BABOLSAR- As the sun dips toward the horizon on this final Friday of the Persian calendar year 1404, the air in the northern city of Babolsar, Mazandaran, carries a bittersweet fragrance. It is the scent of blooming bergamot blossoms—the namesake of my eight-year-old daughter, Toranj—mingled with the salty mist of the Caspian Sea and the heavy, solemn aroma of rosewater from a recent funeral procession.

For many, the journey to the north of Iran is a seasonal tradition, but for my family, this stay is a necessity of war. We are here because our home in Tehran—the sanctuary where we once gathered for every Nowruz—was severely damaged by the shockwaves of the bombardments at the onset of the brutal aggression imposed by the United States and the Zionist regime. The shattered glass and cracked walls of our home stand as a silent testament to the violence imposed upon us.

This year, the arrival of Nowruz is unlike any other in our history. This spring, the New Day does not arrive alone. It converges with the Eid al-Fitr, marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan. In any other year, this double celebration would be a time of unalloyed joy. Yet today, Iran stands defiant amidst the aggression—a conflict that has claimed the lives of our brothers, sisters, and our beloved leaders. Most profoundly, our nation mourns the loss of Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei, whose martyrdom in a cowardly strike has left a void in the heart of the Iranian people, yet has ignited a flame of resolve that no aggressor can extinguish.

As an Iranian, a mother, and a journalist, my heart is a map of conflicting emotions. I find myself mourning the martyrs who fell to protect this soil and the innocent lives cut short by the cruelty of war. My heart aches specifically for the school children of Minab, whose laughter was silenced forever by the heartless strikes of the aggressors. They were the blossoms of our future, torn from the branch before they could witness this spring.

And yet, we celebrate. 

We celebrate because Nowruz is not merely a date on a calendar; it is an act of resistance. It is the oldest testament to the fact that light always succeeds darkness, and that winter, no matter how harsh, must eventually surrender to spring. 

Today, I took my daughter to the shore. The wind was so fierce it nearly carried her away—a metaphor, perhaps, for the turbulent times we live in. But she laughed. She held my hand and laughed. Earlier, we stood in silence as a martyr was brought to the city. She watched, she understood, and she felt the weight of her heritage. 

This is the dual duty of the Iranian parent today: to weep for our martyrs with one eye and to smile at the promise of the new year with the other. We observe the fast of Ramadan, refining our souls, and then we prepare the sweets of Nowruz to honor our ancient culture. We do this because the enemy’s greatest victory would be to steal our joy and erase our traditions.

As I sit with Toranj, watching her arrange the painted eggs, I am passing on more than just a custom. I am passing on the soul of a nation. I am teaching her that even under the shadow of drones, air fighters and the pressure of war, an Iranian family will always find a way to sprout Sabzeh from seeds of hope. We are a people of the sun, and no shadow is long enough to hide our spring. 

Happy Nowruz. Eid Mubarak. And long live the resilience of Iran.

SAB/