These journal entries, which have been lightly edited, detail the day-to-day experiences of my family in Iran during Israel’s attacks and the connections to their children abroad. I received my family’s approval to share them.

Part I: One-way ticket out of Tehran, but never out of Iran

Sunday, June 15

We held a call with my cousins abroad and our family in Tehran to discuss Israel’s ongoing strikes in Iran. My sister and I were born in the U.S., and my mom was visiting our aunts, uncles and grandma in Tehran.

My four maternal cousins each left Iran as young adults, now spanning the globe: Australia, Canada, Germany and the U.S. Each of their attempts to leave Iran reflect their tremendous perseverance to excel and live the life they want, not the life the regime imposes. I always think about the weight they carried when they bought a one-way ticket out of Tehran, knowing they would never return while this regime was in power.

On this call, most of us were joyful. The regime may really fall this time.

“How does this film end?” I asked my cousin in Germany who is a prominent film director. “Honestly, not well,” he responded with deep sadness.

The rest of us pushed that view aside. The regime will crumble, and we will all be together again in Iran by next summer. That night I wondered what our moms thought seeing their children all safe outside of Iran. Despite their own danger, I imagined they felt relief. They strived to give us the best possible future and raised us to be close, no matter the distance.

What they didn’t acknowledge on the call was the constant sound of missiles outside their apartment in the Tehran sky. We could only tell what was going on from their shifting postures and glances toward the windows, hoping the padded tape they put up would hold.

Monday, June 16

There was less joy on this call. Israel’s strikes continued, and the U.S. was looking more likely to join the fight. We spent more time discussing where they should go to flee Tehran together.

We evaluated where they would have the highest probability of being safe: Should they drive out of Tehran or stay put? This is after President Donald Trump posted that everyone should evacuate from Tehran immediately, a city as densely populated as NYC. We agreed they should stay in Tehran; the Israel Defense Forces had bombed their neighborhood already, so the odds of it being bombed again seemed low. They were together physically, and we were all together spiritually and emotionally.

Tuesday, June 17

On this family call, no one was joyous. Israel’s strikes had become constant day and night, killing civilians and destroying homes. Our family in Tehran wasn’t sleeping. They were afraid to leave their homes. They were afraid to be in their homes. There were no bomb shelters, and if there were, they would not help. The regime didn’t use sirens to warn civilians, and Israel’s strikes were nonstop.

My cousin in Germany had done extensive planning to secure a place in Kashan, a small city a few hours south of Tehran, for our family members who wanted to leave Tehran. And a critical mass agreed they would leave for Kashan the next day. I told my mom to take her passport.

“Why do I need that? It can get lost or stolen on the way. It’s safer here,” she said.

Then, I started the most difficult conversation I’ve ever had. “Mom, I need you to take your passport because this building may not be here when you get back. I need you to understand the gravity of this decision. You need to treat this decision like it could be your last decision. Where do you want to be for what could be the end?”

My mom left for the U.S. in 1986, during the middle of the Iran-Iraq War, booking a one-way ticket out of Iran. She has lived her whole life with the guilt that she left her family. “I left them,” I would hear regularly, my heart breaking. My mom is the oldest of her siblings and very close to her twin sisters and two brothers.

These strikes brought all those emotions back for her, until she saw that this time was different. Now her guilt would be the reverse if she didn’t get back to us.

“I need to get out,” she said. Her sister said, “I’m not leaving for Kashan, then. I need to make sure your mom gets out.”

My cousins jumped in: “Why should her decision to leave change yours? You should make your own decision to protect yourself.” My cousin in Canada saw how devastated everyone was facing the gravity of these decisions and asked everyone to think about it and make the decision in the morning.

This was a hard conversation for so many reasons, but also because we were asking them to do something that is against Iranian culture — to think about themselves before others.

Wednesday, June 18

The family call that night was just the kids as there was a nationwide internet outage. The regime cut off the internet at a time when Iranians needed it the most.

One of my cousins had received word that several of my aunts and uncles left for Kashan today. My mom, one of my aunts and youngest uncle stayed in Tehran.

My aunt stayed in Tehran to take care of my grandma, who is in a nursing home. My youngest uncle didn’t want to leave his sister alone and stayed for her. My mom started the difficult process of figuring out how to leave Iran.

Thursday, June 19

I was not able to reach my mom at all today. Somehow, she got a call through to my sister to let us know she was leaving for the Turkish border with our family friend who was also in Tehran.

I also learned my mom visited my grandma in her nursing home today. Every time my mom leaves Tehran, she prepares herself for what could be the last time she sees my grandma. This time felt the most real.

By nightfall, we got word that my mom and our family friend were on their way to the border. We would not hear from them until they reached the border the next day.

The first thing my mom said to me after crossing the border, her eyes welling up: “I left them again.”

Part II: Family, VPN, and the resilience of an ancient people

Sunday, June 22

“Mom,” my 6-year-old son says to me. “This doesn’t feel like war. I’m going to camp. You’re going to work. How is this war?”

While it didn’t feel like war in the U.S., it felt like Armageddon in Iran. The United States had just entered the conflict, dropping bunker-busting bombs on Fordow, Natanz and Isfahan’s nuclear sites.

Oh, how I had always wished the world would see Isfahan for its architecture and history. Now it was merely a military target. My family in Iran, spread over two cities, all felt the impact of the U.S. entering the war as soon as the bombs hit in the middle of the night.

“What’s going to happen to us?” my aunt in Kashan sobbed to me.

Meanwhile, my mom finally made it to the United States. A 60-hour journey from Tehran to New York. She learned about the U.S. attacks as she was boarding her plane in Istanbul to come back home.

Monday, June 23

I was able to speak to my grandma (Maman Bozorg in Farsi) today. “Maman Bozorg, do you know what happened?”

“Yes, Bibi and his men attacked us,” she responds. (“Bibi” refers to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu.)

“Maman Bozorg, you’ve seen this before, what’s going to happen?” I said.

“We’ll survive. Iran always survives,” she shares proudly.

“Our people have 3,000 years of history. It all starts with Cyrus the Great.” I usually try to get out of the history lesson I’ve heard many times before. On this day, I listened intently to my Maman Bozorg.

Tuesday, June 24

The ceasefire went into effect today, but leading up to it was the day I feared most since the conflict began. An evacuation alert from the Israel Defense Forces for the district my family lived in.

“Dear citizens, for your safety and well-being, we kindly ask you to immediately evacuate the designated area on the map and avoid approaching it in the coming hours. Your presence in this area puts your life at risk.”

It was 1 a.m. in Tehran, and the alert was for multiple districts, side by side, to evacuate immediately. My cousin in Canada alerted our whole family, and we all jumped on a call. My family in Tehran had not seen the alert directly since the internet was still down.

“Where should we go?” my aunt asks. My cousin in Germany gets word from his friends still in Tehran that they’re gathering in a nearby park to be far from collapsing rubble.

My aunt and uncle fled to join my cousin’s friends, missiles and bombs intensifying as they drove. From the park, they could see Tehran burning and smoke filling the sky. There they stayed until 5 a.m. The ceasefire was now in effect, and they could return home.

Wednesday, June 25

I expected my parents to say no when I asked to share my journals. “We’re guests in this country,” my parents usually say even though they’re both U.S. citizens. And we should lie low on politics. This time, however, they asked me to send my journals to everyone I know.

Let the people know what happened to us … what’s been happening to us … and what will continue happening to us.

Nuance was missing in the media. You can be against the regime and against Israel’s attack. You can feel hope that maybe this weakened the regime and fear that it could have strengthened it. You can appreciate the symbolism of blowing up the front door of Iran’s notorious Evin Prison holding human rights activists and others captive and wonder tactically what that would do.

Abandoned by the world and abandoned by their own government, the Iranian people relied on their greatest strength: the foundational principle of their culture to think of others first. Every time the regime cut off the internet, the younger generations downloaded a VPN that would get them connected to each other and the world again. Every time an Israel Defense Forces alert for evacuation was issued, family and friends outside of Iran found ways to alert those impacted within Iran.

Back in Chicago, I attempt to console my 3-year-old daughter in a park, when an Iranian couple walks over. They had heard my unsuccessful attempts to comfort her in Farsi and stopped to help.

“Why did they do that? They’re strangers,” my daughter asks after they left.

Because we’re Iranian; it’s what we do.

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Talla Mountjoy is director of programs for the Forum for Free Inquiry and Expression at the University of Chicago and received her MBA from Chicago Booth.

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