A conversation between guest authors Raika Khorsidian and Leila*
I am Raika Khorshidian. Four years ago, I left my hometown, Tehran to start my Postdoc journey at the University of Duisburg-Essen in the city which has become my second home. After almost five years, I was recently able to meet my close friend, Leila, in Essen. We both studied at the University of Tehran, where, along with the good days, we witnessed the protests from 2009 to 2012, the arrest of our classmates: We shockingly saw how the thugs of the Islamic Republic attacked our campus and our classmates at the dormitory.
Leila is now an assistant professor at San José State University. In our conversation on 25 July 2025, we shared our concerns about our homeland and family:
Leila: This summer, I had planned to visit Iran. I wanted to be with my family, especially because my father is sick and needs surgery. But the war started, and I had to cancel my trip. My father’s health is in critical condition—he needs surgery, but it’s too risky, so he refuses to do it. He tells me every day: “I want to see you. When will you come to Iran?” His voice breaks me. He doesn’t say it directly, but I know what he means—he’s afraid he doesn’t have much time left.
Because of the war, I cannot travel to Iran. My family can’t travel to the US. It’s even harder for them to get visas for Europe. So we made a plan to meet in Georgia. We have no way to see each other unless we travel to another country. Despite the difficulties and the risk of traveling, my father said: “We don’t know how long I will live. We should meet, even if it’s hard.” That broke my heart even more.
The Iranian currency is worth almost nothing now, and my parents have to spend a huge amount—basically their savings—just to see me for a few days. That makes me feel so guilty and so sad. We bought our tickets only three days before the trip, but we are still living with so much stress. No one knows what will happen tomorrow. People say the war might start again, and flights could be canceled. I keep thinking: “What if they travel to Georgia for me, and then the war starts again, and they get stuck there and can’t go back home?” Every day is full of worry. Nothing feels safe. Nothing feels stable. All we want is to be together, just for a little while, but even that feels like a huge risk.
Raika Khorshidian (RK): Let’s go back to June 13, 2025, when Israel launched Operation Rising Lion, striking Islamic Republic of Iran’s military leadership and critical infrastructure. How has life been for you since then?
Leila – After the war started in Iran, it became almost impossible to focus on my work. My mind is always somewhere else, worrying about my family and friends. Every time I talk to someone, we all share the same fear—what will happen next?
All the people I know in Iran are against the regime. Inside the country, they live under ever-worsening conditions, with no freedom. And now, on top of that, there is the war, which is terrifying for everyone. Every message or phone call I get makes me feel both relieved and heartbroken—relieved they are alive, heartbroken that they have to live in such fear every day.
R.K.: With the frequent internet outages caused by the Islamic regime, how did being away from your family and hearing news from Iran affect your work and daily mood?
Leila: I couldn’t talk to my family for a few days, and it was one of the most stressful times of my life. When you love people so much and you can’t even send them a short message to ask: “Are you safe?” it feels like you can’t breathe. Every hour felt like a whole day. The internet in Iran was shut down, and no matter how many times I tried to call, there was just silence. I kept staring at my phone, hoping for a message. Anything, but nothing came.
Those days were full of fear. I couldn’t sleep at night. I would wake up every hour and check my phone, even though I knew there was no internet there. During the day, I kept scrolling through social media, refreshing the news again and again, trying to understand what was happening—if the attacks were close to where my family lives, if they were safe, or if they were in danger. Every time I saw a new piece of news, my heart would jump, and I felt sick, imagining the worst. Work felt impossible. I would sit in front of my computer, but my mind was not there at all. Every thought was with my family. Every sound, every message notification made me jump, hoping it was them. When I finally heard from them, I cried—partly from relief, but also from sadness, because I knew they were still living in fear.
R.K.: For Iranians, it is clear that the Islamic Republic always gets its revenge for its defeat from its own people, like what happened to Ukraine International Airlines Flight 752 in 2020. Even the annoucement of the ceasefire made me more stressed about what will happen to my family and our Iran next. After 24 June 2025, we witness the same dystopian scenario, the Islamic Republic uses internet shutdowns to silence dissent, control information, and maintain in power again. Water and power cuts for several hours almost everyday and everywhere. The Islamic Republic arrests people accused of spying for Israel. It shoots civilians as has recently happened to the Sheikhi family. How are you feeling after the ceasefire?
Leila: All my friends who have family in Iran feel the same as us. Even those who don’t have family there are deeply worried. We talk to each other every day, and everyone is scared of what might happen next. It feels like we are all collectively holding our breath, waiting for news, praying for good news, and feeling helpless because we are so far away. How can we protect the people and homeland we love from afar?
*Only the first name is given for security reasons.
Note: For the print edition, we used a different image showing the Iranian flag bearing the emblem of the Islamic Republic. In order to avoid giving the repressive regime a platform, our guest author asked us to change the photo for the online version.
