2014, Boryspil Airport, Ukraine
A tall brunette man wearing a tracksuit from the Ukrainian national team caught the attention of many at Boryspil Airport. His baseball cap, sneakers, and backpack—all in yellow and blue—stood out. His outfit was likely influenced by the revolutionary events that had unfolded the day before in Kyiv. Initially, my husband noticed him and assumed he was probably Iranian.
I'm flying out of the annoying Kyiv to a country with strict rules, where Islam is practiced at the state level. Scary? Not in the slightest. My deep love for my husband and the confidence that everything would be fine only heightened my curiosity about Iran. It was a new adventure, drawing me into the unknown, a place in my imagination painted with endless sand dunes beneath a cloudless sky.
The flight is delayed. A man, dressed like an athlete, is flying with us—he’s definitely Iranian. Ahead of us in line to board were a grandson and his Ukrainian grandmother. She was carrying a Kyiv cake in hand. Another three hours, and the right to be in a public place without a headscarf will no longer be in my favour. Eventually, this everyday accessory will feel terribly annoying, but for now, the athlete, who seemed to have a deep affection for Ukraine, occupies my thoughts.
The stereotype of Iran being dangerous shattered into pieces in my mind the moment I landed at Imam Khomeini Airport. At passport control, passengers kindly offered to let one another go ahead in line, repeatedly apologizing and exchanging warm smiles. These gestures often blossomed into friendly conversations filled with gratitude, expressed more elaborately than in many other cultures. Later, while studying Persian, I discovered the concept of taarof — an art of elaborate politeness and a deeply ingrained social etiquette. This tradition of treating guests with exceptional kindness, even prioritizing them over one’s own family, has been rooted in Iranian culture since the days of ancient Persia.
Tehran, a city with a history spanning a thousand years, nestles at the foot of the Alborz mountain range, leaning against the towering Mount Tochal. In the north, where snow-capped peaks dominate the skyline, you can ski; while to the south, the desert awaits. Building a connection with the city may take time, but after six months of living here, I found myself eager to share my favourite spots with fellow foreigners.
We’re heading to Tehran, and my mind is filled with various thoughts. Yet, one question keeps echoing: when will these barren fields, scattered with plastic bags, finally come to an end?
My husband’s parents were already waiting for me in the yard. In time, I would come to love them as my own, but at that moment, meeting his mother stirred only mild excitement and an unsettling feeling of not being liked. Despite my best efforts to quickly master a beginner’s Persian audio course before the trip, I couldn’t manage to utter even a few words.
I sat at the table, smiling politely, while everyone else chatted animatedly. In front of me was a plate, accompanied by a fork and a spoon. A spoon instead of a knife? The thought flitted through my mind. Resolving to use only the fork, I unwittingly drew even more attention to myself. The food, for its part, refused to reveal any of its flavours and seemed to halt halfway down to my stomach. The day stretched on endlessly, and I silently wondered if it would ever come to an end.
Evening. Tehran dazzles with its lights and frightens with the huge number of motorcycles. Anyone who thinks that an ordinary motorbike is designed for only two people would be slightly surprised by the sudden conclusion. Here, families ride them. It's eleven o'clock in the evening, but the streets are full of people. I wait for my shawarma in a street cafe and look around in all directions. Many women were wearing in black. There are very beautiful girls who follow the dress code conditionally. Young guys, like Hollywood actors, Afghans in national clothes. Cats sleep underfoot. Right next to me was a refrigerator full of Coca-Cola - of course, who cares about American sanctions.
At eighteen years old, I really wanted to live in a huge city where no one cared about you. Even then, I was planning to escape from the Ukrainian province to somewhere very far away - I dreamed more about New York. I imagined myself running in Louboutins shoes and a light dress to the nearest subway station. But someone wrote a completely different scenario for me, maybe much more interesting?
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