The Lasting Scar of War on Children

The Sound of Fear

When I was six years old, my first memory wasn't of a birthday party or a new toy—it was of a siren and a basement. I lived through Iran's war with Iraq from 1980 to 1988, a conflict that shaped my earliest understanding of the world.

My parents' lives changed that day. In 1984, they gave up everything—our home, our jobs, our life in Tehran—and moved us to America. I did not choose war, but it was the first thing I knew. It taught me that the sky could be the enemy.

"The effects of a bomb are measured not only by who dies that day, but by what the children who survive carry with them for years afterward."

That fear didn't disappear when we left Iran. It took decades to process and reframe. As a cardiologist now, I've seen the human heart in action—both literally and metaphorically. What I learned from war is that the consequences of violence go far beyond physical damage.

From Fear to Hope

In 2024, I had the honor of becoming the first Iranian-American man to travel to space. As I soared above Earth's atmosphere, I saw a world without borders. From that altitude, there were no lines separating nations or peoples—just one fragile blue planet with all its inhabitants.

It was a profound moment of clarity, one that reinforced what I've always believed: when governments make decisions about war, they must see the people beneath them with the same perspective. We cannot treat the lives of children as an afterthought to military strategy or political maneuvering.

The Hidden Cost of Conflict

Today, in Iran, other children are hearing that sound again. Some may be running from a wedding party under attack, others from their homes. They will remember not just the bodies that fell, but the fear on their parents' faces and the way the sky suddenly became something to flee.

This is why I'm compelled to write: because the decisions made by military leaders and policymakers have consequences that last generations. Casualty counts may be reported in news cycles, but what happens inside a child's mind? What does it mean when the sky becomes a source of terror?

When children live through war, they don't just lose family or property—they lose their sense of safety, their trust in adults, and sometimes even their ability to dream. These are costs that numbers can never fully capture.

A Message to Policymakers

Some might ask if I am qualified to speak on foreign policy. No, I'm not a diplomat or strategist. But I was a child who survived a war, and my experience gives me insight into something more fundamental: that wars don't end with treaties or victories—they end when the children can breathe freely again.

We must ensure that our choices about force are guided by compassion, not just calculation. If we value peace, then we must protect the most vulnerable among us—the children who never asked to be part of a conflict but are often its most affected victims.

Years from now, some of those children will still remember what we chose. They'll carry that memory for the rest of their lives, whether it's fear or hope.

The Sky Should Not Be the Enemy

Every child deserves a future where the sky is not a threat but a symbol of possibility. When I looked down from space, I saw how small and interconnected our world is. That view shaped me—and now I hope it can help shape better decisions about war.

The children in Iran today are not the government of Iran. They did not choose its policies or leaders, yet they pay the price for them. Let us not forget that each life lost in a conflict is one too many, especially when we're talking about innocent minds shaped by fear rather than hope.

As we navigate global politics, let's ask ourselves: What kind of world do we want to leave behind? A world where children live in fear, or one where they can dream big?