From Rocket Man to Ruins: Between the Skies of Tehran and Tel Aviv

“It’s a little bit funny… the feeling inside.”
I found myself humming Elton John’s Your Song as I watched the first videos of Israeli jets bombing the homes of the Islamic Republic’s top generals.

Honestly, like many Iranians in exile, I felt a flicker of joy. We have a saying: when a wicked person dies, a flower blooms. So naturally, we dream of a world blooming into one vast garden — one flower for every petty tyrant sent to hell.

Then came the rockets — Iran’s response, pounding Tel Aviv.
Suddenly, another Elton anthem took over in my mind: Rocket Man.
“I’m not the man they think I am at home… Oh no, no, no…”

Watching missiles rain down on Tel Aviv shook me. I’ve always admired that city — I’ve visited a few times — a vibrant mosaic of diversity, energy, and life. I have friends there. One dear friend is visiting the area right now, and I can’t help but worry for their safety.

But then come my own contradictions.

I’m from Tehran. Born and raised. Went to college there. Married there. I spent most of my life in Iran’s capital before I was forced into exile.

Tehran was where I was arrested over a cartoon. Where I was interrogated. Threatened with death.

And yet, even after 22 years abroad, Tehran still lives in me.
I miss it — its chaos, its warmth, its scars.

As I scanned footage of the Israeli airstrikes, something hit harder: some of the commanders taken out were men who had lived in my old neighborhood. I recognized the street corners. I recognized the fear. The stunned silence of people gathered around bombed buildings — unsure of who had died, unsure of what would come next.

And just like that, I was back inside my own childhood.

I wasn’t even eleven in September 1980 when Saddam’s MiGs first attacked Tehran. I remember standing on the rooftop, watching smoke rise from Mehrabad Airport — just four miles from our home. Two weeks later, we fled to Shiraz, hoping it would be safer. It wasn’t. An Iraqi MiG-21 bombed a spot not far from my grandfather’s house. He was a retired general, unfazed by the chaos. But I remember the sirens. The blasts of anti-aircraft guns so loud they shook our bones. And the darkness. Night after night, the lights went out so Iraqi pilots couldn’t find their targets. We lived in fear, lit only by silence and flashes in the sky.

In high school, there was an apprenticeship program. One day a week, we’d shadow professionals. In 11th grade, I was assigned to an orthopedic surgeon who worked in an operating room sometimes filled with wounded soldiers. The scent of dried blood, shattered bones, and trench infections still haunts me. Watching the latest videos from Tel Aviv and Tehran brought it all back — not just the memories, but the smells, the noise, the dread.

In March 1988, a Scud-B missile struck near a hospital I used to pass every day on my way to college. Just days later, a Mirage F-1 dropped a bomb barely 70 yards from my parents’ home in Shiraz — right before the Iranian New Year. I remember collecting the corpses of cats, sparrows, and pigeons from our yard, and sweeping shards of glass from the carpet so my baby brother wouldn’t crawl over them or try to put them in his mouth — all while emergency workers pulled the remains of 70, maybe 80, human beings from the rubble nearby.

Back then, we teenagers turned war into ritual. We’d bet on the types of jets flying overhead — MiG-23, MiG-21, or the rare, thunderous MiG-25. We could distinguish the shrieks of F-4 Phantoms, F-5s, and Tomcats by ear. We were adrenaline junkies by default. But we also knew loss. Our classrooms felt like morgues on some days — boys waiting to hear whether their father, or brother, or cousin had returned from the front lines… or not.

So yes, I know what fear sounds like — not just the explosion, but the silence that follows. The whispers in the dark:
Who was killed? What’s next?

And yet here we are again.
This time, it’s not Saddam Hussein dragging us into war.
It’s our own government.

The bitter truth is this: the Islamic Republic has suspended Iran in a permanent state of crisis. A country with breathtaking landscapes, deep culture, and immense human potential — wasted by a regime that chooses death over dignity. Ayatollah Khamenei’s obsession with nuclear power has scorched every opportunity for diplomacy. He has traded the nation’s future for uranium and ideology.

This isn’t strategy.
It’s madness, wrapped in religious garments and fueled by oil money.

War is hell. And for many in the West who’ve never heard a missile shriek overhead, these words may sound dramatic. But for those of us who lived through 1980 to 1988, it’s not metaphor. It’s muscle memory.

To build nukes and spread fear across the Middle East, Khamenei stripped Iranians of freedom, life, and love — unleashing his ruthless thugs on the nation, much like Scar seizing the Pride Lands with his hyenas after murdering Mufasa in The Lion King.

Khamenei and his hyenas have built fortunes on fear. And the cost has been borne by tens of millions of Iranians — people who could have thrived in peace, but instead have suffered for decades under a system designed to exploit, not serve.

Now, many of us are feeling the same dread that people in both Tel Aviv and Tehran are experiencing: fear, uncertainty, and a flood of unanswered questions.

One of the biggest: What is Netanyahu’s endgame?
How does this conflict actually end?

He’s already severed the heads of many of Khamenei’s serpents — Hamas, Hezbollah, and others. But when the dust finally settles, the real question may not be who takes the throne — but whether there’s still a throne worth taking.

Maybe the real battle isn’t about power at all.
Maybe it’s about walking away from the whole illusion.

“Oh, I've finally decided my future lies… beyond the yellow brick road.”