had canceled my flight home. The airports and airspace were closed. Tehran and major cities were under attack, and returning there seemed dangerous. I had come to visit my aunt on vacation. Now I was stuck!

I couldn't stand being inside. Every news report made me cry. My aunt hugged me, held my hands, and said, "Don't worry. We'll be fine." At night, we slept on the floor close to one another to feel safe.

Over the next few days, even as we heard drones overhead, my cousins and friends took me into the mountains. We rented a Jeep and drove to Aseman Sara. The altitude hurt our ears, but at the top, clouds seemed almost level with us. No television, no headlines. Just mountains and peace. Pantea and I played nostalgic Persian songs, danced in silly ways, and drank tea made from mountain leaves. For a few hours, we forgot about the reality.

The next day, fog covered another mountain road. I was cold without a jacket. We stopped at a natural spring where a cow came to drink. I had never been that close to a cow! Higher up, the only sound was the soft tinkling of bells tied to sheep.

Outside, a dog about Dexter's size approached, begging for food. I played with him and fed him for hours. He reminded me so much of Dexter that I started crying. Would I ever see my own dog again?

Another day, we visited a mountain restaurant. I noticed changes since I left Iran. When I was younger, I had to wear a roosari, or headscarf, in public. Now we sat in a restaurant without ours. I also saw alcohol served discreetly, even though selling it was illegal. I had never experienced that in Iran before!

Outside, I sometimes felt better. But every time we returned to my aunt's house and turned on the news, the fear came back. I was supposed to teach a Summer II college course in America. How could I explain my situation to my supervisor? Occasionally, around 4:00 or 5:00 a.m., a VPN worked for a few minutes. I emailed my workplace to say I was alive but had no idea when I could return.

More relatives arrived because they believed Manjil was safer. The house grew crowded. Everyone tried to carry on, but I couldn't pretend to be happy.

Then my father called from Tehran. He had found a bus to the Turkish border for three million tomans, about $100 per person. My family debated whether I should go. Older relatives remembered the Iran–Iraq War and warned that the borders might close. Others worried border officers could question or detain me because of my U.S. citizenship. Both sides had a point. What was I supposed to do?

I finally decided to take the risk.

Two days before leaving, my family and friends threw me a birthday party at a country house in Harzevil, high above Manjil. We danced and laughed for a few hours, even as drones crossed the sky. It was a strange birthday! I was surrounded by people I loved, wondering when I would see them again.

Two days later, a friend and my cousins drove me to Qazvin to meet the bus. I never imagined hugging and kissing my family goodbye under such frightening circumstances. I sat in the front row beside my dad and cried for hours. The trip took sixteen hours. Near some cities, we could see smoke from explosions.

At the border, my heart raced. I covered all my hair with my headscarf. I didn't want to give the officer any reason to make things difficult. I handed him my passport and waited. What if he stopped me?

He barely looked at me. He stamped my passport and let me go.

I couldn't believe it! I felt as though someone had given me my freedom back. I told myself, I did it! I'm free again. I'm going to see Dexter!

Ironically, just a few steps into Turkey, my internet connection returned. My family in America had been waiting by their phones. I called to tell them I was safe. For a few minutes, I felt so happy.

Then happiness turned into guilt. I had escaped, but my family and friends were still in Iran. I had spent days desperately trying to leave, yet part of me remained with the people I loved. I was free to go home, but I couldn't feel completely free while they were still living in fear.