Since I had no sisters or brothers close in age, there wasn’t much for me to do. I kept myself occupied by frying French fries

Tehran, Iran 1978

Living in a war-torn country is like living in a pressure cooker. The atmosphere and environment is fiery and dangerous, and you cower indoors, waiting for someone to lift the lid and say, “Everything’s all right outside. The fire’s been turned off and it’s safe to come out. Now let’s see how well you’ve fared under pressure.”

I spent most of the year of 1980 at home. Outside, the Iraqis bombed buildings, airports, and football fields. Though the explosions were thankfully too far from my house for me to hear them, the atmosphere was still rife with fear and tension.

When people weren’t dealing with the latest Iraqi-Iranian showdown, they were dealing with Ayatollah Khomeini’s radical interpretation of Islam. No talking too loudly. No dressing immodestly (even covering the neck was required). And no wild parties.

I hated wearing a hijab outside and tried to remain indoors as much as possible.

Since I had no sisters or brothers close in age, there wasn’t much for me to do. I kept myself occupied by frying French fries for myself.

Bored? French fries.

Scared? French fries.

Anxious? French fries.

I gained a whole lot of weight as a result.