Born in War, Held by Faith

Born in war, healed by faith—a true story of survival, love, and resilience.

Title: Born in War, Held by Faith

Ahvaz, Iran - 1979
The sound of sirens had become part of daily life. War wasn't officially declared, but the bombs didn't care for bureaucracy. Iraq's aircrafts were already flying low over Khuzestan, rattling windows and breaking sleep. Iran had changed. The Shah was gone, Ayatollah Khomeini had seized power, and revolution had taken hold. Amid this chaos, my mother was pregnant--with me.
They fled the city when the bombing became unbearable. My family, packed onto a bus, hoped to escape to safety. But just as the city disappeared behind them, my mother cried out: the baby was coming. The bus turned around. Tires screeched. Hearts raced. And just as they reached the hospital gates, I was born--early, small, and sick.
My grandmother always said, "You were in a hurry to meet this broken world."
Blond, fragile, and barely breathing, I spent my earliest days in and out of hospitals. At two years old, the doctors gave up. My mother did not. Driven by desperation and faith, she stole me from my hospital bed and took me to the Karun River. There, in defiance of science and fear, she baptized me. She cried out to God--not with eloquence, but with a mother's plea.
And somehow, I was healed.
When my father found us, he struck her in disbelief, scooped me in his arms, and rushed back to the hospital. But the miracle had already happened. The doctors, bewildered, asked what she had done. She answered, "I gave him half of my heart to stay alive." In a war zone filled with death, they had witnessed a wonder.
The War Comes Home
Though the official war began in September 1980, our nightmares started long before. That night, as we drove to escape the city, a bomb hit the street near our car. The blast flipped the vehicle, dragging it along the asphalt. My father's hand, resting on the window, was crushed. My cousin's head was split open. Blood, screams, sirens.
At the hospital, they wanted to amputate my father's hand. He refused. He endured four surgeries. One doctor begged him to stop chasing miracles. He promised that some function could be saved--if he let go of the dream of full recovery. Today, he still moves those fingers, writes, works. But the scars speak louder than his grip.
Betrayal Within
The war outside was brutal. But the war inside the family cut deeper. My eldest uncle, the tribe's patriarch, condemned my mother. He forbade anyone from helping us. So my young parents, barely more than children themselves, lived under a bridge with two toddlers. I was still in my mother's womb.
My father found work in the local market. My mother sewed clothes. They scraped together enough to rent a single room. We survived--not because of support, but in spite of the lack of it.
Bandar Mahshahr - 1982
We moved south, to a small city in Khuzestan. I was three. New streets, new faces, same hostility. I wanted to play football with local kids. They refused. "You're a Jewish bastard. Unclean."
I fought. My mother pulled me away. Later that day, one of those kids spray-painted "Esteghlal"--the name of a popular football team--on our wall. I had never chosen a team before, but from that moment, I was red. Persepolis, the rival. Our rivalry burned for years.
At school, we sat next to each other--me and my "enemy." We were the smallest in class. In English, we were the best students. We fought on the way to school, after school, always surrounded, always provoked. I'd win the first blow, then get hit from behind.
Our parents were regular visitors at the principal's office. My mother warned me never to trust strangers, never to forget who I was. She whispered, "This government has a prison for children like you."
Every time I stepped outside, I feared I wouldn't return.
Sirens and Sandstorms
The war never stopped. When the sirens howled, we fled into the desert. Schools emptied in panic. Parents wept when they couldn't find their children. Sometimes, it was a relative who picked them up. Sometimes, it was someone else. And sometimes, they were never found.
Even as a child, I saw the weight of war on grown men's faces. I saw my mother cry not because of the bombs--but because she couldn't protect us from the hatred, the fear, the silence.
And yet, we survived.
I was born in a city under fire. I was healed in a river of faith. I was raised in exile, in dust, in defiance.
This is not just my story. This is the story of survival. Of mothers who believe in miracles. Of fathers who defy odds. Of children who carry nations in their memories.
I carry Iran in mine. I carry war. But more than that--I carry love, and the strength it leaves behind.