Shahab & Mehrdad Aref-Adib

Last year, on 21 February 2025, Shahab posted a video from Golestan Palace.

He stood in the courtyard, sunlight on the tiles, explaining Qajar history to a small group. Calm. Certain. At home in the story he was telling.

A year later, the news says parts of Golestan Palace have been “damaged” in the escalating war. Blast waves shattered historic windows. Shock moved through walls that have stood for centuries.

I left Tehran in September 1983. It has been over forty-two years. I have never felt that I left Iran. It lives in my language and in memory. It lives in instinct.

When I watched his video last year, I felt proud. He has been generous about my work for a long time. Thoughtful. Encouraging. He could easily be my son.

Now the courtyard he stood in has felt the concussion of war.

War is spoken about in the language of states. Strategy. Retaliation. Escalation. When it reaches a place you carry inside you, it is no longer distant.

Golestan Palace is not just architecture. It is memory layered in tile and mirror. It has survived dynasties and revolutions.

To read the word “damage” beside its name felt like a blow.

Shahab was the first person I thought of.

Not the politics.
Not the headlines.

Just him, standing there beneath open sky.

Shahab, I hope you and your family are safe.

Do write when you are able.
Some distances are measured in miles.

Some attachments are not.