Escape from Tehran

At 5:30 in the morning, I was awakened by the sound of explosions. That was the first day of the war - I don't know how many more days. My name is Lin Yuan, 35 years old, Chinese engineer. He was sent to Iran six months ago and was scheduled to return home two weeks ago, but he was stranded in this city because of a visa extension. In the early morning of February 28, 2026, the joint US-Israeli air strikes began, and I became a foreigner in Tehran with nowhere to escape. Fatimah pulled me into the stairwell and gave me a piece of naan. She was sixty-seven years old, her husband died in the Iran-Iraq war, and her son was in Germany. She said: "Alive." This was the only English word she knew. Ali called, his voice trembling: "My brother can't be reached." The next day he put on his military uniform and thrust the "lucky pen" with Peppa Pig on it back into my hand: "You can keep this. I don't need it." Reza, who was captured amid the cheers after his leader's death, sent only four words: "I'm still alive." Then: "Save me." Sister Liu runs a Chinese restaurant and has experienced four wars. She said: "Living is better than anything else. But living is not just living." And Sarah. When I was eight years old, my parents died in an air raid. I was huddled at the corner of the stairs, holding a rag doll with missing eyes. She asked me: "Uncle, will my sister come back?" - Her sister was in the primary school, one of one hundred and sixty-five girls. This is war. Someone dies every day, someone makes a choice every day, and someone lives desperately every day. I originally just wanted to leave alive. But then I discovered that there are some things that are more important than leaving.