Fordow. In the Shade of the Grapevine

30 Khordad 1404 (June 20, 2025)

Morning in Abyaneh began not with the sun, but with the smell of heat, which by ten o’clock stood in the air like a dense, tangible wall. I woke up late, surfacing from a sticky dream where I was taking an anatomy exam, but instead of bones, parts of a Kalashnikov rifle lay on the table.

I walked out into the courtyard, holding a cup of coffee—instant, vile, but there was no other here. I was wearing an old tank top and short shorts—a home uniform that no one was supposed to see.

And then I froze.

Under the canopy, in the shade of the grapevine, sat two people. Zeynab and… Zahir. That same soldier from the checkpoint. Understandably, he had leave, but in the desert, there is nowhere to go except to the only house that smells of bread. They were eating dates, neatly stacking the pits in a saucer, and laughing quietly about something.

Zahir looked up. His gaze slid over my bare legs, and he hastily looked away, blushing so hard it was visible even through his tan.

“Oops,” I said. And fled.

I returned to the room, my heart pounding somewhere in my throat. Stupid. Tacky. Like in a cheap romantic comedy. I pulled on wide, light trousers, threw a colorful scarf over my shoulders—carelessly, but enough to hide everything unnecessary. Looked in the mirror. A strand of hair had escaped from under the scarf. I wanted to tuck it back but changed my mind. Let it be. Imperfection is also a style.

When I came out again, Zeynab had already vanished. Aunt Nilu, a wise woman, had taken her to the kitchen to “help with lunch,” whispering something about young people needing to talk.

Zahir stood up at my appearance.

“Good morning, Nasrin-khanum.”
“Hi, Zahir,” I said, sitting opposite him.

He looked surprised.

“How do you know my name?”
“It’s written on your chest,” I nodded at the patch on his uniform. “Or is that classified information?”

He smiled—openly, slightly embarrassed.

“No. Just… didn’t think you noticed.”

We talked about the weather. About the heat. About how strangely quiet it is in the village when the whole world is going crazy. I looked at him and thought: here he is, a soldier. Not a mercenary, not a killer. Just a guy in uniform defending his country because he has to. Because this is his home, his dates, his dust.

“Where do you study?” he asked.
“Medical school. IUMS.”
“A future doctor. Serious. What do you want to specialize in?”
“Pediatrics,” I answered, and was surprised myself at how easily it sounded. “When Zeynab was little, I always looked after her. I liked it.”
“Was she sick often?”
“No!” I laughed. “Almost never. That’s probably why I want to be a pediatrician. Treating healthy children is easier. And you? What will you do when all this… is over?”
“I want to apply to the Shahid Sattari Academy,” he said seriously. “Faculty of Information Systems. My whole family is military. Father, uncle. Even my mother serves. In headquarters, of course.”
“An IT guy in epaulets,” I chuckled. “Sounds promising.”
“Someone has to defend our sky,” he answered simply.

I tucked the loose strand of hair back. Again. It was becoming a nervous tic.

“How was it in Isfahan?” he asked quietly. “When it started.”
“Scary,” I said honestly. “But we left almost immediately. I hope my parents are okay.”
“They’ll be fine. Your father… he looks like a man who knows what he’s doing.”
“Oh yes,” I thought. “He knows. He knows how to kill people and how to sell out the Motherland to save us. But it’s better for you not to know that.”
“Listen,” I asked, “why did they drive you into such a backwater? There’s only sand and scorpions here.”
“Did you see the dirt road past the checkpoint?” he lowered his voice. “It leads to a field airfield. A backup one. We’re guarding it. Just in case.”

The idyll was shattered by the sound of an engine. A black SUV pulled up to the gate. An elderly man in a civilian suit got out, but he carried himself as if he were wearing a general’s uniform. The driver pulled a flat white box from the trunk—a Starlink terminal—and a cardboard box filled with papers.

It was Alavi. My parents’ friend. The one they spoke about in whispers.

Zahir immediately tensed up, straightened. He didn’t know who this was, but his military instinct worked flawlessly.

“I’ll go,” he said. “I won’t intrude.”
“Wait, son,” Alavi waved his hand. “Do you know what this is?” he nodded at the Starlink.
“Yes, sir. Satellite terminal.”
“Help connect and set it up. Does Mrs. Yezdi have a diesel generator?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Handle that. And I’ll talk to Nasrin for a bit.”

We sat under the canopy. Aunt Nilu brought out tea, offered him to stay for lunch, but Alavi politely declined.

“Duty,” he said in the same tone as my father.
“How are my parents?” I asked immediately.
“Safe,” he answered.

“Uh-huh,” I thought. “Safe. Underground, in the crosshairs of American bombs. Great place.”

“I brought this terminal at your mother’s request,” he continued. “So there’s at least some connection. And in the box… that’s my personal archive. Copies. If I don’t return in a couple of days… give this to your parents.”

He looked at me with his intelligent, weary wolfhound eyes.

“I know you have many questions, Nasrin. About me. About your family.”
“I want to know about Grandfather,” I said. “About Ali Ferzali. Mom always said it was an accident. But I’ve seen how she looks at his photo.”

Alavi sighed. He took out a cigarette, rolled it in his fingers, but didn’t light it.

“Ali and Javad, your mother’s uncle… they were working on an interesting political theory. About how the West tries to break us from within. And we… let’s say, we were closely monitoring their work. Your grandfather knew about it. He felt our gaze on his back.”

He paused.

“That day, everything went wrong. The accident happened almost before the eyes of our officer. Moreover, our man was the first to run to the car. He pulled your grandfather out before the gas tank exploded. But… the injuries were incompatible with life.”
“So it was an accident?”
“Yes and no. There is guilt on our part in his death. According to the officer, he noticed a truck moving strangely in the oncoming lane. The driver had fallen asleep. Our man started honking, flashing his lights to warn Ali. But… your grandfather interpreted it differently. Because of the surveillance, because of the constant tension… instead of looking ahead at the road, he looked back. In the rearview mirror. At the ‘tail’ car. And he accelerated. Instead of braking.”

Alavi looked me in the eye.

“The paranoia we cultivated in him ourselves killed him. We wanted to protect him, but instead, we drove him into the grave.”
“And Mom’s uncle? Javad?” I asked. “He died strangely too, didn’t he?”
“Cancer,” Alavi replied. “Banal oncology. But he didn’t believe it until the end. He believed he was poisoned. Reformists, Masons, Western intelligence agencies… his list was constantly growing. We tried to convince him, showed him the tests. Useless. He was a brilliant analyst but became a hostage of his own conspiracy theory. He died believing he was a martyr of a secret war. Perhaps it was easier for him to go that way.”

He stood up.

“I have to go, Nasrin. Take care of yourself. And your sister.”

Zahir finished with the antenna. The diode on the terminal blinked and lit up with a steady white light. There is a connection. For now.

“I have to get back to the post too,” Zahir said. “The guys there must miss me already.”

Aunt Nilu came out onto the porch with a bag.

“Going on an empty stomach?” she lamented. “Take some flatbreads at least. Fresh, hot. Zeynab and I will bake more.”

Zahir took the bag, smiled at her, then at me.

“Thank you, Aunt Nilu. Goodbye, Nasrin.”
“Bye, Zahir.”

He left, and I remained standing, clutching the box of documents that explained why my family was so crazy. And staring at the white dish of the antenna, which looked up at the sky, waiting for a signal from satellites that were guiding missiles at us.

Transmutation →
← Shiraz
← Isfahan