This year, Nowruz does not feel the way it used to. Many things still look the same on the outside. The Haft-Seen table is ready, just like every year. There is green wheat, flowers, a mirror, a copy of the Holy Quran, and a glass bowl with small red fish swimming quietly.

But inside me, nothing is the same. My heart feels heavy. After the martyrdom of so many of my fellow countrymen under continuing bombs and missiles, I keep asking myself: how can I celebrate?
It’s the last hours of the Persian year 1404, and I’m sitting in front of the Haft-Seen typing on the laptop but my mind goes back many years. I vividly remember the days before Nowruz in my childhood. The house would slowly change. My mother would start cleaning, and I would help her. Our home was full of flower pots. We would clean each one, change the soil, and water them carefully. I was happy in those simple moments. It felt like we were getting ready not just for a new year, but for a new life.

The very beginning moment of the new year was always magical. We would all sit together, waiting. My father would take crisp bills as the Eidi from inside the Quran and give it to us. His hands were warm, his smile calm. That moment is still alive in my memory. I would also gave my brother and sisters small gifts. It made me feel proud.

The days after that were full of visits. We went to relatives’ homes, and they came to ours. There was laughter, tea, sweets, and endless conversations. Those visits were full of life. Today, many of those visits have turned into simple messages on a phone. It seems something important has been lost.

Of course, even in those happy days, there were small struggles. I had to study sometimes during the holidays. It was not easy. I wanted to play, to watch TV, to enjoy every second. Books felt heavy in my hands during Nowruz.

As a child, everything about Nowruz was exciting; new clothes, sweets, nuts, and the joy of being free from school. I would wait for it with impatience. It was the best time of the year.

I also remember an exact moment of the new year in the 1980s, when the sound of bombs and anti-aircraft guns filled the air. We were afraid and ran to home’s basement. Even then, Nowruz continued, but with fear in the background.

Today, however, that sense has returned, but it feels much heavier. Now, as I watch the news, I see bombs falling again, lives lost again. Innocent people are gone. I sit quietly and think: why does a human destroy another human? Every life is valuable. Every person has a story, a family, a future.

I am now 51 years old and have lived through many Nowruz celebrations. But this year feels different. Nowruz exists only in form, not in spirit. And yet, deep inside, a small hope still remains. A hope that Nowruz can once again be what it truly is; a celebration of life, peace, and new beginnings.

AM