"I left Iran feeling peaceful, but I saw the scars on this land."

Pengpai News Special Contributor: Classmate Xiao Zeng

[Editor’s Note]

Today we publish the last part of Classmate Xiao Zeng’s “Memoir of Leaving Iran.” On the fourth day after arriving in Shahroud, he began to seriously consider whether to leave Iran. That evening, he sat in a quiet yard, lost in thought; life seemed to go on as usual. He did not want to leave Iran, where he had spent nearly three years, at such a critical stage of his thesis. However, the judgments that had gradually accumulated over the past few days forced him to rethink his situation. He worried that once the situation changed, his options would also shrink accordingly.

On the way to Tabriz, and then to Armenia, he saw the ruins left by bombings and witnessed how once-bustling platforms had become desolate. The war tore open the seemingly “calm” surface, revealing grotesque wounds. After entering Armenia, he received a phone call from a friend in Iran, learning that the situation in Isfahan had become very serious. He hoped that his friends still in Iran were safe and thought that maybe, once the situation stabilized, he would return to continue what he had left unfinished.

March 6, 2026, Wednesday, Overcast

The wind today is a bit cold, but it is much quieter here than in the big cities. I am currently in Shahroud, staying with an Iranian family. The yard is small but very tidy; in the morning, I can hear them cooking in the kitchen and chatting with each other. This mundane life strangely gives me a sense of comfort.

Everything here seems quite calm, with no obvious tense atmosphere. If you only look at the daily life, it’s hard to associate it with the situation outside. At the beginning, I never thought about leaving Iran; for me, it was no longer just a place to study but a living environment that I was becoming increasingly familiar with and integrated into. I wrote my thesis and conducted research daily, meticulously organizing my time, feeling that as long as there were no extreme situations, I could stay here steadily.

However, the situation has changed somewhat in the past few days, and this change is not something I saw through my phone but felt gradually through people’s words. The internet in Iran is now down, and many apps are unavailable. I can no longer access information as I did before; I can only judge the situation through the people around me, the television, and scattered news. At lunchtime today, the host family discussed the recent situation. Their tone, while not panicked, was noticeably more serious than usual, and the topics revolved around “the situation,” “will it get tenser,” and “will prices rise again.” I noticed that they weren’t particularly worried about the war itself; rather, they were more concerned about changes in daily life, such as rising prices and unstable incomes—more practical issues.

In the afternoon, I tried to continue writing my thesis, but my focus was clearly not as strong as before. Without the internet, information became fragmented and vague, making it easier for me to overthink. It was in this “uncertain” environment that my thoughts began to change. I used to think that as long as there was no actual war, there was no need to leave. But now I gradually realized that the issue was not just “whether there is a war,” but whether the situation is developing in an uncontrollable direction. Once it reaches a certain stage, the space for personal choice would become very limited.

In the evening, I sat in the yard for a while, still feeling the quiet around me. Life seemed to go on as usual, even “normally.” But it was this surface calm that made it even harder to judge the real situation. I began to recall the fragmented information I had heard over the past few days; some said the situation might escalate, others said it was just temporary tension, and some were discussing whether to leave. Although there was no clear conclusion, these voices accumulated little by little, forcing me to rethink my situation.

I was originally very firm about not wanting to leave. On the one hand, my thesis was in a critical stage, and leaving meant disrupting all my arrangements; on the other hand, I had developed a certain emotional dependence on this place, feeling that if I just held on a little longer, I could smoothly complete my work. But now, this firmness began to waver—not because I was suddenly scared, but because I gradually realized that if I continued to delay, once the situation really changed, even the opportunity for “choice” might decrease.

The Iranians here continue their daily lives; they cook, chat, and take care of their families, appearing to be without obvious panic. This made me feel for a moment that maybe everything wouldn’t change too much. Yet at the same time, I could sense a subtle tension, like an invisible layer in the air—indefinable, but palpable.

I find myself in a very contradictory state. I still do not want to leave, but I have begun to accept internally the possibility of “maybe leaving.” This change has occurred slowly, not due to a single moment of shock, but as a judgment accumulated over these days. From initially not considering leaving at all to beginning to seriously contemplate whether I should leave, the transition in between has not been drastic, but it is very real.

Perhaps I will observe for a few more days, maybe I will wait for clearer circumstances before deciding. But what is certain is that today, I no longer firmly believe that I must stay, and I am beginning to prepare for another possibility.

March 7, 2026, Saturday, Overcast to Clear

Early this morning, I set out from Shahroud, preparing to head west towards Tabriz, and then cross into Armenia from there. This decision was not sudden, but at the moment I embarked on this journey, my feelings were somewhat complex. Just a few days ago, I was still hesitating about whether to leave, and today, I am already on the road to leave. The train ticket was bought for me yesterday, costing 30 million rials (about 150 RMB), for a rather high-end soft sleeper compartment. The price is not cheap, but given the current situation, being able to buy a ticket smoothly is already considered lucky. The train runs from Mashhad all the way to Tabriz, and I am just one of the passengers, but this train carries more than just ordinary travel.

After boarding, I truly felt the “act of leaving.” The compartment was very clean, and the bed was quite comfortable, much better than the trains I had taken before. The fellow passengers appeared calm, with no one showing obvious signs of tension or anxiety. Everyone was simply sitting quietly, chatting, or resting against their seats. This calmness was somewhat unexpected. Logically, under such circumstances, people should be more uneasy, but the reality was quite the opposite, as if everything continued to run at its own pace.

Once the train started, the scenery outside slowly unfolded. Leaving Shahroud, the first part was slightly desolate areas, gradually transitioning into rolling hills. As we headed west, the scenery became richer. Sunlight broke through the clouds, shining on the distant slopes, and in some places, scattered villages and farmlands could still be seen. The scenery along this route was beautiful, and it was a kind of beauty that calmed the mind. Sitting in the compartment for a long time, watching the ever-changing view outside, made me temporarily forget that I was in an unstable environment.

However, this calmness was not without cracks. In certain sections of the road, I could see traces of destruction—some places looked like bombed buildings’ remains, while others were obviously damaged facilities. These traces were few and not continuous, but precisely because they appeared sporadically, they left a deeper impression. It was not like the large-scale destruction seen in movies, but a kind of real, understated scar that made me realize that this land was undergoing some change.

As the train continued forward, I heard people discussing in the compartment that many on this train were returning from Mashhad, as they had gone to attend Khamenei’s funeral. This information surprised me. I had originally thought that after experiencing such an event, the atmosphere in the compartment would be heavier, but the reality was otherwise. I did not see obvious signs of grief on their faces. Some were chatting, some were on the phone, and some were even joking; the overall atmosphere remained calm and routine. This contrast was difficult for me to understand. Perhaps it was because people have long been living in this environment, they have become accustomed to facing major events in a more reserved manner, with emotions no longer easily displayed.

In the compartment, I also had a brief chat with an Iranian next to me. He told me that this train would pass through Tehran. I was a bit surprised because I hadn’t known it would go through this place before boarding. Tehran, given the current situation, is undoubtedly a higher-risk area. I won’t deny that hearing this news made me somewhat anxious. However, he also told me that the train would only pass through the Tehran station and would not enter the city, which eased my mind a little.

Tehran Train Station

As the train approached Tehran, I intentionally looked outside. The city’s outline could be seen from afar, but the train did not delve into the urban area. When we arrived, the platform I saw left a deep impression on me. The station was large, indicating its past busyness and importance, but there were very few people at that moment. The feeling of “emptiness” was very obvious. There were only a few people standing on the platform, no crowd, no noise, completely different from my impression of the hustle and bustle of train stations in major Middle Eastern cities.

At that moment, a thought flashed through my mind: perhaps after the situation began to tense, many people had already left here. This change was not something I saw through the news, but something I felt directly. A once-bustling platform suddenly becoming quiet—this contrast is more persuasive than any words.

After a brief stop, the train continued westward. After leaving Tehran, the atmosphere in the compartment remained largely unchanged. Some people started preparing to eat, some were organizing their luggage, and others had already laid down to rest. Life goes on, even against such a backdrop. This “normalcy” sometimes makes things feel even more complicated. On the one hand, it reassures people that nothing has spiraled out of control; on the other hand, it makes one aware that this calmness may only be temporary.

Street scene in Tehran after bombings

An 18-hour journey is neither long nor short. During this time, one has plenty of opportunities to think. I recalled my own changes over the past few days, from initially not wanting to leave to now being on the road to leave. I still feel a sense of reluctance. Leaving is not an easy thing; it means interrupting my current life and re-arranging everything. But at the same time, I also understand that this decision is reasonable under the circumstances. Perhaps once the situation stabilizes, I will return to continue what I have left unfinished.

As night gradually falls, the lights in the compartment come on, and the view outside becomes blurry, with only occasional lights flashing by. I lie on the soft sleeper bed, listening to the rhythmic sound of the train, and my heart gradually becomes calm. Regardless, this journey has begun, and the next direction is slowly becoming clear.

Scenery of Tabriz

March 8, 2026, Sunday, Overcast with Snow Intermittent

Early this morning, after getting off the train at Tabriz Station, I hardly paused and directly took a taxi to the Iranian-Armenian border crossing. This segment of the journey is the last land trip as I leave Iran. The fare was around 300 RMB, a five-hour journey, which is still acceptable under the current circumstances.

Factory destroyed by the US and Israel in Tabriz

When the car truly left Tabriz, my feelings were complex—on the one hand, there was a certain relief on a practical level, but on the other hand, there was emotional concern. Overall, the situation on the road was calmer than I had expected, with no congestion. We passed a gas station where everything was orderly, and gas prices had not changed, still about 0.2 RMB per liter, which surprised me a bit. The driver was a Turkish-Iranian man, very talkative. He told me that Tabriz had also been attacked, but he spoke calmly, firmly stating, “No matter what happens, Iranians will definitely unite to defend their country.” This expression left a deep impression on me.

Gas station receipt (12L, 800,000 rials, about 3.5 RMB)

When the car reached the area where the borders of Iran, Armenia, and Azerbaijan meet, my phone suddenly received a signal from China Mobile from the direction of Azerbaijan. This change was very sudden. Previously, communication within Iran had been normal, but international internet had been completely cut off. On the car, I almost immediately began to check and reply to messages, quickly processing a large number of unread messages and informing the outside world of my situation. This experience of going from information isolation to sudden connectivity felt like reality was being “reconnected.”

Mountains at the tripoint of Iran, Armenia, and Azerbaijan

The process of crossing the border was overall smooth, with no obvious tense atmosphere. After entering Armenia, I quickly took a taxi to Meghri, a small town just ten minutes from the border. It is very small and very quiet, like a transitional space. I then continued on to Yerevan, which took about eight hours. The climate in the Caucasus Mountains changed dramatically, with clear skies one moment and heavy snow the next, the environment shifting rapidly.

On the way, I received calls from my friends in Iran, who informed me that the situation in Isfahan had become very serious. An important civilian passenger station had been bombed, nearby towns had also been attacked, and even a hospital had been affected. This information was not reported in official news. I won’t deny that when I heard this news, I was shaken inside because these places are not unfamiliar to me; they are specific spaces I have lived in.

As the car continued along the mountain road, my thoughts were constantly drawn by this information. I replied to messages while trying to confirm more details and gradually realized that although I had left Iran, the actual distance could not sever this connection. I recorded these events not only to remember my journey but also to preserve these fragmented yet real pieces. In a context of limited information, these contents from personal experience and direct contact may be closer to a part of reality.

At this moment, I am on my way to Yerevan. I have left Iran, but my thoughts are still there. I just hope that my friends who are still in Iran are safe.