This week has felt unreal. Israel strikes Iran; Iran fires back. For Iranian immigrants scattered across the globe, we cling to our memories and pray for families far away. We lean on each other, sharing what words cannot heal. Still, we declare: #IamIran, a flame of homeland that refuses to die.

For many of us, this new land is home, initially not by choice, but as a refuge from the Islamic Republic, which we long to see overthrown.
We have dreamed of the day the Islamic Republic would be held accountable for its atrocities, for its injustice, for stealing what belongs to our people, for killing the innocent, for pushing Iran into darkness and despair, for the painful separations between loved ones. Some wounds run deeper than others.

But today, we all wrestle with fear, with the worry that Iran may slip into becoming another forgotten battlefield, another Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq.

Iran’s roots run deep,
Its civilization dates back over 7,000 years.
Yet, the Islamic Republic is young, only 46 years old.
The Islamic Republic is not Iran.

Iran is the land of Rumi, who taught us:
“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.”
Iran has given the world mathematicians, engineers, physicians, and minds that have changed and shaped civilizations.

Now, as more than 10 million residents are ordered to evacuate Tehran at once, an impossible demand, I scream inside.
#IamTehran
#IamIran
Do not destroy my city.
This is where families live,
Mothers, fathers, children, sisters, brothers.

This is where my dreams live.

I pray for the innocent,
caught in a war they never chose.
Iranians never sought conflict with Israel.
Iranians yearn for peace.
Not long ago, they flooded the streets, their voices loud:
“Not Gaza, Not Lebanon, My Life Only for Iran.”

Iranians rose in 2009 during the Green Movement, fighting for democracy.
In 2019, protests erupted against soaring inflation and funding of terrorism.
In 2022, the Mahsa Amini protests sparked calls for women’s rights and equality, with chants of “women, life, freedom.”
Thousands of protesters were killed and tortured.

Through it all, the world looked away.
The brave protesters who dared to speak against the Islamic Republic still sit behind bars, prisoners of the very regime they challenged.
As bombs threaten Tehran, the same freedom fighters remain trapped.

As I hear commentators say, the future is bright, the Islamic Republic is collapsing, and the people of Iran are being freed and redeemed.
I struggle to believe this is real,
I know that through all of this, lives have been lost and more will be lost.

Through it all,
I hold my breath,
I hold tight to the soul of Iran.
and again, I hold my breath.

I refuse to lose hope.
Because no matter what,
#IamIran.
Iran, the land of the ancient,
The unbreakable,
The resilience,
I hope for a brighter tomorrow for Iran.
Because hope is not a feeling.
It is a decision.
And I choose it as I see missiles rise and jets fly over my childhood home.
I choose it even now because Iran carries a history that defies destruction.

I remember.
Not from the news.
Not from a headline.
I remember because I lived it.

I was a little girl in Iran when the bombs started falling. I remember waking in the middle of the night to the sound of sirens, then silence… then explosions lighting up the sky.
I remember sleeping under that lit-up sky, watching the streaks of missiles, hearing the booms echo through the night and praying they wouldn’t fall on us.

My school was bombed. We were so thankful it was a holiday and no one was there.
I remember seeing a glove in the dirt and thinking it was a severed hand, torn from someone in the chaos of bombings.

We once drove past a house where a birthday party had just been held. Nine-year-olds.
The bomb came after the cake.
When the parents arrived, there were no children left to bring home.

These are the things I carry.
Not something I read in a book. Not an exaggeration.
It’s my story.
And the story of many who live somewhere in this world, in the middle of a war zone.

Now, as I watch war unfold between Iran and Israel, it’s like watching old wounds tear open in a new body.

I ache for the innocent lives on both sides — because I know what it’s like to be one of them.
And yet, in the middle of that ache… something rises.

They speak of regime change.
And part of me dares to believe:
Could it be… finally?

It’s been 46 years of the Islamic Republic shouting “Death to America,” “Death to Israel,” while stealing the future of the Iranian people.

But that’s not who Iran is.
Iranians are the people of Cyrus the Great, the king who freed the Jewish people from Babylon, who helped rebuild their temple.

A King who declared the world’s first human rights proclamation, still displayed in museums as a symbol of freedom, tolerance, and dignity.
He is remembered in scripture not as a tyrant, but as a protector.

This is Iran’s true history.
Not the hate.
Not the fear.
Not the blood-stained fists of the regime.

We come from something better.
And Iran deserves much better.

I don’t know what’s coming.
But I know this:

I want my children to one day walk through the land I left behind without fear.
To know Iran, in all of its beauty.

Right now, my heart is heavy.
A heartbreak for what could have been, for what it has become, and for the innocent lives taken away as these words are written..

I stood at the edge of the Persian Gulf, its deep blue color reminding me of the turquoise in Persian ornate miniatures. An occasional hot breeze wrapped around me like a blanket of warm memories. Only if this water could speak, it would tell untold stories: stories of love, separation, sacrifice, bravery, and endurance.

I see these stories all in my grandparents’ eyes,
Papa Bozorg and Momi Bozorg,
In their loving gaze shines joy and pride every time they see us,
Yet beneath it all, I can still see the weight of their sacrifices.
Their smiles speak of a life lived with courage,
a past left behind so that my family and I can be here today,
And so my girls can grow up in a land where “all are created equal.”

This is the story of every immigrant;
not just mine.

The story of people who left behind everything they knew—
the familiar streets of their homeland,
the comfort of their language,
the circle of friends and the support of family,
The feeling of belonging.

Some left behind wealth earned through years of hard work,
Others walked away from careers shaped by dedication and time.
Many arrived with only a few suitcases,
and if they were lucky, a few precious photos,
and the jewelry they quietly carried with them.

My grandparents and parents,
our grandparents and parents,
stepped into a new land where words were foreign,
customs unfamiliar,
carrying little from their past lives,
But they brought with them pockets full of hope.

Hope for a future brighter than their own,
a future where their children and grandchildren
could live with more,
more opportunity, more freedom, more peace,
So they handed us the baton for us to go further,
And we did.

Driven by their hard work and deep respect for their sacrifices,
We celebrate them at every graduation, every milestone,
from classrooms to boardrooms, professional achievements earned and well-deserved.

But in those moments, the deepest recognition belongs to the generations
whose quiet sacrifices were the driving force behind our success.
With their hopes, they planted seeds,
not for themselves, but for the generations to come,
At times, they may feel like the forgotten generation,
But with each step we take, each milestone we reach,
We add to what they began.
They are not forgotten.
They are remembered—
In everything we build, in everything we become.

We are building on the pocket of hope they once carried,
turning it into something lasting,
possibly something they may not have seen,
But always believed in.

It always starts the same way.

A conversation. At a party, a coffee shop, a networking event, or a courthouse hallway. Someone leans in, often with a smile and a sip of wine, and asks:

“So... why did you decide to become a lawyer?”

A simple, casual question—tossed into the air, expecting a short, forgettable reply.

And I have that version down. I’ve polished it over the years, trimmed and softened it to fit neatly into spaces where emotions don’t belong. The kind of answer people expect:

“I wanted to know my rights so no one could take them away.”

It lands well. It’s tidy, brief. Enough to keep things moving. People nod politely, maybe say, “Good for you.” Then the conversation drifts to topics more familiar that don't stir anything too deep, legal questions, business concerns, the drama of someone’s divorce. The original question already forgotten.

But not by me.

The truth of the matter is, while I smile and nod, engaged in the next exchange, something inside me is still back there, caught in that moment. I’m trying to shut the heavy doors that burst open every time that question is asked.

Because someone just hit play on a reel that never fades. It’s the reel that shaped me—quietly looping in the background of my life, until suddenly, sharply, it starts again.

Fast. Clear. Unforgiving.

And just like that, I’m back in another world. A world that shifted right in front of me, faster than I could understand. I was a kid then, swept up in something bigger than I could name. A captive passenger in a life that kept moving whether I was ready or not.

Where I came from, bombings were our version of fireworks—not in celebration, but in fear.

We were afraid of our neighbors. Afraid of our teachers.

Anyone could report you to the Islamic police—for a word, a glance, a glass of wine, a movie, a strand of uncovered hair.

There was no freedom of speech. No rights. Injustice wasn’t the exception—it was the rhythm of daily life. And yet, joy was never something we borrowed.

It was ours. It is ours.

A birthright carried from a time when the Persian Empire stretched across continents nearly 2,500 years ago. Joy lives in our music, our poetry, our food, our laughter. Even in exile, in war, in refugee camps, in strange new cities—we carried that joy with us.

The new country that once felt foreign slowly became our home. Not just through documents or the passage of time, but because we stopped looking back.

We stopped dreaming to return. We built something new. We planted roots. Joy was how we held on to each other—and how we grew into something more. Because the greatest threat was never the bombs. It was the attempt to silence that joy. Joy is where our spirit lives. In every city we’ve made our own, in every song we still sing.

It’s how we remember who we are—The spirit of an ancient people who have never forgotten their name, even as they became something new.

I remember family parties that felt like secret worlds, much like the one Harry Potter lived in, hidden from watching eyes. Rooms filled with the scent of fresh herbs and steaming rice. Skewers of kabob sizzling. Platters of fruit and sweets laid out like treasure. Cassette tapes playing banned songs we somehow knew by heart. And we danced—feet moving to rhythms older than revolution. Those nights, we tasted freedom. Quiet. Undeclared. But real.

Maybe that’s where the seed was planted—somewhere between the fear we couldn’t name and the joy we refused to surrender.

I didn’t know the word for justice back then. But I knew what it felt like to live without it. I knew what it meant to feel powerless. To be a child watching the adults you love live in fear. To see people punished for nothing more than speaking, dancing, or choosing the wrong piece of clothing. And I carry those moments with me.

So when someone asks why I became a lawyer, they expect a simple answer. Maybe a scene from Suits or Law & Order, or a courtroom epiphany. I could give them that.

But the truth is, I became a lawyer because I knew what it felt like not to matter. And I never wanted to feel that way again. I never wanted anyone else to sit in that silence—alone, powerless—without someone on their side.

That’s what floods my mind every time I hear the question. While I smile and keep the conversation moving, inside I’m remembering the world I came from.

I became a lawyer because I wanted a voice.

Not the loudest.

Not the flashiest.

Just one strong enough to say:

“I matter”.

In every sense of that word.

My voice matters.

My story matters.

My freedom matters.

My life. My choices. My existence.

“I matter” is more than a statement.