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Goodbye, Iran. I leave a kiss on your wounded body. And I will come back to you very soon.

ما در این شهر غریبیم و در این ملک فقیر به کمند تو گرفتار و به دام تو اسیر

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Cyclic Group of Order 1 · Queen Bed

(Link to song because I cannot embed for some reason)

Chords: Em F#m Bm (A G Fm) June 30th 2025 (2AM)

You’ve got your hardy ways  And I analyze every detail in your face. And you’ve got an etiquette,  Like no one else, with your fingers around my waist But you’re a stallion running towards the sea  You sure have your ways to make me scream 

I pray, and I say, baby stay  I know I’m way too young and come-of-age  My world’s not so kind, but yours is rude  You smile, but I lose my mind when I’m with you 

I feel inadequate, So I analyze every detail in my frame  And we shared your queen bed,  But we didn’t make love, I felt myself break  I’m just a baby crying in your sheets   The books in your bookshelf make me weak 

I know you will leave, your kiss won’t soothe me  I know you’re in your prime, and I’m too crude   Your world is all so sad, but mine is too  You smile, but I lose my mind when I’m with you 

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Beautiful stranger, don't want to know your name Beautiful stranger, just want to take your hand How sweet it can be, if you make me dance? How long will it last, baby, if we dance?

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The Moon Was There

I appreciate nature more deeply during times of turmoil.

So I often wonder: is nature truly beautiful if there is no one capable of suffering to observe it? Each person carries a different aesthetic lens through which beauty is interpreted and experienced. In my eyes, this charm lies precisely in the collision between human pain and the formidable, indifferent permanence of nature. This is what allures me. This explains why I find the rocky mountain views of Iran more stirring than the tree-covered heights of British Columbia.

Our ancestors, of course, lived fully integrated with the nature I speak of. They did not experience the same forms of modern turmoil as we do: ones born of artificial complexities and separated from nature. Yet I’m convinced they felt something similar when they looked up at the stars, the mountain ranges, or a hawk in flight: an awe independent of survival.

They would have had an internal world that expanded beyond their immediate living environment. I have a deep conviction that this appreciation could only take a mature form through the awakening of curiosity and consciousness. And I’m resolved that this evolution is directly correlated with the evolution of anguish: the kind of anguish born in war, displacement, or political despair.

Nature’s apathy strips “experience” of its melodrama and leaves it emotionally raw. In my journey so far, nature has been a leitmotif serving both as a comforting escape and also an emphasis on how absurd and alien certain traumas like political turmoil really are. The first point, this comforting escape from Beethoven’s “Ess muss Sein!” is seen in The Unbearable Lightness of Being:

“Their days in the country were days of peace. They began to feel lightness, not the unbearable kind they had known in Prague, but a peaceful lightness, a humble one.”

This is the “Muss es sein?” met with a “Nein!”, if only temporarily. (I must clarify that a direct permanent “Nein!” is ideological and betrays much of what I have said.)

The second point, an emphasis on the absurdity of our conflicts, was explored immaculately in All Quiet on the Western Front. Now that iBooks has offloaded my edition, I need to look up some of these references from the web. (Without verifying that they in fact belong to the book, but that is besides the point.)

“After a while, we notice that the sun is shining down the shell hole. The birds are chirping in the trees. A butterfly flutters over the jagged edge. That is how it is — this is how it has always been.”

This is how it has always been. You may lie under the blossoms of a cherry tree, dying. Above you, the branches drift with the breeze, and the petals fall on your face like snow. This is how it has always been. By nature, of course, I include the sky’s frame. I often think about this passage from 2001: A Space Odyssey:

"The man-ape stood upright and looked at the Moon. It was not the first time he had seen it, but never before had it troubled him in any way. Now, as he stared at that ghostly silver disk, so far beyond his reach, he felt a puzzling sense of unease. There was something in the sky that should not be there. He had seen the Moon countless times before, but only now was he beginning to wonder about it. He could not comprehend its nature or its distance. But he felt it—he felt it was important."

This vertiginous distance between intuiting the moon’s significance, yet finding it unfathomable, births a unique sorrow. We often view terms such as suffering, pain, and anguish way too negatively… I think they tail every conceivable human experience/feeling in one way or the other. So without them, these experiences will lose their meaning.

Everything I have said so far begs the following question: what makes mountaineering different from a regular stroll among willow trees and along rivers? After all, this is an ode to solo mountaineering in disguise. I have mentioned many textures of suffering: war, political turmoil, fear of the unknown, and so forth. Many of these themes are mirrored in nature. After all, the ways in which the world is unkind are not so different. And it is naive to call the mountains kind.

Although stones humbly carve out spaces for you to occupy and facilitate your path, they can also kill you without a second thought. Cliffs pry you open upon strike mercilessly and let the soil absorb your blood. The snow covers your body and puts you to permanent sleep without yielding to your pleas. The mountains are untamed, relentless, and rugged. One yearns to conquer them and chart every square meter, and is met with a blank, impartial stare. All of this is a pure mirror of modern turmoil.

If you were to open a page of my diary in which I talk about war, you may find the following keywords: pain, observation, mindfulness, and resilience. If you turn the pages to my mountaineering logs, you find the same words, and always the following quote:

“Weder dem Vergangenen anheimfallen noch dem Zukünftigen; es kommt darauf an, ganz gegenwärtig zu sein.” (Neither fall prey to the past nor to the future; it all comes down to being fully present.)

Returning to my political terminology, the tension between our longing for utopia and the world’s indifferent, violent response is what creates these absurd conditions. We have all read at least a little bit of Camus. He states that once we recognize this condition, the answer is neither suicide nor nihilism: it is revolt. Camus writes, “The absurd man is he who is aware of this confrontation and lives in revolt.” The clash between our desire to conquer and the mountain’s indifferent, lethal gaze mirrors our political and personal absurdities. The mountaineer is he who is aware of the aforementioned confrontation, yet conquers its heights. This is the mountaineer’s revolt.

I will bid my farewells with an excerpt from a poem I wrote a couple of months ago:

I happen, relentlessly. For I am the mountain, The trees dig their roots deep into my formation And the wind modifies my design. All the same, I am the traveler, Choosing which road to travel, And overcome with awe towards everything that I find.

P.S. I have written many pieces on the illusion of continuity on the blog before, yet I speak of permanence here! I am aware of the irony. =)

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Once the disruption slows, you begin again.

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و گفت: سی سالست که استغفار می‌کنم از یک شکر گفتن. گفتند: چگونه؟ گفت بازار بغداد بسوخت اما دکان من نسوخت. مرا خبر کردند. گفتم: الحمدلله.

He said, “For thirty years, I have sought forgiveness for a single utterance of gratitude.” They asked: “What do you mean?” He replied: “The marketplace of Baghdad went up in flames, yet my shop was spared. When the news reached me, I said: ‘Alhamdulillah’ (praise be to God)”

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A Toast from the Sidelines

9th day of the war

When you’re privileged enough to be far from where the bombs fall, certain things begin to upset you more than the war itself. Today, insincerity and theater morality are taking up more space in my mind than America’s F-35 or Netanyahu’s attempts to hinder negotiations.

So I raise a toast today, to the people who are only loud about their opinions when they conform to everybody in the room with them. To the ones claiming a monopoly on morality. To virtue signalling. To the scope-creeping self-appointed lawyers. To the ones who offer you refuge, but only once they make sure you have another place to stay. To those who confuse post-crisis tourism with activism. The malapropists of “ash-watching” and “aid”. To the users of strong strong words, and the artificial intelligence war poets.

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Iran, Tomorrow (if there is one)

06/18/2025 (6th day of the war)

Iran, throughout my life, has been a series of surreal states. Each induces its own type of dream. In each of these episodes, I’ve had my own dreams. The Winter of 2022 induced particularly vivid ones. I dreamed of our martyrs Nika Shakarami and Khodanour Lojei, resurrecting in the form of murals, their faces taking the place of Khamenei and Khomeini’s portraits on the city infrastructures. Their names were sitting on street signs, taking the place of Sheikh Fazlollah Highway, and the like. Meydan Azadi’s name remained the same, but the word “Eslami” dropped from Enghelab Eslami Sq. I dreamed of an economy that wasn’t just oil-dependent. One in which we didn’t sell it for mere pennies to China. An Iran in which Afghan immigrants were no longer denied vaccines and basic human respect. I dreamed of the words Tehran, Isfahan, and Shiraz on foreigners’ travel lists. I saw musicians traveling to Iran, drawn to its traditional music and letting it shape their sound. Much the same way as the Spanish guitar today. I saw women wearing sundresses on a hot August afternoon, singing on Keshavarz Boulevard freely. In my dreams, there was no trace of theater-bearded, spot-foreheaded, buttoned-up-to-the-Adam’s-apple-shirted “politicians” stomping on our dignity in international forums, calling England “Inglis” and applauding when Tār is introduced as the national instrument of Azerbaijan. In my dreams, I saw our environment, historical sites, and many more.

Today’s surreal state was the paradoxical configuration of Tehran’s air: so clear one could see both Damavand and Azadi, yet it was laced with smoke. Amid this surreal state, many have been having dreams about the tomorrow of Iran. Some misguided, others hopeless, the remaining audacious. And I’ve been having mine too. By no means could I draw an even remotely detailed picture, but I already indicated that this is a dream, so it is okay… I dreamed of an Iran in which Iranians no longer so blindly followed the “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” mindset. They had washed themselves of their reactive Israelism and didn't rejoice when Israel engaged in acts of assassination or sabotage on Iranian soil or international waters. They no longer said “Why do Palestinians make so many babies anyway?” or “LGBT for Palestine? Go to Palestine and see what happens.”. They no longer attacked pro-Palestine protests in the West. I saw an Iran in which Iranians recognized the glories of Reza Shah and Mohammad Reza Shah, yet were over their arbitrary fetish with monarchism and didn’t toast to whatever Reza Pahlavi, the man with a podium and no job, said. Iranian-Americans who no longer worshipped Donald Trump. I dreamed of an Iran in which Iranians didn’t drop the words “Bloodshed is the only way to change.” So loosely.

There is no way to tell how far this could go and how much destruction Iran will face. The more days go on, the closer my dreams resemble nightmares. And how utterly weak I feel for all I could do is write.

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Not over a meter apart

Using that tiny window in which the internet is alive to post this. :) (06/18/2025 - Day 6)

Oh darling, we thought we would thrive  There was a mythical beauty in our farm  Golden and green fields,  We thought we’d forever sing by the fire. Until the day the insects swarmed over, and killed all of our crops 

Oh darling, you took me to the town  Where we got to know busy-ness And all those new kinds of sounds. Our room was much smaller, But we were always dancing about.  Until the day the troops marched over, And took over our house.

It is not so different, The ways in which the world is unkind.  It’s a natural disaster either way, But it’s fine as long as you’re around.  It’s not so scary,  As long as we’re not over a meter apart. 

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Why I will stay in Tehran

(Link to Persian version)

06/17/2025 (5th day of the war)

(Middle photo: Tehran oil refinery on fire.)

The flow in the veins of Tehran has only been outward in the last six days. A city that could barely sustain 80% of its 15 million residents is now exhaling them. The air is saturated with smoke, rumors of what this and that politician said, and vague notices of evacuation.

The geometry of the city is different. The military has replaced the IRGC at checkpoints, searching for traitors and Mossad forces, and Israeli missile parts instead of alcohol. The streets are empty, yet train stations and terminals are packed with people from all ethnicities and cultures. 

The formation of homes is different. Bath-tubs are filled to the brim but not to bathe in. The kitchen is stacked with canned food, a few six packs of water bottles, and more Coca-Cola ones. Family members try to stay in the same room in case anything happens. 

The configuration of the people shifted, too. Some are on edge, some are kinder than usual. Thirst feels slightly more unnerving as you now anticipate water outages.

As the smog grows and fills up whatever cavity it finds in the city, I become more determined to stay here. Relatives in Iran call, the ones abroad more so. Everybody has a house in a random corner of the country to offer refuge. I respond with my newly-found war humor: I will protect my family with the Iron Dome of my butt. 

Some left on the first night. Some stayed but left after the first window of their house crashed. Others are ready to evacuate. As long as you don’t step on other people to do this, the pursuit of survival, or the goal to share the same fate as your family in your hometown is sacred. But the rightfulness of what you do strongly depends on the thermodynamics of your mind. I saw a heroine in my friend as she placed her clothes, color pencils, notebooks, and makeup in her suitcase and looked on every website for a bus ticket home from her dorm in a targeted neighbourhood. When she made the sacrifice for her parents. 

And as I write this, during a nationalized internet and air strike noises, I would see a coward in myself if I stack my car with water, stay in the gas station queue for 4 hours for 30 litres of gas, and fill my bladder to the brim and drive for 5 hours merely to cross Tehran’s border, and then 10 more to get somewhere. Escaping to save my life to the point where I don’t even know why I’m trying so hard to stay alive.

This is the thermodynamics of my mind right now. My dignity feels in place when Trump says everybody should evacuate Tehran immediately, and I stay in my bed. I feel more worthy of my suffering when the Israeli Minister of Defense says Iranians will pay the price of their dictatorship with their blood, and yet I stay in my room and write. When I crack a joke and laugh as I film the air strikes every night. 

To be clear, this is not a tale of heros and I have read enough anti-war novels and watched enough remakes of All Quiet on the Western Front movie to feel the crippling absurdity of the situation. The absurdity of war in itself, along with the absurdity of the marriage of living in a dictatorship you have fought against for years, and holding the same side of the string with it in this war. The absurdity of how I could stay all of this and regret it all if I’m alive under the rubble. How I may go through something that will prevent me from feeling anything like this again. All I know is that I am in my element right now, and I am ready to leave if this changes.

It is curious how relevant this quote is by Alyosha from Karamazov Brothers. “You need not be afraid of life. Life is good as long as you do something good and just.”. Right now, I will be in this capacity only if I stay here.

Though I progressively lose my mind every night with the air raids, I feel normal still, at least most of the time. I rejoice when a foreign friend asks if I’m still alive and sends me pictures of the beaches of Vancouver, and I dance in my room to Espresso-Macchiato. And I’m having one hell of a time observing the shifting tides of my brain. 

See you in future war-related posts (hopefully).  

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Alam-Kūh (4850m) - 06/13/2025

I finally met you, and your formidable allure.

“They climbed the upward path, steep and obscure, Dark, silent, and impenetrable fog Encircled them. They neared the upper world. Then Orpheus, anxious, fearing she might fail him, Yearning to see her, turned his eyes — and lost her.” 

For me, the hardest part of the climb starts the moment your eyes can see the summit sign. From that point on, if you're tired enough, it seems as though you'll never reach it. So as I neared the end of my ascent, I decided that I must not look up again until I reached the peak. And I was thinking of Orpheus to the top. I looked up at last, and my Eurydice was standing there marking the end of the climb.

This was the most satisfying climb of my life so far, and the highest point I've ever stood. 

I was met with the news that Israel had attacked Tehran. (Some mountaineer had reception there.) I'm not here to talk about full-on war or the possibility of it. But this made me appreciate the mountains all the stronger.

This climb's theme song: Coming From the Mountains

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I’m so excited to meet you for the first time this Friday, darling. (#Alam-Kuh)

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The third-person pronoun in Armenian is not gender-specific. The title of this song, "Անոր" (Anor), can be interpreted as meaning "to him" as well as "to her". The poem is by T’elkatents’i (Թլկատենցի) (Telgadentsi), who was murdered during the genocide of 1915.

This poor heart of mine is all a-flutter, My body is all broken down with hopeless longing.

When the moon dares to shine, In this dark and endless night, I can see him, so divine, As the moon hangs on a cross.

If I were to see him face-to-face, I’d give him the rose in my hand, if he doesn’t want the rose, I’ll give him a golden apple.

If he doesn’t want the apple, I’ll tear out my hair to give him, And if he doesn’t want that either, I’ll tear out my soul to give him.

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Tochal (3963m) - 06/03/2025 (Link to previous Tochal)

It is not the ease with which the mountain child roams the mountains that gives her this title. It is her discomfort, the clash between her expectations and the heights she is able to reach. This is precisely what distinguishes the mountain child from a master of mountains.

6:20am-7:30 Sarband sq. to “Puppy Tower” 7:45-8:30 to Shirpala shelter  9:30-10:25 to “2nd Amiri view” (post #130) 10:35-11:05 to Amiri shelter (clock is fixed) 11:30-12:50 to the peak (with a 5 min break at the one hour mark)

Nothing blends as organically with the mountains as folk music. This is today’s theme song.

Some fun incidents: Dog guide: At some point, I wasn’t sure if I should go to the left or the right. A dog started staring at me and went to the right. He started going up. He would look back every few seconds to make sure I was following him. Naked druggie: I didn’t see this first-hand, but another mountaineer told me that he saw a naked drugged man close to the peak with zero equipment who was screaming for water.

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Тень Москвы

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I wrote to you in red Where the sailors dock And from here I have not left You’ve become my lock Still, the boatman never came Why I cannot guess Don’t you know it’s all the same? Every myth cheats death Just the same

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Текстура Санкт-Петербурга