There Was No Agreement
A young man in Iran writes about his experiences of waiting...for an agreement, for ceasefire, for bombs to drop, for anger to find a place.
US CENTCOM has announced that today, at 10 am, the United States will begin a maritime blockade of Iran on the heel of the collapse of talks between Iran and the United States in Pakistan.
The texts below are written by Mojtaba Kashani. After receiving his BA in Iran, Mojtaba received his masters in global affairs from University of Notre Dame and eventually began his doctoral studies in sociology Carleton University in Canada. When the 12 day war began in June 2025, he left his studies and returned to Iran where he currently resides.
On April 5th, Mojtaba sent me his war writings and a text by Zahra Sabbagh chronicling her war experiences 48 hours before the US president’s deadline and threat that “a whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again.” I published Zahra’s here under the title “Power Plant Day, and Bridge Day, All Wrapped Up in One, in Iran.”
Then on April 12th, he sent me another text, which he called: “There was No Agreement.” There Mojtaba begins with the collapse of the talks but then chronicles how right before the ceasefire began, 6 of his beloved’s family members were killed in a US/Israeli strike on a house in Tehran, referencing relatives of Zahra whose haunting words were written and published right before this tragic event. I asked for their permission to explicitly link the two texts through their relationship as a way to further add layers to their writing and experiences. I recommend reading both Mojtaba and Zahra’s evocative writings here to get a singularly full picture of the ongoing toll of the war and ceasefire on people in the region. I am grateful to both of them for trusting me with their words and their life stories.
Below I have published Mojtaba’s texts in reverse chronological order. First, his latest piece and then I have also included excerpts of his earlier text written in the midst of bombings to give a sense of him but also to explain why he left Tehran for the relative peace of another town, which he references in the text below.
This post is part of a collaborative effort to engage with a wide spectrum of perspectives and analyses published inside Iran. I invite you to read them, incorporate them into your understanding of Iranian politics, and help distribute them widely.
There Was No Agreement by Mojtaba Kashani1
April 12, 2026
This morning I started my day by watching a speech by [US Vice President] J.D. Vance, the one they said was the last remaining peace-seeker in the American government. A bit of preamble and nonsense, followed by a brief conclusion: no agreement was reached.
It’s still too early for any kind of judgment, and some believe this story is far from over. I try to keep my anxiety manageable with tea, frozen bread, and cheese. It does the job of meditation and yoga for me. I don’t know how many kilograms I’ve gained since the first day of the war. But today certainly hasn’t been the hardest day of recent weeks for me. Each day of this war has had its own tale, full of hope and fear, dread and anxiety. But one of them [April 6] still hasn’t faded from my memory.
Perhaps it never will.
I wake up early in the morning. I shouldn’t be awake at this hour. Out of habit, I reach for my phone. It was plugged in overnight, and I feel reassured knowing that if we’re dragged back to the Stone Age, I’ll be able to carry it with me for two extra days. My new morning routine is checking the news and reading personal messages. I open the local app. She is online. I’m a bit surprised since she usually isn’t awake at this hour. I say hello. Immediately, my phone rings. She tries to tell me something though sobs and tears, but her words are unintelligible. The words get lost between her cries. Her sentences break apart. I’m on the verge of a heart attack from fear when I hear this: we’ve been ruined [بدبخت شدیم]… they struck… they’re all dead…
An American missile, guided by advanced precision fighter jets, targeted a house in the middle of the night. Several people, men and women, old and young, were killed instantly, and dozens were seriously injured. No one has even had a chance to announce how many homes were destroyed.
I’m in shock. I can’t even find a way to express my anger and rage. I barely find an empty seat on the first bus and head back to Tehran. The last time an explosion went off right next to me [see below], I was so terrified that I decided not to return to the city [Tehran] until the war was over. I had thought I could get away from the missiles and keep myself safe. But what about the lives of my loved ones? Or the loved ones of my loved ones? I had fled the war, but there is no escaping it.
I don’t have time to pack. My laptop, a toothbrush, and a black shirt. Even that is more than you need in wartime. I don’t have time to go home. I change my clothes in the bus terminal restroom and put on the black shirt. I go to a café and wait [for her]. We hold each other tight. My embrace won’t bring anyone back to life, but I don’t know what else to do. I try to listen and empathize. Everyone is dead except one person. The tea tastes bitter, and the sugar crystals turns to paste in my mouth. I swallow the lump in my throat. I smoke several cigarettes in a row, and only at the end do I remember that I don’t even smoke. I wish I could express my anger but not here with tearful eyes and trembling lips. I don’t know where to place this fury.
The next morning, I wake up in horror. Less than 24 hours remain until the deadline set by the president of the cradle of modern democracy to drag us into the Stone Age. What does the Stone Age even look like? Who will enslave us? The prime minister of the only democracy in the Middle East, not to be out done, has also announced that we should stay home until 9 p.m., as they are going to blow up many places: roads, railway lines, bridges, and…
I’m scared, but I don’t intend to leave Tehran. Mom and Dad are deeply worried. Yesterday I had rushed to take the bus so quickly that there had been no chance to say goodbye to them. No one’s said a word but I’m sure we’re all thinking: What if we never see each other again?
Each hour brings new news. With each explosion, we’re pushed months or years backward. Bus tickets are selling out. I eventually buy one. I have a few hours [before it departs]. I find a café in the middle of the city to be alone with myself. Unlike the streets, the café isn’t that empty. I find a cozy seat by the street. I scroll through the news on the domestic app. It all contradicts each other. Out of sheer idleness and loneliness, I just sit and watch people. A girl is sitting on a bench by the side of the street, smoking carelessly. She says she’s tired and prays: “Let it hit, let it [all] end and be over.” I think of the people who formed human chains on bridges and near power plants. I wasn’t there, but even seeing those images and hearing the melody of the kamancheh [a bowed string instrument] stirred a faint lump in my throat.2 What if they really do hit and end everything?
I get on the bus. Not a single empty seat. By sheer luck, I’ve managed to buy a limited-data VPN at a high price. I read some news and analysis. Not even two analysts say the same thing. Someone on Al-Jazeera has said that Israel might, for the first time, use a controlled nuclear bomb to consolidate its power. One says Trump is bluffing; another says he’s serious. I don’t know which to believe.
Social media is eerily silent. I glance at Telegram groups of Iranians living abroad. They are counting down the time until the deadline, just like people standing in Times Square waiting for the New Year ball to drop. But here, the fireworks kill people. Real people with real stories, dreams, fears, and hopes. I decide to save what little VPN data I have left and doze off until I reach my destination.
The rideshare driver drives in silence. She only asks me if we can stop at a gas station along the way. I agree since who knows whether there will be any gasoline tomorrow. It’s past midnight and the asphalt is wet from rain. The streets are deserted, and the singer sings:
“Kiss me, kiss me
For the last time
Goodbye to you
As I go toward my fate”3
What if that meeting in the café, in black clothes, was truly our last? It shouldn’t be like this. Just now, the news says Trump is considering a two-week ceasefire proposal put forward by Pakistan or as some domestic media call them, our Pakistani brothers. What illusions we had that the white men would bring us peace. My heart warms a little.
“Amid the storm, allied with the boatmen
We must pass beyond life itself, beyond the storms”
They say grief has stages. I’m not sure how accurate that is. But this favorite song of mine has pushed the peak of my anger to the surface.
I remember a poem by my favorite poet, Mahmoud Darwish:
“I am still alive…
A thousand thanks for this unexpected blessed event
Presidents in America are trying
To make America turn on the drinking water.
How shall we wash the dead?
And America, atop the fences,
Gives every child
A cluster bomb toy for death
America is the plague itself
And the plague is America…”4
An Excerpt from “Tonight I was Killed” by Mojtaba Kashani
March 29, 2026
Tonight I was killed. My soul was torn from my body and fell onto the ground. The earth trembled, it gave way beneath my feet, and it became certain to me that I would never see tomorrow morning.
I’m sprawled on my bed, my eyes heavy. Silence has taken over everything. With five heavy blows, I jolt awake and, terrified, rush toward a place I imagine is safe. Mom, unconcerned, bangs a spoon against the pot to scrape off the bit of stew stuck to it. I curse the spoon and go back to bed.
I’m angry that I couldn’t tell the difference between a metal spoon and a missile. I lie back down and pull the blanket over myself. I’m suffocated by the heat, but the weight of the blanket reassures me. As if I think it’s a shelter that will protect my life.
…
After days of continuous rain, the sky has cleared. Now I can see the whole street and easily distinguish the sounds of drones, air defense, fighter jets, and missiles. There’s no more sound of pouring rain or sudden thunder. I get lost in my thoughts and my eyes close. I see nothing but endless, dense darkness.
I wake up in terror. Screams come from outside. My brain isn’t working, but my body is doing everything it can to survive. Luckily, I have clothes on. Mom and I take refuge in the hallway, thinking we’ll be safe from the windows. Deep down I know this is a false sense of security, but I want to believe this is not the last moment of my life.
I start going through the wartime instructions one by one: during an explosion, stay away from windows, lie on the ground, place your hands over your head and ears, and keep your mouth slightly open to avoid the blast wave. But then what? I’ve forgotten. I can hear my own heartbeat. That means I’m still alive. I struggle to breathe. Fear must have stopped my breathing for a moment, and now my body is fighting to regain the lost oxygen.
…
Suddenly, a deafening sound rises from the sky—like a thousand warriors blowing into a single pipe, or spectators blasting their horns. The sky over Tehran seems to tear open. I feel like a phantom is hovering above us. I’m frozen in fear, following the sound with my ears. With several powerful strikes, the ground lifts from its place. The building sways. The windows tremble and bricks fall from the walls. I’m terrified, collapsed into myself. I’m stunned. There’s no prayer I can whisper to calm myself.
Again, the sound of the sky splitting. This time I’m certain it will land directly on my head. Each blow is heavier and closer. Now I’ve truly become a frightened animal, reduced to primal instincts. Like a dog, I pant to gulp down some oxygen. My heart feels like it’s being torn out. I think to myself: if my heart bursts out and blood gushes, who will take responsibility? I don’t even know the name of the precision pilot.
A few minutes pass, and the city falls into a deadly silence. I stretch slightly and slowly remove my hands from my ears. Carefully, I take a few deep breaths and convince my body that the danger has passed. I glance around the house. Everything seems to be in place. My hands are trembling. I feel like a wandering spirit. I don’t want to see myself in the mirror. I’m afraid the chariots of death will return. I’m certain that this time my skull will be split open. We leave everything behind and rush out of the house.
…
Twenty-eight days have passed since the war began, and I have never felt this helpless and desperate. The night has sunk into a dense darkness and stretched longer than ever. The street is empty, the house is dark, the pilots are resting—and I am glad that before my birthday arrived, I did not become an inevitable casualty of war.
I have been asked if I could post the original Persian of the texts I receive personally and that are not published elsewhere. I will try to upload them as pdfs with stable urls after receiving permission. Please revisit here in a couple of days if you are looking for the link.
Hamidreza Afrideh, the owner of a music school in Tehran that was hit by missiles, sat in the ruins of his school and played the tar. You can hear a bit of his haunting music and learn more here:
Mojtaba is referencing an iconic song called Kiss Me [مرا ببوس] first performed by Hassan Golnaraqi in the 1950s and later covered by various artists, most famously Vigen Derderian. You can hear the Golnaraqi version here:
This is an excerpt from the Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish’s long poem, “In Praise of the High Shadow,” written as Darwish was leaving Beirut after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982. In Mojtaba’s original text in Persian, the poem’s translator is سعید هلیچی