"The Catastrophe That Has Befallen All of Us"

Translation of a diary by a director of an art center in Tehran published on Boston Review

This piece, "The Catastrophe That Has Befallen All of Us," is really special to me. It's written by my oldest friend of 45 years. (You can read more about our friendship here.) I suggested she write down her thoughts mainly to help calm her nerves. What she finally sent me took me by surprise. The whole piece is infused with a kind of empathy that is missing in not just Iran politics outside but politics in general. She writes not only about the stray cat at her now-empty workplace, the small shopkeepers going out of business, her mom but also her own surprise at her grief when interacting with a Basiji at a checkpoint when, as she puts it, "in a brief moment our relationship changed."

Her ability to push past her own particular predicament to feel grief for security forces that one could easily argue do not deserve her empathy is part of a small but very important strand of thought inside Iran. Many of the thinkers platformed on this substack in various ways have been pushing for spaces in which polar opposite ideas can face each other and be in dialogue. But Rahaa’s feelings of both hatred and care towards the enemy expands on simple dialogue towards something different. I’m still puzzling over it.

Below I’ve pasted a small part of it to give you a sense. To read the entire piece go to The Catastrophe That Has Befallen All of Us on Boston Review .

Monday, 25 Esfand 1404 [March 16, 2026]

BBC Persian is broadcasting Trump speaking. He is talking about war with Iran. I really dislike him. I disliked him since his first presidency. He reminds me of [former Iranian president Mahmoud] Ahmadinejad. Vulgar and pretentious. I took a mild painkiller and muted the TV to write.

On Saturday I went to Ekbatan to pick up mom to take her to the doctor. An endocrinologist. The doctor’s office turned out to be in front of a Basij checkpoint. I wasn’t expecting that. I pulled over right behind the Basij vehicle at the checkpoint to let my mom out. As I pressed the brakes to stop, one of the boys, very young, with a pleasant face and stylish glasses, whose face looked more like that of an anti-Basij youth, and yet he wore Basij-military clothes and had a weapon, came forward and said hello, please don’t stop here. I said hello, I’m dropping my mom off and leaving, I’m not parking. With a smile and good manners he said it’s no problem for you to park here, but if they hit us your car might get damaged. . . .

Suddenly I was confused. I couldn’t believe what I heard. It was as if in a brief moment our relationship changed. I said God forbid. I don’t know if he understood that I meant, God forbid they hit you. He said let me help get your mother out. I said no, I’ll get her out. But he was already on the other side of the car, helping mom get out with great care and kindness. And I just kept thanking him. There was neither anger nor fear between us; there was empathy and respect and very polite social interaction, and of course my heart was breaking from sorrow.

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