In Bandar Abbas, the ceasefire never came

In this first-person testimony as told to Al Jazeera, Parisa*, a 44-year-old single mother from Bandar Abbas, reflects on the relentless uncertainty of life under repeated attacks. Her account takes place amid renewed hostilities in southern Iran in July, despite official claims that a ceasefire was in place.

We woke up on July 11, and saw two columns of smoke rising into the sky from opposite sides of the city. On one side was Bandar Abbas’s Shahid Rajaee Port, Iran’s largest commercial port; and on the other was the airport. They had struck both at the same time.

This is the third war I have lived through. I was a child during the eight-year Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s and remember little of it, but I have felt these three wars with every part of my being.

While many people in Iran struggle to grasp the reality of last summer’s war, or even the war this winter, Bandar Abbas has been a target throughout both. Now, the attacks on the city are described by the media as “natural incidents during a ceasefire”. But for those of us who live in this city, this is a full-scale war.

I do not know whether to use the past or present tense, but I know that what is happening in Bandar Abbas these days is not normal.

For us, the February war began with the strike on the Minab school. The July war began with the attack on the soldiers’ dormitory in Bampour, where the young sons of helpless mothers were torn apart while they were asleep in their beds. Most of those boys were only a few days away from completing their mandatory military service.

For us, the February war began with the strike on the Minab school. The July war began with the attack on the soldiers’ dormitory in Bampour, where the young sons of helpless mothers were torn apart while they were asleep in their beds. Most of those boys were only a few days away from completing their mandatory military service.

I am 44 years old. I am a single mother to a 23-year-old son. I look at him every morning and every night, and I think of the mothers who lost their sons in the Bampour soldiers’ dormitory. My son is exempt from military service because I am a single mother. But the fact that he is not a soldier has not allowed me to breathe easily. Like many young men in coastal cities, he works at sea, and there is not a single day when I am free from the anxiety of what might happen to him out on the water during a war.

My family tells me, in an attempt to ease my anxiety, that I should not worry. They say the fishing vessels are not targets. But throughout these wars, the sea has not been safe. Many fishing and commercial boats have been targeted. People’s children have not been safe out on the water. How can I ease my anxiety when the only thing I truly have in this life is my son?

Our home is close to Bandar Abbas Airport. On the nights of bombardment, we would press our ears to the ground, waiting for the noise to stop so we could sleep. But what kind of sleep was that? Even when the media reports, “The attacks for tonight are over,” there is no guarantee of safety. The residential buildings were struck in broad daylight, under the pretext that someone inside was a target, right before our eyes.

How are we supposed to remain calm? If a neighbour slams a door too hard, I jump in fear, thinking it is another attack. Every time a loud sound comes from the street, I say, “May God have mercy on us. They have struck again.”

Before the war, I considered myself to be highly resilient. But the repeated attacks on the city, and the tragedies they have brought, have forced me to reconsider the image I had of myself. I always thought that if I lost someone close to me, I would be able to be a pillar of support for my loved ones. When my close friend lost her husband in one of the missile attacks, I realised that it was much harder than I had imagined. The first time I called her after he was killed, I could not get a single word out of my mouth. At her husband’s funeral, seeing her two small children asking everyone, “Then why hasn’t Dad come back yet?” left me unable to breathe.

Several months have passed since that attack, and I still keep my distance from my friend’s children, whom I love as much as my own. I cannot bear to see that they still believe their father will come home and their lives will one day return to normal.

The truth is that our lives will never return to normal. The people of Bandar Abbas, like people across southern Iran, and, I believe, across the country, have an extraordinary sense of solidarity. On nights of bombardment, sometimes our neighbours come to check on us, and we would go together to the shore, waiting for the attacks to end. But even together, we could not escape the anxiety.

One of my brothers works at Shahid Rajaee Port, which has been repeatedly targeted. Another works at a petrochemical facility that is under constant threat of attack. Sometimes during the day, I call my brothers so many times that I exhaust them. But what can I do? I cannot escape the fear that this might be the last time we speak to each other, the last time we hear one another’s voices.

To distract myself, even a little, I joined a group of women entrepreneurs in Bandar Abbas. Together, we try to help women whose businesses have been damaged by the war and repeated internet shutdowns. Being able to help even one woman reopen her online shop or food business gives me a sense of purpose, even if only for a moment.

But how much difference can a small group like ours really make? Helping even one closed business reopen brings a sense of relief and purpose. Then, almost immediately, you remember how vast the damage is and how limited your ability is to change it, and you find yourself back where you started.

These days, as the threats of war continue morning and night, and while the state broadcaster reports Iran is under a ceasefire, I find myself thinking just one thing: To give this situation a name. If we knew whether we were living through war, a ceasefire, or peace, we could make decisions about our lives. But whatever this situation is, it refuses to accept a name.

It feels as though you are trapped in an endless state of suspension. Wherever you look, there is no horizon. Resilience advice tells you to focus on what you can change, on what is within your control. But when nothing feels within your control, what are you supposed to do?

Editor’s note: *For security reasons, Parisa is identified by only her first name.