Breaking Bridges and Browsing Lives

I was curled up on a Brooklyn couch one bright April morning, sipping coffee while my phone screen showed the B1 bridge in Tehran beginning to crumble. Engineers had poured years into building that span, meant to link Tehran with Karaj where my relatives live and where I once played as a child. An American bomb had split the bridge in two, just as families were celebrating Sizdah Bedar, a holiday that marks the end of Nowruz. Eight people lost their lives, and an engineer on site told a French reporter that the bridge felt like a child to him.

Underneath that shaky footage, my Instagram feed displayed an ad for a face mask from Dr. Dennis Gross, then a photo of a college friend arranging tulips on her kitchen island, followed by a nurse in Tehran carrying newborns through rubble, and then a clip of nachos and lobster rolls being ordered at Yankee Stadium. I didn’t even realize how long I was scrolling; my thumb moved automatically, letting war footage, a skincare product, flowers, and fast food all slide past in a single stream. Each item faded into the next before I could focus on any one of them.

Later that day, I called my mother. She always asks about my cousin in Tehran. On March 20, during the Persian New Year, we managed a three‑minute FaceTime before the call cut off. He told me I looked sharp in my suit, and we exchanged our usual words of love, longing, and hope to meet again. The screen went black, leaving a quiet space between us.

There is a Persian word—“ghorbat”—that captures the deep ache of exile. It’s more than homesickness; it’s a structural feeling, a permanent separation that lingers in the body. My parents have carried this word for over four decades, even after their own parents died in America while still calling Iran home. The word weaves through Persian poetry like longing does through blues, shaping every line with the weight of displacement. Generations of invasion and exile have etched “ghorbat” into everyday speech, giving voice to those who cannot bring their homes with them.