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Iranians, Home and Abroad, Want Change. But Are Divided on the War
I found out war had started in Iran from my older sister’s text message in the family group chat, in the middle of my usual morning routine—barely open eyes, grab phone, click. This was on Saturday, February 28.
After the initial numb silence, my first thought was: “Good thing grandma’s gone.”
The last time Iran was bombed, in June 2025, my grandmother was in her nineties and living with full-time nurse care at her apartment near Salmas Square, in Tehran. The apartment she’d lived in for almost forty years, with the wide cracks on the ceiling. With the thick frosted-glass entrance and the thick frosted-glass bathroom door. How thick does frosted glass have to be to survive bombing? How close do the bombs have to fall for the cracks in the ceiling to become a real problem?
This was during the conflict that’s now known as the Twelve-Day War, which started when Israel attacked Iran on June 13, triggering retaliation from Iran and intervention from the United States. I used to check the Israel Defense Forces’ posts on Instagram every day, waiting for the announcement about which neighbourhoods they would target. After US president Donald Trump first declared a ceasefire on social media on June 23, an IDF post said District 6—where my grandmother lived—was next. My mother (who lives in Toronto, like me) called the phone line at the Salmas Square apartment so many times that one call eventually went through: not enough of a connection to be able to talk to the nurse, just enough to know there was still a phone to pick up.
Once the war was over, and internet access was back, and we could talk to our relatives in Iran, here is what my mother learned had happened during those twelve days: the two regular nurses on rotation had left my grandma, and a string of temporary nurses hired in their place left too. Who wants to be in the capital city during a bombing? Finally, my aunt had found a nurse who stayed. Once the bombings were over and my aunt could travel across the city to check in, she had found my grandmother gaunt and weak. It turned out the temp nurse had not been feeding her. No lunch, no dinner. Just a starving ninety-something-year-old, and an aunt crying of guilt, and a war. And my mother, clutching her phone and feverishly checking the news in Toronto, thousands of miles away.
My grandmother passed away on February 3. We could not attend the funeral in Iran.
Not even a month later, war again.
It’s very different this time, or maybe it just feels very different to me. No need for my mother or aunt to make calls to nurses begging them to stay, for one thing. And for the other, eight months of added, brutal context. Videos of reportedly millions of Iranian protesters flooding the streets in massive uprisings in January, calling for regime change across the country. Images of slogans spray-painted on walls wishing death upon the supreme leader of Iran. Of blood painting the streets red. Of grieving survivors curled around the dead, in a field of black body bags. News of Iranian authorities raking through hospitals, preventing treatment, and arresting injured protesters. And the Iranian diaspora, like the far-reaching heads of an angry Hydra, chanting in the streets of Toronto, Vancouver, Los Angeles, Munich, London, Lisbon, Perth.
The Hydra heads initially agreed on two things: collective grief and anger on behalf of the domestic protesters—and a desire for change. The level of change, change toward what, change back to what, change for whom? Those discussions have exposed deep divides.
Before war broke out on February 28, a lot of the disagreement was . . . about a potential war. About the necessity of foreign intervention. Some argued it was the only way toward real progress given that the Islamic Republic that’s ruled Iran for forty-seven years had refused to budge for years—had committed mass murder—in the face of national uprisings calling for change. Some of them brought Israeli flags and Trump posters to the January and February rallies in the diaspora and wore “Make Iran Great Again” hats, hoping they could push those governments to attack and bring down the regime.
On the other side, many argued that foreign intervention would be ruinous. There aren’t many examples of quick wars that topple regimes with no innocent casualties, no fallout. Oil infrastructure, water facilities, and hospitals have been damaged. Some could see the writing on the wall: there would likely be a push to change the map of Iran. A worry that has become real—Trump told reporters it was a probability on March 7.
The day after, the son of the late Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei was named as his successor, signalling that the regime won’t go easily. And should the Iranian regime fall, who should take power in the aftermath? A loud group of Iranians (both inside and outside the country) have voiced their support for Reza Pahlavi—the son of the last king, or shah, of Iran—whether it’s to restore the old monarchy or to have him serve as a transitional leader while Iranians decide what’s next, as Pahlavi himself has suggested. Others are more skeptical. Iranians rose up and overthrew the monarchy decades ago—is a step backward change for the better? And is change worth seeing the country destroyed, with hundreds if not thousands killed, opening up the potential for power vacuums and civil war and a very different map of the country?
Inside Iran, on the rare occasion we can get around the ongoing internet shutdowns to speak to them, my mother’s friends and family are just as divided.
“Don’t wish for war, war is not easy . . . those twelve days were hell,” a family member said to my mom.
“Let them drop bombs. How else will we get real change?” an old colleague asked her.
Now that war has actually broken out, and internet access has been shut off inside Iran (again), I’m back to wondering about the bomb resistance of frosted glass.
So far, the impact of the war has been far-reaching—hundreds of innocent civilians have already died, oil prices have been affected globally, and surrounding countries (like Qatar, Iraq, and Kuwait) have been pulled into the conflict.
Meanwhile, the Hydra heads are back to snapping at each other.
The night of February 28, cars with Iranian flags created a near standstill on Yonge Street in Toronto’s North York, recently designated as Little Iran, honking up a storm in celebration of Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei’s assassination. The next morning, Iranians stood outside the US consulate in Toronto, chanting, “We love you, Mr. Trump.” More recently, rally goers in Toronto and Vancouver shared similar sentiments, shouting, “Thank you, Trump”
On Instagram, some Iranian Canadian accounts were sharing AI-generated images of IDF soldiers shaking hands with Iranian protesters. Others shared photos, taken by reporters, of soot-covered children screaming in Tehran as they’re pulled and carried through the rubble of bombed buildings. Photos of parents outside an elementary school in Minab, where more than 150 schoolgirls were killed by a strike. Photos of Golestan Palace and Chehel Sotoun Palace, UNESCO World Heritage sites, damaged by bombs.
My mother—who in January leaned toward the view that war might be the only way to achieve regime change in Iran—told me on Facetime she’d changed her mind.
She then shook her head and added, “Good thing my mother’s gone.”
The post Iranians, Home and Abroad, Want Change. But Are Divided on the War first appeared on The Walrus.
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