Delam

Day one, we keep the news on all day, tempering concern with the knowledge that tensions arise from time to time. Was this World War 3 or just the usual tit for tat? A more deadly repeat of 2024, but a one-off. We keep it light. East v West is a normal backdrop to our lives – a conflict we carry in our bones.

 

Day two, I ask Dad if he’s worried about a full-on war.

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“No, I am not… if my time comes, so be it. But I’m coming back in two weeks anyway.”

“Good. What about Zak?” I ask, unsubtly urging him to consider the longer-term consequences for my 15-year-old brother who moved back to Tehran eight months earlier.

“He might come, but he’s happy in Iran.”

 

Day three, and I send a rare Father’s Day message.

“Happy Father’s Day. Don’t get bombed.” One tick. He’s fine. Of course he’s fine.

 

I have lunch with my English mother in Cambridge, checking my phone every few minutes for a second tick. She doesn’t seem concerned. Tehran was her home once. She understands the waves.

  

Home by nine and straight to bed.

 

I scroll through footage for the first time. Bombing near Valiasr Square. Valiasr, a long street from north to south. Valiasr where I lived as a barely verbal two-year-old with a sour face and a bowl haircut. The place I wrote about as an adult in an attempt to reconnect with the city that housed my earliest memories.

 

I was four when we moved back to England and switched back from Farsi to English. I’d drift off to sleep only by imagining I could fly through the clouds and get back home. Delam baraye Iran tang shodeh. I miss Iran. Delam. Heart. Delam. Stomach. Tang. Tight. An elastic band.

 

We visited when I was seven, and then when I was 15. And now 25 years have passed.

 

One tick. Valiasr. Delam.

 

One tick. “I guess you don’t have internet. Text me when you can though.”

 

Three hours’ sleep. Is this happening? Finally? The threat that’s lingered for decades.

 

Dad Other. “Just trying this number.” One tick.

 

London’s as hot as Tehran. My blinds are closed and I don’t get out of my pyjamas. My eyes dart between screens. Work. News. Instagram. WhatsApp. Work. News. Instagram. WhatsApp.

 

Dad Iran Mob. “Just trying this in case you can get texts.”

 

Work. News. Instagram. WhatsApp.

 

“Salam Baba. Hopefully you can get email?” 

 

“People learn to adapt to war,” my brother with an international relations degree tells me. “Grandma went to a church service when she visited Mum and Dad during the Iran-Iraq war.”

 

He’s wise. Not easily panicked. Understands the rhythms of foreign policy. I’m being silly.

Day four, I message my big brother. 

 

"Anything from Dad?"

"No, he’s not been online, but Zak’s got intermittent access so we can try him."

“Is Dad in Tehran or has he gone to the north?”

“God knows with him”

“If anyone’s going to head back into a warzone for the hell of it, it’d be Dad.”
“Ha, he’d bloody love it!”

 

We don’t recognise anxiety. We only know laughter.

 

There are no flights. Why has this only just registered? Two weeks ago, he was here.

 

“I’ll be in Heathrow before my flight at 9:30.”

“I’m so sorry Baba, that’s really early, and I’m so tired.”
“That’s OK I’ll be back in a few weeks, we’ll do something then.”

“Defo.”

 

Our relationship had never been so easy. Two years since we’d resumed contact, each meeting more honest and open. We even talk about dating, acknowledging how weird a subject it is, while each wondering how the other’s still learnt nothing about the opposite sex.

 

Day five. One tick. I call his Iranian number then his English one. Operator voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail. One hopeful ring then voicemail. Voicemail.

 

We’re meant to accept what we can’t control, and to make peace with it. Make peace with war. The possibility of war. Make peace with the uncertainty of war. Make peace with the war within us. Make peace with the possibility that it could be months before you see or hear from him. Make peace with the possibility you’re overreacting. Make peace with the fact you’re feeling a yearning for a land you haven’t known for years. Make peace. Peace. Would you even recognise it?

​

Day six and Zak texts back. VPN. Clever kid. He’s fine, he’s in Tehran with his mum. Why is he in Tehran? He’s not worried but he says it’s quiet. Shops are closed. He’s playing computer games. Dad’s in the north.

 

“Do you have your British passport?”

“Yes”

“Keep it safe. Don’t let anyone see it or take it.”
“OK.”

"Do you have Dad's landline?"

"What's a landline?"

​​

In the evening I force myself out to a show. I’m alone, trying to laugh. I leave feeling the same as when I went in. I wander through Covent Garden, crying in 30-second bursts, judging every feeling I’m trying to release while finding no comfort.

 

Trump says two weeks. Hopefully it will settle for now. It’s contained.

 

Still one tick. I wonder if I’d feel so anxious if he’d been a reliable father. What am I worried about?

 

I try to sit with the uncertainty but open the fridge instead.

 

Day nine. I sing at a wedding in Yorkshire and stay at a friend’s. I argue with her neighbour who has a problem with me parking exactly where I’m allowed to park. I stand my ground and call her rude before bursting into tears. I’m handling this really well. I do the gig and get back at midnight. Scroll. News. Scroll. News. WhatsApp. Scroll. News.

 

Bunker busters.

 

The gleeful 2am dick-on-the-desk address.

 

What the fuck is happening? Is this real? Or just another performance? Both can be true. The theatre of war.

 

We need to get Zak out.

 

Three hours’ sleep.

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Day 10. The UK can’t help in Iran. I’ve known this my whole life. I start to get paranoid about our messages and delete references to his passport and VPNs. It’s not like that anymore but you never know with war. 

 

“Do you have a notebook with important numbers? Write these down.”

“Do you have a portable charger? A pen-knife? A letter of consent?”

“I’m sorry, I know this is probably all unnecessary.”

“Do you know where the borders are?”

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“I need to see what Baba says. Can my mum come too?”

​

“We’ll look into it.” Iranians can stay in Turkey or Armenia for 90 days.

 

Am I making him anxious?

 

Zak knows his country better than I ever will. But I know the price of indecision and how war changes things. Controls get tighter, borders close. Supplies get cut off. Life gets unpredictable. If this goes on for years, will he be drafted? Probability might be low but the price is high. 

 

Why is he still in Tehran?

 

I message everyone I can think of. Embarrassing voicenotes while driving down the M1, my mind nowhere near the road. Anyone I can think of connected with the army, law, politics, the RAF. Anyone who knows anything. I don’t have time to be embarrassed but every message is laced with apologies and thank-yous.

 

What am I feeling now? Is this real? It’s hard to get out. We’ve always known how hard it is to get out. Is this my mother’s anxiety?

 

“I was worried that if he took you to Iran, I'd never get you back. The British government can’t protect you there.”

​

Scenes of Sally Field in Not without my daughter still etched in my mind.

 

Whose feelings are these?

 

I hover over B’s name. Three months since I put a pin in the heartache. Block. Unfollow. Busy busy busy. Fuck you. Bed at 3, up at 7. Lipstick on. Busy busy. 300-mile drives. Busy. Delam. Delam.

 

Unblock.

 

I start a voicenote then stop. He can’t help you. I start again. Is this too far? Do I want him to save me? Will he ignore me? This is more important. I need all the information. Better to be embarrassing but with information.

 

He replies straight away. Delam.

 

I voicenote my sister-in-law. You're not being silly, you're being sensible. We agree we need to get Zak out. Dad’s safe in the north for now.

 

M1 to A1.​

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Dad Other ringing.

​

 

Salam Baba! Can you hear me? Where are you? Are you OK?

Yes I’m OK.

Why don’t you take Zak to Turkey?

Yes, we probably should but I need to think.

OK, but I think it’s important that we act.

OK, it will probably cut off soon as we only get two minutes.

OK but...

 

Call back. Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail.

 

I could have said “I love you” before firing questions. Why can't you just listen? He's lived through wars. What do you know?

 

I park up in central London, watch comedy with friends and tell them my brain’s elsewhere. 

 

B messages with off-the-record info. 

 

More ChatGPT and googling while I go to after-show drinks. A welcome bear hug from one comic. An eye-glazing monologue from another.

 

I walk back to my car in a daze and drive home listening to Radio 4. Last time I did this drive, I spoke to B the whole journey.

 

Home by one and straight to bed. More scrolling. I guess this is love. All of it. Whether you like it or not. It changes nothing. It just is. Delam.

 

I cry myself to sleep.

​

 

Day 11.

“How was last night?”

“OK. It’s quiet now.”
“Could you hear the bombs?”
“Yes, but it’s OK – they’re not targeting civilians. Mum thinks we should go though because we’re not that far from a military base.”

“That’s sensible. Where?”

“The north. Dad says he’ll come back to Tehran.”

 

FFS.

 

Iran still deliberating.

 

I get all Zak’s possible locations just in case. What’s your address? Can you share your location? Where are you going exactly? I check the route, ask ChatGPT how to get an Iranian SIM and what VPN options I have. 

 

ChatGPT is trying its best. Armenia? Turkey? Surely not Azerbaijan. It draws up tables, cites past events. What’s safer for Brits isn’t safer for Iranians even if it’s the same person. How far is he from the nearest border? What would you put in a 15-year-old's rucksack? 

I look at the latest reels at the borders. It looks calm. I’m overreacting. I ask my brother-in-law to translate Turkish. What happens over time when war breaks out? Where do charities and refugee camps set up? Safety first. Exit second. What are the roads like? Where are the targets?

 

“Write these numbers down Zak. They all start +44. OK?”
“OK.”

 

Then Qatar. 

 

I once walked by two men arguing on Oxford Street. A crowd formed as they swore at each other and hurled threats and insults before one finally threw a punch and they froze. They stared at each other, stunned by the bloody nose, chests still puffed but humiliated. They took a breath, offered a flicker of a nod, and retreated.

 

Is that it? Ceasefire?

 

I reread B’s messages. Watch his stories. Who cares if he can see. Delam.

Day 12. “They don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.” Ceasefire.

 

What just happened?

 

 

 

I breathe.

 

 

 

What was that?

 

12 days. Where did I go?

 

I feel my peripheral vision returning.

 

“We’ve left Tehran now. I helped Dad get internet.”

​

Clever kid.

 

I breathe.

 

What just happened?

 

The elastic band snaps. My heart.

 

I feel where the two missing pieces should be. Both home.

 

Still out of reach. But I’m closer. Delam.

 

Two ticks.

 

Salam Baba.