Summary of this article
Reza, a postgraduate student from Iran in Delhi for three years, says, “It’s a strange helplessness. You wake up in the morning and first thing you do is check the news."
“My mother sends me poetry from Tehran, voice notes to tell me that they are okay, but I know they are not because I watch the news, too,” says an Iranian scholar living in Delhi.
The spirit of the people of Iran is deeply rooted in religious and cultural teachings.
Maryam Alizadeh checks her phone first thing in the day for messages, missed calls, fragments of news from Iran. Some mornings, there is a message waiting. Most mornings, it’s just scrolling the social media for news. Alizadeh, a PhD scholar at Delhi University, three years into her research, lives in Delhi while her family remains in Tehran.
“We get all our news through the media and don’t know how much of it we can trust,” she says. “I have been in touch with my family, which includes my mother and sister in Tehran. I can tell you they are still alive. My house has been damaged, not destroyed. Many of my friends and relatives have been killed, including my pregnant cousin.”
Relief and grief sit together as she gets dressed and steps out into a day that feels ordinary.
Most afternoons, Alizadeh is at the Iranian Cultural Centre in south Delhi, a hub for the city’s Iranian community. She moves between students, scholars, business owners and long-time residents, keeping track of news from Tehran and checking on those struggling to cope. Many of the students here are on scholarships or are self-financed. The ongoing sanctions have made routine transfers unreliable or impossible, creating a quiet anxiety about finances on top of their worries about their families.
“We are trying to arrange monetary help for those in difficulty,” she says. “As for the community living in India, we have stayed together, offering emotional support to each other... We try to be in constant touch with each other. It’s not just about money. It’s about being present.”
Outside the gates, a small table has been set up. On it rests a photograph of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, framed by flowers. Some fresh, others beginning to wilt under the Delhi sun. People arrive one by one, or in small groups, approach slowly, place a flower, stand still for a moment and then step aside. There are no speeches, no instructions.
Fatemeh, who has brought a single rose, places it on the table and steps back. “You come here not for answers but because you need to feel connected to home. And you want to be with people who understand both the fear and the pride. You can’t explain that combination to just anyone.” Around her, conversations in Persian unfold in measured tones. Someone’s relative has been reached, or a neighborhood has been affected. A rumour is discussed and dismissed.
Dr. Mandana Kolahdouz, a scholar at Jamia Millia Islamia, flitting between WhatsApp groups, social media feeds, and calls, reads verses of Persian poet Parvin Etesami on her phone. Poetry, she says, carries reassurance and coded messages. “My mother sends me poetry from Tehran, voice notes to tell me that they are okay, but I know they are not because I watch the news, too,” she says.
“My friends are working in hospitals on emergency duty, often without reliable electricity, and it is tough to deal with emergencies. We are glued to social media for any trickle of news that comes in.”“While I am worried about everyone back home, I can say that we are not bowing to the enemy and not surrendering to imperialism,” she adds.The sentiment echoes across the community, appearing in different forms in multiple conversations.
A few kilometres away, the Embassy of Iran in New Delhi holds the same emotional current in a more formal register. Just beyond the entrance, a garlanded photograph of Khamenei has become a focal point. Visitors approach it in silence, bow their heads briefly, linger for a moment longer than necessary. There is no formal ceremony, but the space carries the weight of one.Inside, two large halls are lined with cartons stacked in neat rows. All of them sealed, labelled, ‘With love from people India’, ready for dispatch. These are antibiotics, painkillers and essential supplies gathered through donations from Iranians and well-wishers across India.A volunteer checks labels, adjusts stacks.
“We know there is a shortage of essential medicines,” he says. “It is not just about politics. It affects hospitals, patients and ordinary families. Medicines become expensive or impossible to find. So this becomes our way of helping, however small it may seem. It is also our way of saying that we are still here.”Reza, a postgraduate student in Delhi for three years, stands nearby. “It’s a strange kind of helplessness,” he says.
“You wake up and the first thing you do is check your phone. And then you try to go about your day as if things are normal, but they are not.” People move quietly around him, speaking in low tones, exchanging updates, or simply acknowledging one another.
“You are physically safe here,” he adds, “but emotionally, you are not. You are always somewhere else in your mind.”For Mehdi Shirmohammadi, who runs the Iranian Mehfil Book Café at the Iranian Cultural Centre and has lived in India for the past three years, the distance became sharply defined the moment he saw images from his hometown in Kharg. “It felt like a personal loss,” he says, recalling photographs of a bridge he had known all his life, now destroyed.
“Day by day, things are getting worse. They have started targeting civilian areas and it is a matter of huge worry. Internet is working sporadically, making internet calls almost impossible. We try normal calls, and even then we are connected only after trying 15 to 20 times, and can speak for maybe two minutes. When there is a situation like this, one naturally wants to be with his family, but we know it is just not possible. And that adds to the anxiety. Earlier, we used to visit Iran every four months.”
“You carry both things at once,” Mehdi adds, “the pain for your family and the belief that they are strong enough to endure.”
Alizadeh says, “We are proud of the fact that so many people across the globe are standing in support of Iran. It is said that only one country could stand up to America, and that is us. While we think about the cost, we also know this is what had to be done. They are targeting hospitals, universities, schools and sites of historical importance. And about the news from the ground back home: people try to stay safe during the day and stick to their normal routines, and at night, they gather on the streets to show solidarity.”
Back at the cultural centre, Dr. Mohammed Hossein Ziyaee Nia, Deputy Representative of the Supreme Leader of Iran in India, spends the day receiving visitors who come to pay tribute or simply be in a space that reflects their grief. “The spirit of the people of Iran is rooted in religious and cultural teachings,” he says. “Martyrdom is treated as a reward. We have people here who look forward to martyrdom. We will win, or we will die. And that is what people live by as they come together in a time of grief.”
As Fatemeh prepares to leave, she says: “We may be far away geographically, but emotionally, we are there all the time. That distance does not protect you from feeling anything.”As she steps out, more visitors are arrive, quietly moving toward the table, carrying with them the same mix of fear, pride and resolve.
