Local Anesthesia

Tuesday, October 22, 2024

“I am a stranger.” A stranger whose laughter carries no accent, yet whose tears are sometimes tinted with the voice of Umm Kulthum and sometimes with Mohammad Reza Shajarian. She knows the oud as well as she understands the Iranian tar, and she has listened just as closely to the Syrian accordion. Her clothes are colorful, like a Palestinian thobe. Her hair is burnt chestnut, and now in Iran she loosely drapes a scarf over her head, like some women do.

“You know you’re a stranger.” Shirin says she recognizes the feeling of estrangement. Like a mother who has learned the sound of her child’s cry, Shirin knows what it means to have lived 25 years in Syria and 13 years in Iran, while her roots trace back to Palestine.

“I understand the feeling of being a stranger, both when I was in Syria and now that I’m in Iran.” Shirin is one of the six million people who left their homeland and settled elsewhere. “All Palestinians around the world feel obliged to carry a symbol of Palestine. I have a Palestine necklace; someone else has a chafiye, another a bracelet. Everyone keeps some symbol at home. It’s an unwritten rule.”

The woven bracelet around her wrist is shaped like a watermelon—a fruit grown across the land of Palestine, from the West Bank to Gaza. Because of its four colors—red, green, black, and white, the colors of the Palestinian flag—it has become a symbol of the country, especially after Israel banned public displays of the Palestinian flag, when the symbol gained wider recognition around the world.

“I have never known this feeling in my whole life. You know it, but I don’t know what it is—that feeling of being a citizen.” Shirin believes she does not belong anywhere. For her, the meaning of citizenship is just words she once read in books: “A person who lives in a city; an inhabitant of a city or a country.” (Moein Persian Dictionary.)

“Wherever I went, war followed me.” Yet war is older than Shirin. The Israel–Palestine conflict began in 1947, and the Syrian war in 2011. Shirin did not witness the Palestinian war; her parents had already migrated to a neighboring land. At 25, she left Syria for the second time and came to Iran. She was supposed to pursue a master’s degree in engineering, but later fell in love with political science and acting. “My father told me: when you go to Iran, don’t talk about two things—religion and politics.”

Shirin chose to study journalism, which included both political science and, in her view, something of acting: “They attack. Everyone knows this.” Now, for the third time, war has come within a few steps of her. “If I migrate again, there’s no telling where war might break out.” She says this and finishes her Americano. Tiraje Shopping Center on Nezamabad Street in Tehran hasn’t been around long. The shops are half-empty, and the café sits at the center of the mall, watching over them.

“But this time, I’m not going anywhere.” Shirin says firmly: “A war like the one unfolding in Palestine and Syria won’t happen here, but Israel will attack.” Approaching forty, she no longer wants to start from zero. “Be afraid? No, honestly, after a certain point, fear loses its meaning. After my father died, many things in my life changed.”

Shirin’s bookish tone arranges her sentences like a school disciplinarian: “My father was in the army. He was once wounded in the Syrian war. A few months ago, he was diagnosed with cancer and passed away. They told me after some time. When you’re always a migrant, you fall behind events. After my father’s death, everything in my life changed.”

Around the café, someone asks about the dollar exchange rate. News has come that Israel will attack, though it’s unclear when. Documents detailing Israeli strikes in response to Iran’s October 1 missile attack have been published, specifying the targeted areas. No one yet knows how these documents were leaked. The news says Iran will respond. Shirin says an Israeli attack on Iran is certain.

Wednesday, October 23, 2024

No one is taking the war seriously. Like the cawing of a crow at dawn—sometimes muttered at with half-asleep curses—the news of war has only disturbed a few people’s sleep. At a private school in western Tehran, politics is hardly discussed. Some students, with their childlike insistence, say there is no war at all; a small number believe otherwise. One says everything has been exaggerated: “Nothing’s going to happen. Last year they said there would be a war too, and nothing happened.”

The bell for the extracurricular class rings and those who use school transportation leave. With every opening and closing of the door, the cool autumn evening air slips into the classroom. The debate grows warmer.
“Miss, it’s not like that. Israel has built lots of drones and missiles to attack Iran. It’s not like in Mordad. I think this time they’ll really attack.”

“Miss, I was just about to say I’m not worried about war at all, because if they hit places where innocent people are, it’s considered a war crime.”

“Yes, it would be a war crime. Even America, its biggest supporter, would attack it.”

Negar and Saba will graduate in five years. For now, they sit behind the desks of a seventh-grade classroom, hoping one will become a puppet theater actress and the other study hotel management. The girls have never seen war. What they know comes from Instagram or TikTok. Negar’s family has told her not to think about it: “My mom says don’t even think about these things.”

Saba, who had firmly said there would be war, is not pessimistic about the attacks: “If they hit somewhere, they’ll hit an oil refinery. An oil refinery is important, but I mean they announced beforehand so people wouldn’t go there.” Worry seems distant from Saba, like her dream of becoming a theater actress. “At first I was scared. But now that some time has passed, I’m not scared. The first few days my family talked about it, but now we don’t even talk about it anymore.”

On the other side of the small classroom on Seif Street in District Two, Nazanin and Mahsa wrestle with their mobile phones—temporarily allowed at this hour—like spoils of war, as if they hadn’t been holding them all morning.

“I’m not worried at all. I’m more worried that flights have been canceled and that the things I order online won’t arrive. What do I order? I follow so many online shops. I buy everything—blazers, Alo sneakers.”

Mahsa points to Nazanin’s shoes and says that’s what she means by “blazer”—the shoes she’s wearing. Nazanin recites foreign flight updates like an airport operator: “Right now flights are canceled. Only Turkish has gone back to its old schedule, and there are no other international flights.”

Nazanin says she buys all these items with the daily money her parents give her. Mahsa, on the other hand, worries about something more collective. She fears war might cut off water and electricity and leave her hungry—an image resembling every ground war. “I worry about school too. Like not being able to come to school, study, work, save money.”

Mahsa’s GPA is 19.90 out of 20. The most studious and, at the same time, the most playful student in the seventh grade. She wants to study science and become a dentist. “I want to study something that makes money. I want to buy my own house. Buy a blazer.” She stretches out the word “blazer.” Nazanin says she has a pair of black shoes from that brand she could lend her. But Mahsa wants something that is her own.

Iran International is on every night in their house. “The TV stays on until 1 a.m. My dad is very worried.” The shape of worry in Nazanin’s family is different: “My aunt says if war starts, come to our villa. Her house has a pool.”

“Well, if there’s war, they’ll hit there too.”
“No, it’s far from the city. It has a big yard. It’s not a place they’d target. We eat grilled chicken every night. You should come too. They have everything.”

The official class time ends. Nazanin and Mahsa are the last to leave the extracurricular seventh-grade class. The conversation about the aunt’s house continues into the schoolyard.

Today the news reported that since last October 7, five children have lost their lives every hour in the Gaza Strip. The World Health Organization has also said that more than 40 percent of the 7,028 Palestinians killed in Israeli attacks were children.

Shirin says that after the war in Syria, children there became like military analysts: “They can tell from the sound of fighter jets which direction the attack came from and what weapon was used.” War-affected children analyze political relations. Some began to believe war would happen after reading that Channel 12 reported the Israeli army had completed preparations for an attack on Iran.

Shirin finishes her Americano. The café attendant carries a tray of tea to the next table. Several men and a young woman have come to shop; beside them lie a few white bags bearing the logo of a Turkish brand.

Thursday, October 24, 2024

Since October 2, when Iran attacked Israel, Mohammad has become more sensitive to sounds: “I’m even afraid of the sound of construction work. I constantly check the news to see whether it was an attack or an earthquake.” It was on October 6 that Semnan trembled; the earthquake measured 4.5 on the Richter scale. It occurred at 22:45 and its intensity was such that it was also felt in Tehran. Mohammad thought it was an attack; many others on social media, like him, imagined that an explosion had occurred. Mohammad is thirty-four years old and has just returned to Iran from Germany. Mohammad does not have an image of the eight-year Iran–Iraq war in his mind, but he has brothers who all witnessed the war: “Am I worried? Yes, I am worried. Even my habits have changed; one of them is this fear of sounds.” Many times he has been frightened by the sounds of neighbors, by a building frame that has moved, and by electrical appliances whose knocking sounds he has heard on some nights: “I have developed another habit as well; in the mornings when I wake up, I check my phone.” Mohammad says that before he used to have the habit of reading books and listening to music, but now the first thing he does after opening his eyes is checking his phone and reading the news: “What if they attacked somewhere overnight and the news comes out in the morning.” On the ninth day of the Iraq–U.S. war in the 1990s, strange and different habits had also appeared among the people of Baghdad. Naha Al-Radhy, the modern painter who wrote the book Baghdad Diaries, says that at the time of the attack people’s habits changed: one person had put aside their obsession, while another had turned to knitting sweaters, coats, and scarves.

Maryam, however, unlike him, is not worried: “I never believed that I could be waiting for war and still continue my daily life. Maybe if I were in another situation, I would go shopping, buy provisions, and prepare my necessities, but now I don’t do these things and I look at war as something that increases adrenaline.” Maryam is a journalist; her days and nights are intertwined with the world of news, but for her the news functions as a source that increases excitement: “I know that war is inevitable, but it seems not for me; it is as if I am not going to experience the war and these narratives and scenarios belong to other people, not to me. It seems to belong to someone else and not to me. It feels as if I am reading it.”

They say that after the documents about Israel’s attack on Iran were leaked, Israel postponed the attack. At the BRICS summit in Russia, there has also been talk about war between Iran and Iraq.

Nasser, an online taxi driver, also says that the news has said they will attack: “Like last time, it will hit a desert wasteland; it does not dare to attack the city.”

The café fills and empties; from the nearby and middle tables several people have ordered “matcha tea,” a drink that they say makes you lose weight and is calming. Shirin remembers that when, after five years of staying in Iran, she went to Syria, she was afraid of the sounds but her family was not. Every time a fighter jet passed over her head she would jump a few meters from her place and want them to go to the shelter, but her family would be surprised by her reaction: “They would very easily say the attack was far away just now; from the sounds they understood whether it was far or near. Even the children could tell.” She remembers her brother, who when the attacks became more intense would “panic” and have no control over his voice and behavior: “At normal times he was not like this, but at the time of the attack he became someone else.”

Saturday, October 26, 2024

At two in the middle of the night some residents of Tehran woke up to the sound of missiles and the activation of air defense systems; sleep broke in their eyes. At five in the morning, even those who had not woken up during the previous attack were deprived of sleep. Shahin, a resident of eastern Tehran, had gone to the window at two at night to see what had happened: “I thought maybe I would see a light, but I only heard the sound.” Shahin remembers the eight-year war well: “Our house was in the Air Force area, and it was constantly attacked.” Fifty-one-year-old Shahin remembers the days of the bombings: “Once during Nowruz there was an attack near the boulevard by our house; shrapnel fell into the doors and walls of the houses. People said Saddam had given an Eid gift.” Zari, his wife, had also lived in the same area; she remembers that one of her classmates was killed: “We saw their house; it had been split in half. Later they put up her photo at school and next to her name they wrote ‘martyr.’” At two at night all the memories became fresh again for Zari and Shahin, but this attack was different: “It was a joke; it did not feel like war.”

The sun of the next morning rose like every other day. At six-thirty in the morning people were at Kargar bus station as usual, so that they could get themselves to their workplaces on Haft-e Tir Street, Karimkhan Zand Street, and Valiasr Square in Tehran. Reporters from IRIB went among people in different cities to report on the situation; some were running in Laleh Park and others on Keshavarz Boulevard, as usual. Some others, however, were frightened; those who had heard the sound of explosions.

Amirmehdi is in the sixth grade; he says that on the morning after the night when, instead of the rain he had been waiting for, war had rained from the sky, their school’s morning ceremony was held in an enclosed hall: “I saw in movies that when people run away, airplanes hit them. I thought maybe that was why they took us into the hall, because in the yard we run, and they didn’t want the airplanes to hit us.” Amirmehdi says that later he understood that his thought had not been correct. He is anxious; even his therapist has told him this. His parents talk and hear a lot about war; on the night of the attack he also heard the noise and woke up from sleep. He had seen the continuation of the attacks in his dreams: “They told the teachers not to say anything about war; only our math teacher asked whether anyone had heard the sound or not.” Amirmehdi studies in a public school in the city center and, according to himself, he laughed at what the children were saying about the war: “The boy sitting next to me said they hit with ballistic missiles, I laughed a lot.”

UNICEF has republished methods for protecting children during wartime news. Some media outlets, quoting this international organization that supports children, also wrote that “as a result of prolonged periods of post-incident stress, children face severe health and psychological risks and its consequences may be lifelong.” The Air Defense Organization has issued a statement saying that the damages have been limited and will be announced soon. Airline routes open and close. Marjan, who has been living in the United States for two years, has become frightened by the news of airline routes opening and closing: “Are you taking care of yourselves?”

Tuesday, October 29, 2024

From a few days before Israel’s attacks everyone was worried about the price of the dollar, but since the time of the attack the price of the dollar had relative stability. Today, however, the market has moved significantly. The sellers on Ferdowsi Street say the price has gone up and there is no news of dollars in the market. They say the market conditions are bad: “The market is ruined; once they used to say Iran had again gone onto the FATF blacklist, and that news would make the dollar differ by two or three thousand tomans, but now they fire missiles, a number goes up, and it quickly falls down.” Mehdi, who has been buying and selling dollars for fifteen years, says this shows that money has left the currency market. But Siavash thinks prices are so high that no one has the ability to buy or sell dollars anymore: “For people it no longer makes any difference.” Mehdi says: “Money is now in parallel markets; in my opinion the first one is coins.” Milad, another seller, says these days they advertise and say gold is God’s money: “Imagine that a huge and strange war happens and the whole world becomes involved; then the dollar and the euro no longer have value, the thing that is valuable is gold, and that is why people have moved toward gold.”

Mehdi, however, has other reasons as well, such as the fact that the global price of gold goes up and down and that means government intervention in it is less: “Money is not even in the property market; it is stagnant. A property that last year they said was five billion, now they say four billion and two hundred, because no one buys. Parallel markets have formed, either they created them or the people themselves developed the tendency.” Mehdi says that if these missiles had been launched three years ago, the jump in the dollar would have gone up to fifteen thousand tomans, but now even three days after the attack nothing special happened until today.

Siavash says on the day of the attack the dollar had an hourly jump, but after the attack ended everything returned to the previous state: “Some are contaminated by the market and buy and sell, but it is no longer like before that people come and invest; they simply do not have money.” Qasem, another seller, however, says that during this period some company traders have been buying and selling.

Mark Harrison, an economist who also saw the cause of the outbreak of World War II as economic, says in the book The Economics of War that wars have deep effects on economic structures and often cause structural changes in a country’s economy. He believed that in World War II the only determining factor was not the luck of countries or the abilities of commanders or the courage of soldiers, but only the economic power of the sides involved in the war.

Shirin says the difference between the war in Syria and these attacks on Iran is that “in Syria there was money but there were no goods, but here there are goods and people do not have much money.”

Saturday, November 2, 2024

News about the elections was getting clicks in the news agencies, and the world’s media were also occupied with the elections. Four people were killed as a result of Israel’s attack; one of them was a civilian and the other three were military personnel. Behnaz does not even feel inclined to respond; her eyes, the muscles of her face, and even her hands and feet say that, in Shirin’s words, she has become “weary.” She is thirty years old and has a three-year-old son. Her only fear of war is that direct confrontations might occur: “I have set a boundary for myself; the moment the matter becomes serious and more vivid for me is when I know that a face-to-face war is going to happen, and even then the side of my being a mother becomes more prominent. But to say that I have daily stress, no, it is not like that; maybe it is somewhere in the corner of my mind, but I do nothing else about it.” She says that in the past few years her social and personal life has changed: “It is not only that I am like this in my personal life. I feel that the concerns of society and even its threshold of tolerance have changed. It has become like an illness in which the whole body aches, and it has also accepted this pain. For us it also makes no difference if the pain becomes greater.” She says that these days she has been wandering in the housing and car markets and has been the seller of one and the buyer of another: “Before, in times of war, people were afraid and because of the fear of explosions and losing their capital they would not go toward the housing market at all, but what I saw was that they were buying and selling very easily.”

Scientific associations of psychology and Iranian psychiatrists on September 21 last year warned in a statement that the country’s social situation and mental health are influenced by the country’s macro policies: “Any policy and program in the domestic and foreign sphere that negatively affects these factors has a destructive effect on individuals’ mental health and their relationship with themselves, with one another, and with society.” From two years ago until now mental health specialists say that they have repeatedly heard from their clients that they are depressed and hopeless, and some are trying to emigrate. Amirhossein Jalali Nodoushan, a psychiatrist, told one of the media outlets last year that depression or the desire to reduce a great sorrow was one of the most important things he had witnessed.

Shirin says she is not willing to have another migration; she wants to stay in Iran even though, as she herself says, “I have no house here, a house there.”