We packed everything in just one day, and suddenly I found myself in the back of a taxi, silently saying farewell to Kyiv.

Festive Khreshchatyk street shimmered with evening lights, their reflections blurring across the rain-streaked window. A fine drizzle hung in the air as autumn slowly handed the baton over to winter.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated. An old friend must have sensed something, because she finally decided to call.

“Let’s go to Mariinsky Palace,” she suggested.

“I’m flying to Iran in an hour.”

“Why do you sound so sad? You like it there, don’t you?”

I paused.

That I like Iran, I share with only a few friends — mostly those closest to me. Every time I mention it to someone I barely know, an awkward silence usually follows. Then comes a careful, searching look, as if the person is trying to figure out where the catch might be.

And yet, Iran has long become something much more to me than just a country.

I dream of living to old age and meeting it surrounded by my grandchildren. Walking through green parks and breathing in the clean sea air. Lately, more and more often, I find myself thinking that this is a very difficult task — at times, almost impossible.

My life experiences have taught me that 

a frightful chasm separates me from the others. The same experiences also have 

taught me when to remain silent and keep my thoughts to myself. Nevertheless, I 

have decided that I should write.

— Sadegh Hedayat, The Blind Owl

Sometimes life collapses over you like an avalanche — sudden and merciless, testing your strength. One of my deepest fears, tied to my love for travel, once taught me a harsh lesson. It happened in Iran — a country that, like a strick teacher, prepares you for everything.

My husband and I were heading toward the desert once again. Outside the window, striped mountains shimmered in rich, sunlit colors. Though this land is dry, its beauty is mesmerizing.

This time, we were three. Our daughter, just a few months old, had already traveled thousands of kilometers — thanks to her curious parents.

Human beings are members of one body, created from a single essence.

Saadi

My life dissolved into the boundless waters of motherhood. Every time I look into my daughter’s eyes now, I see it clearly — an unprepared, softened version of myself. With each passing month of this new life, I had to build endurance and patience, learning to live without rest or sleep.

From the borders of Sejestan

To the distant groves of Khorasan

The light Peris were flying.

Shadows fell upon the plains,

And silent were the valleys

Where once blood had flowed;

Where the cries of the Horde resounded,

Where the voice of the Korna howled,

And upon the corpses that great one (*),

That terrible one, feasted—

The one who rushed upon kingdoms and nations

Like a roaring storm,

And, like a whirlwind of foul weather,

Breathed destruction!

— “Div and Peri”

by Andrii Podolynskyi

The air smelled of spring. I was welcoming another Nowruz in Iran. Wherever I entered, on every table stood sprouted green wheat, a small bowl with a gold or red fish inside, and other attributes of the spring equinox celebration. By the way, the symbol of the red fish was borrowed by the Iranians from the Chinese, just like the famous Persian miniatures. In the center stood a mirror and either the Quran or the verses of Hafez.

After the devastating loss of his two sons, Abdollah Khan decided to begin a new life in another city. A change of place was meant to give him the strength to move forward and not come to a standstill, sparing him from constantly reliving the bitterness of his past. Zinat became his light — the one who illuminated every next step of this dreamer’s journey. This time, the city was Arak, where Abdollah Khan once again opened his own photography studio.

In the south of the Caspian Sea, where the humid air smells of tea and forest, lives a people whose name is rarely spoken aloud. The Talysh. Their land does not try to impress — it teaches you how to listen.

If you think British Columbia is all about mountains, forests, and outdoor adventure — think again! BC also has an incredible cultural scene, full of world-class museums that celebrate art, history, Indigenous heritage, and nature. Whether you’re strolling through Whistler or exploring Vancouver’s coast, here are five museums you absolutely shouldn’t miss.

The morning was cool, with the sun's first gentle rays just beginning to touch the earth. Ismail and his loyal horse arrived, seeking work from the commander of the Cossack brigade. With his limited Russian, Ismail hoped to negotiate and secure some kind of employment.

The corner coffee shop was a bustling hub for Cossacks, early morning workers, chauffeurs, cart drivers, and those looking to hire. Ismail tethered his horse to a tree near a hardened date and coal vendor. The vendor, his hands dark with dust, meticulously wrapped sweet dates in old newspapers, selling only to those with at least one rial. Such customers were not too much.

Stepping into the coffee shop, Ismail was met with the thick scent of tobacco. He shrugged, scanning for the brigade commander. The sun's glare briefly shut his eyes. When he reopened them, he spotted a fit young man in a crisp uniform by a steaming samovar. Light-eyed and blond, the man sat calmly, a glass of black tea in one hand, a smouldering cigarette in the other, his gaze thoughtfully fixed on the open window.

"This must be him," Ismail thought. Adjusting his coat, he slowly approached the soldier. The commander noticed him but didn't change his posture, asking sharply, "What do you need?"

A lump formed in Ismail's throat, which he swallowed with difficulty. Gathering his resolve, he explained his desperate need for work. The commander looked at him, then silently glanced around before returning his gaze to the window. From there, he could see the familiar date seller and, beside him, Ismail's calm horse contentedly chewing hay. Perhaps the horse already sensed it would once again help its master navigate life's challenges.

"Yours?" the commander asked, nodding at the horse.

"Mine."

"You'll help me in the stable."

Days passed swiftly, and it turned out the commander also adored horses. Their friendship deepened with each new day. Ismail enjoyed the work, finding it brought him more pleasure than profit.

Almost every morning, Ismail met the commander in the stable. Together, they examined, fed, and cared for each animal.

The headscarf was bothering me and this is really ruined my mood. I was tying the ends of the scarf at the top of my head in a new style, but my husband's sharp remark immediately cut through my efforts. His concern was for my appearance, for avoiding the scrutiny of the morality police. A sense of suffocation grew within me, each harsh word of his making the lack of freedom even more palpable.

Setareh —that was the name of the grandmother who had won our grandfather’s heart. From the moment Ismail first met her, he knew he would marry her. But Setareh’s wealthy Turkish parents disapproved of the wedding. To them, Ismail was just a poor young man—kind, sincere, but not worthy of their daughter. Despite this, the young couple began meeting in secret.

One day, Ismail returned to the very place where he had first laid eyes on Setareh. Ever since that day, her image had never left his thoughts. The sky was overcast, heavy clouds dimming the light, and his mood mirrored the weather—restless and uneasy. He dismounted his black horse, tied it to a tree, and pressed his face against the animal’s head, as if seeking strength. Then, with sudden resolve, he made a decision: he would kidnap Setareh—if only she agreed. His loyal horse stamped its right hoof and snorted, almost as if in approval.

He approached Setareh slowly. She had been waiting by the river for a long time. A light rain began to fall—some droplets clung to their faces, while others disappeared into the rushing mountain stream.

Taking her hand, Ismail whispered gently:

“Let’s leave this place right now... I can’t imagine my life without you. I want to spend it by your side. Come with me…”

Setareh hesitated for a moment, but in truth, she had already made up her mind. Love had clouded her thoughts, leaving only a burning desire to be with him. Her parents’ stern disapproval had only pushed her further toward this moment. In her home, she had long felt like a stranger—surrounded not by love, but by commands and expectations.

This brave Turkish girl chose to follow her heart, silencing the voice of reason that urged caution. She reached out her hand to Ismail—a quiet but powerful gesture. With it, she let go of the cold luxury of her family’s home and stepped into an uncertain but heartfelt future.

Against the parents’ will, Setareh climbed onto the horse and wrapped her arms tightly around Ismail. Together, they rode off into the unknown. They settled in his modest home and began building the life she had always dreamed of — simple, but filled with love.

When I first arrived in Iran, the expression that struck me most came at the checkout counter of a store: “Ghabeli nadare.” Literally, it means: “It’s not worth anything,” or more loosely, “No need to pay.” Imagine buying something, reaching for your wallet, and the cashier smiles and says, “No need to pay, just take it.”

I remember sitting in a park, sipping orange juice, still puzzled. I was asking my husband beside me: why did the juice seller refuse money at first? He smiled and explained: “That’s how it works here — first you refuse politely, and only after they insist again do you accept the payment.” This, I learned, is the famous taarof.

In my country, this would never fly. 

As strange as this ritual of exaggerated politeness may seem, for many Iranians, it’s second nature. Like family ties, the aroma of rice, or the tart flavor of black tea, taarof is deeply woven into the fabric of their culture — passed down through generations.

Now, when I shop in Iran and the smiling seller at the counter says, “Ghabeli nadare,” I smile back and reply, “Aha, boshi.” In Farsi, it means “Okay, be well,” but in Ukrainian, it has meant something like “no fools here.” Then I proudly walk out of the store — having paid, of course.

So if you find yourself in Iran, don’t be confused by overly polite cashiers. Just smile, insist, and yes — be sure to pay.

 I tilted my head back, eyes looking at the contours of the impressive bridge. A cold wind slipped beneath my warm coat, and I instantly longed back in the car. The sun made a futile attempt to warm the snow-covered stone walls encircling us. A sense of unease crept in. Nearby, a sign, where in bold red on white read: "Caution, Dangerous!"

The stereotype of Iran being dangerous shattered into pieces in my mind the moment I landed at Imam Khomeini Airport. At passport control, passengers kindly offered to let one another go ahead in line, repeatedly apologizing and exchanging warm smiles. These gestures often blossomed into friendly conversations filled with gratitude, expressed more elaborately than in many other cultures. Later, while studying Persian, I discovered the concept of taarof — an art of elaborate politeness and a deeply ingrained social etiquette. This tradition of treating guests with exceptional kindness, even prioritizing them over one’s own family, has been rooted in Iranian culture since the days of ancient Persia.

Tehran, a city with a history spanning a thousand years, nestles at the foot of the Alborz mountain range, leaning against the towering Mount Tochal. In the north, where snow-capped peaks dominate the skyline, you can ski; while to the south, the desert awaits. Building a connection with the city may take time, but after six months of living here, I found myself eager to share my favourite spots with fellow foreigners.

We’re heading to Tehran, and my mind is filled with various thoughts. Yet, one question keeps echoing: when will these barren fields, scattered with plastic bags, finally come to an end?

My husband’s parents were already waiting for me in the yard. In time, I would come to love them as my own, but at that moment, meeting his mother stirred only mild excitement and an unsettling feeling of not being liked. Despite my best efforts to quickly master a beginner’s Persian audio course before the trip, I couldn’t manage to utter even a few words.

I sat at the table, smiling politely, while everyone else chatted animatedly. In front of me was a plate, accompanied by a fork and a spoon. A spoon instead of a knife? The thought flitted through my mind. Resolving to use only the fork, I unwittingly drew even more attention to myself. The food, for its part, refused to reveal any of its flavours and seemed to halt halfway down to my stomach. The day stretched on endlessly, and I silently wondered if it would ever come to an end.

At first, it felt strange: the new girl in our Persian language class always chose the seat next to me. Her name was Maryam. She had recently moved to Iran with her family from Pakistan — a country where her dream was meant to take shape.

 Her hijab was worn with strict precision, allowing not a single strand of hair to slip free. Above her sun-warmed skin set thick, black eyebrows and dark brown eyes—eyes in which something quietly sang and softly glimmered. Maryam had come to Tehran to enter medical school; in many regions of her homeland, skilled doctors were in short supply, and without mastering Persian, the path to that knowledge remained closed.

Each morning, Valiasr Street—the capital’s longest and most vibrant artery—pulsed with life from the earliest hours. At every intersection, taxi drivers called out to passersby, beckoning them into their cars. Bakeries drew small, steady crowds: some people waited patiently for fresh bread, while others brushed hot barbari loaves at special tables. . Swept up in this morning rhythm, I, too, hurried toward my Persian class.

Our building stood not far from the university, so I always left early and walked. Not out of necessity, but out of love. I listened to music, watched the city breathe, and felt that this daily walk was one of my quiet joys. Many Iranian women found it hard to believe that I covered this distance by choice. Yet how could one not walk when the mountain peaks rose ahead in full view?

One morning, a rat darted across my path, reared up on its back paws, and leapt into a rubbish bin. Instinctively, I quickened my pace. On the same bench as always sat a homeless man, eating his simple breakfast of bread and herbs.

I stopped by my familiar café for a cup of coffee and slipped into the classroom. The lesson had already begun when Maryam quietly opened the door, entered, and once again sat beside me. Later I realized that only the two of us — along with one Chinese student — sat alone; everyone else had already paired off.

 During the break, we talked. Maryam spoke of her country — harsh and breathtakingly beautiful. She told me about K2, the world’s second-highest peak after Everest and the most difficult to climb, rising at the border between Pakistan and China. Her openness was almost childlike, and it fuelled my curiosity. I wanted to listen endlessly — about places travellers are advised never to visit for their own safety, yet places she called home.

Her twin friends peeked into the classroom. They smiled in perfect unison and called her over. Maryam calmly asked them to wait a moment, finished her story, and only then joined them.

The room fell silent as everyone drifted away. Sunlight slowly poured through the two large windows — in Tehran, there is always an abundance of it. Sitting at the warm desk, I wondered how often we judge people we know nothing about. If I had been born somewhere in those mountains between Pakistan and China, wouldn’t my fate have unfolded differently? Would I have been a strict Muslim woman? And would anyone have even thought to ask me?

For me, Tehran had never been a city of dreams. For Maryam, it was a city of possibilities — a chance to gain an education and shape her future.

Later, my husband and I walked through a Tehran park. Snow-covered peaks of the Alborz Mountains rose in the distance. We moved slowly along a wet stone path, listening to the sound of water nearby. I told him about my new friend from Pakistan. He recalled Afghans he often encountered through his work in Tehran.

“There are people who are like flowers,” he said. “You admire them endlessly, because they are pure inside.”

The next time Maryam came to class, her eyes were lightly lined, and two dark strands of hair slipped out from beneath her scarf. She seemed to glow differently — more openly, more boldly. Everyone noticed the change. I found myself wondering: who, or what, had given her permission to take this step?

When the instructor asked students to come to the board one by one and retell a short text, Maryam stood up. Her Persian was precise, fluent, alive. Then a short, mocking laugh came from the back rows. She fell silent at once, embarrassed, flushing like the sun sinking below the horizon. Seeing her confusion, the lecturer allowed her to return to her seat.

That was the last day I saw Maryam in class. It felt as though someone, out of sheer carelessness, had broken a flower of rare beauty just as it was about to bloom. For several days afterward, I kept expecting the door to open softly and Maryam to take the empty seat beside me once more. But she never returned — not even once.

Human life is a journey: day follows day, and each one steadily leads us forward.

Rudaki

The days rushed forward unnoticed; I spent most of them at the university, continuing to study the Persian language. My second Nowruz was approaching. At some point, the streets of Tehran became surprisingly empty. Although the peaks of the Alborz Mountains were still smoking with white snowstorms, the city was already noticeably warming up.

One spring day before the Persian New Year, my husband and I were sitting by the roadside drinking fresh fruit juice when suddenly a car with a funny Iranian logo—a horse's head—stopped beside us. The back window was stuffed with mattresses, pillows, and blankets. I even thought there might be children sitting behind them. The side window slowly rolled down, and from behind a woman's silhouette, tightly wrapped in a scarf, a long nose peered out, followed by a thick moustache. Finally, the man's face appeared. Holding the steering wheel with one hand and a notebook with a pen-drawn crossroad and arrows in the other, he politely addressed my husband:

"Ogo (author's note: a typical address to a man in Iran), excuse me, how do I get to Ferdowsi Square?"

Tehran was slowly emptying of locals and filling up with visitors. Everyone was massively setting off on trips across the country—two weeks of public holidays were officially allocated for this.

At lunch, my husband noted that I was now quite skilfully using a fork and spoon, though sometimes my hands still got confused. My Persian language was becoming clearer to those around me, and much had become clear to me, too. We were eagerly awaiting when most people would leave Tehran so that the air would become at least a little cleaner and oxygen would appear. This is probably the biggest drawback of life in an Eastern megalopolis: you are constantly trying to snatch at least one genuine breath of air from the thick exhaust fumes. Sometimes it feels as if you are inside a huge mechanism that has swallowed you whole. Smog—that invisible enemy of our time—is truly dangerous in the concrete jungle.

Without waiting for "good air," we also set off on a journey. I was still searching for the answer as to why exactly this part of the world attracted me so strongly. It seemed the reason was hidden much deeper than just "I married an Iranian."

The air was clean and fresh. We two—my beloved and I—were sitting in a green olive grove. We decided to stop near the town of Rudbar and have a picnic. We lit a fire, spread out the popular Iranian oilcloth tablecloth, laid out lunch, and began observing everything around us.

A cemetery was visible nearby. Relatives dressed from head to toe in black stood by a fresh grave. My husband told me about the terrible earthquake that had happened recently. Our attention was suddenly drawn to an athlete jogging nearby: he was rapidly climbing to the top of the hill and descending just as quickly. His efforts seemed heroic. A storm of mixed feelings raged within me: a wave of sadness and fear of the elements was replaced by a trembling pride in the runner. The tireless athlete continued his route. Around us, the giant blades of the wind turbines turned slowly but majestically, creating a sense of unease. In the distance, an elderly woman in a hijab, leaning on a stick and navigating the stones under her feet, drove sheep to pasture. The quiet rustle of the olive grove and the presence of my beloved were calming.

After feeding the remains of our lunch to a stray dog, we set off further—to the village of Masuleh, which is over two thousand years old. This settlement is located in Gilan province, in the very heart of Northern Iranian nature. Travellers are drawn here by the unique Talysh culture and their houses, built in tiers on the mountainside: the roofs of the lower dwellings simultaneously serve as pedestrian pathways for the upper ones.

A new Universe has been conceived inside me. Two forms of life entered into a mutually beneficial union: they reunited the qualities missing in each other and mutually screwed themselves into the womb. The millionth sperm finally met that egg. Wow!

I spent a long time looking at the first ultrasound image in the kitchen. The photograph looked more like space, where a light of new energy shone in the depths of the imaginary expanse. They say this force dramatically changes the lives of future moms and dads.

The doctors are counting my due date from January 1st. I should give birth at the beginning of October. I feel like it's a girl. I haven't had any morning sickness, but the mood swings are definitely manifesting in a vivid form. Now, two hearts are beating in my body. One at 160 beats per minute, the other trying to stay calmer, so as not to harm the main, first one.

The very word "motherhood" smells slightly of mothballs to me, and the girls walking outside with strollers only cause boredom and gloom mixed with pity. I'm trying to look at more photos of happy mothers on Instagram and believe in their truthfulness. I promised myself to be honest with my child from day one.

12 weeks and 4 days. The baby already has a nose, little hands, and little feet. I'm trying to meditate more, placing my left hand over my heart and my right hand on my stomach. I smile inwardly and channel my maternal love through the warmth of my palms. Sometimes, the tears just come. Yesterday, I accidentally saw a news report about a military sniper helicopter in Syria shooting people from the air. The journalist asked the pilot, "Aren't you afraid of accidentally killing innocent people?" The subject of the report responded, "Every day before work, I pray to God that I'll only hit terrorists." How can I gently tell my unborn child about the hell that people create?