The Phoenix of Mount Qaf
returns again. The bird
of my heart again
flies from my breast.
This bird who till now
wasted time in seeking
seeds has burnt them up
and again begins to tremble.
Drowned in blood
in the Night of Separation
these eyes again begin
to see the dawn.
Rumi (thirteenth century)
Iranians are a deeply spiritual people, shaped by Islam and rooted in ancient Zoroastrian traditions. Like all nations, they experience a daily inner struggle between good and evil. Each morning presents a choice — which path to follow: the light or the dark? The answer lies within us. In Iran, from an early age, children are guided in this eternal battle by the teachings of the Quran, the timeless poetry of Hafez, the wisdom of Rumi, and the folk proverbs spoken by every generation.
In this country, people live and work as if across multiple dimensions of time, seamlessly using both the solar and lunar calendars. Most can also navigate the Gregorian calendar with ease. You can quite literally feel the layers of time—driving a regular car, you might pass through several millennia in a single day.
We began to travelling through Iran — and that’s when I felt the strong desire to write. First and foremost, for my friends who had predicted a grim fate for me: suffering under a scorching sun, always wrapped in a chador, tucked away in some harem. I wanted them to know I was more than fine. I also wanted to share the extraordinary blend of antiquity and modernity I was experiencing — a vibrant garden of cultures, rich in tradition, cuisine, and nature. It felt impossible to keep it all to myself.
The Tehran–Isfahan highway stretched across rocky dunes, beyond which lay the desert — vast, barren, yet somehow alive. It’s a place inhabited by scorpions, snakes, and small rodents. After travelling thousands of kilometres through this arid land, I truly understood, for the first time, how fertile Ukraine is.
Occasionally, we passed ancient, mostly crumbling caravanserais. My husband told me that it was the Persians who first invented the postal system.
That evening, we went on a boat trip in one of the underground lakes of Ali Sadr Cave. There were about a dozen other tourists with us, but they quickly faded into the background. In those moments, I felt like Setareh—full of dreams of a sweet future with the novel’s main character.
Ali Sadr Cave, located in Iran’s Hamadan province, is one of the country’s most amazing natural wonders and one of the largest water-filled caves in the world. It is impressive not only for its size, but also for its age, beauty, and cultural significance. Evidence of human presence here dates back more than 12,000 years—petroglyphs and remnants of everyday life, such as hearths and pottery, have been found on its walls, indicating that it was used as far back as the Neolithic era.
Wearing a life jacket immediately became uncomfortable, but it was mandatory for everyone in the group. Several Iranian families descended with us into the cave through a narrow, echoing passage. As I fastened the last buckle on my bright orange vest, I'm meeting curious glances from our another tourist explorers - I stepped onto the boat, unaware that I had suddenly become the centre of attention.
One ten-year-old Kurdish boy didn’t take his eyes off me for the entire excursion. His large black eyes—like two dark saucers—were always nearby, fixed on my face whenever the chance arose. It seemed as though he was seeing a blonde for the first time in his life.
The cave welcomed us with cool humidity and a calming silence. We drifted across the clear underground lake, marveling at the masterpieces carved by water and stone over millennia. Only occasionally did the boy’s gaze distract me. I no longer had the energy to hide behind indifference, so I simply smiled when our eyes met again.
Later, waiting for my husband outside, I watched the world around me. Crickets chirped, children laughed and darted between the crowds. There were more women in black here than I had seen in Tehran. All the nearby hotel rooms were booked. The air was growing colder, and we had almost no options for the night.
At last, we found a modest sleeping trailer: a large mattress on the floor, a gas stove in the corner, and a tiny bathroom nearby. I fell asleep, exhausted but content. And as I recalled the wide, curious eyes of that little Kurdish boy, it hit me: out of the thousands of people who had come to this place, I was the only one foreigner. Not even a tourist—just one of those "branded" wives Iranians sometimes bring home from abroad. Yet somehow, it felt like everything was unfolding exactly as it was meant to.
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