Iran, Ten Years Later: Truth, Beauty, and the Lies We’re Told

An unfiltered memory of blue tiles, headscarves, and radical hospitality

It’s been exactly ten years.
Ten years since I boarded a flight to Tehran with more questions than answers, and a curious, rebellious fire burning in my gut.

Iran, the country everyone warned me about.
The one the media painted with broad, ugly strokes. Dangerous. Closed-off. Oppressive.
You name it, they said it.

And yet…
Every inch of my intuition told me they were wrong.

So I went. For horror of all of my loved ones. Friends, family.  They all said, DO NOT GO.

But I did.

In June 2015, I spent nearly seven weeks exploring the country, Tehran, Kashan, Isfahan, Yazd, Shiraz… I wasn’t rushing through. I was absorbing, staying five to six days in each place, living with local families, getting lost in the streets, talking to strangers, sweating through train rides, and watching the truth unfold, slowly, gently, like jasmine in the heat.

And the truth was this:

Iran is one of the most beautiful, soulful, and misrepresented places on this planet.

The Kings and Queens of Hospitality

Let’s get one thing clear:
Iranian people are the kindest I’ve ever met.

And I’ve been to over 70 countries.

The kind of kind that makes you suspicious, at first. You think, “What’s the catch?”
But there is no catch. No one is trying to sell you fridge magnets. No one is hustling you into shops. Just raw, generous humanity.

I’ve been handed food on trains I didn’t even have a ticket for.
I’ve been driven to train stations in the blistering heat by people who had nothing to gain.
I’ve been sheltered, fed, protected, and celebrated, just for existing.

There was one afternoon I’ll never forget:
Trying to board a train in the middle of nowhere. The system was confusing, the station was closed, and the sun was merciless. A friend of a friend waited with me in that scorching heat, no shade, no complaint. Just… presence. When the train arrived, I still had no ticket. And instead of kicking me off, the staff brought me snacks, cold drinks, and eventually even led me to a private carriage for my safety. They refused my money. They just smiled.

This was normal.
In Iran, this kind of kindness wasn’t exceptional, it was expected.

I have traveled via train all over the world, nothing like this ever happened.

Blue-Tiled Poetry

If kindness was the soul of Iran, its mosques were the heartbeat.

Isfahan.
God, where do I begin?
The Shah Mosque, the Sheikh Lotfollah… the domes weren’t just blue, they were celestial. Every tile felt hand-painted by angels. The symmetry, the geometry, the grace. I remember standing still for so long my iPhone overheated and refused to take photos. Even technology had to pause for the beauty.

And it wasn’t just Isfahan.
Doors, fountains, ceilings, everywhere I turned, I saw art.
Not commercial art. Not “Instagrammable moments.” But art made by people who believed in beauty as a form of devotion.

Living Like a Local (Because Sanctions…..)

Because of sanctions and censorship, there were no hotels online.
No Booking.com. No Airbnb. No Tripadvisor.
So I relied on a platform called Hospitality Club, an old-school community of real travelers and hosts. And that’s how I ended up living with families in every city I visited.

And I mean living.

I danced at a wedding, the only one I was ever invited to during three years of solo travel.
I cooked with mothers. Walked around with teenage daughters. Was cared for like a cousin, a friend, a sister.
No one asked for anything.
They just gave.

Wearing the Headscarf (And Asking the Questions)

Yes, I wore a headscarf the entire time.
Was it comfortable? No. Especially in 45-degree heat.
But was it oppressive? Not for me, and not, according to the women I met, for them either.

I asked. Repeatedly.

And what I heard, over and over, was:
“It’s part of my religion. I chose it. I believe in it.”

And I believed them. Because that’s what respect looks like, not speaking over people, but listening to them.

Also, no bad hair days lol. Now that’s something that made me happy to hear it.

What did bother me?
The fact that women aren’t allowed to sing.
That hit me hard, as a singer myself. A reminder that no country is perfect, not even the ones we fall in love with.

But if we’re going to talk about imperfection, let’s not pretend our own governments are squeaky clean.
The UK? The US? Europe? Spare me. They cloak violence in suits and soundbites. Iran’s flaws don’t erase its beauty, and our democracies don’t absolve our crimes.

Why I’m Writing This Now

Because it’s been ten years.
And because today, as I write this, Iran is once again being vilified, bombed, threatened, bullied by the same psychopaths who wear suits and smile for cameras while enabling genocide and calling it diplomacy.

And the worst part?

The internet is full of people who know absolutely nothing about Iran, yet feel so damn confident spewing hate.

People who’ve never set foot there.
Who couldn’t find Tehran on a map if their life depended on it.
Who parrot what they hear on TV and believe whatever their governments feed them, as if the West hasn’t lied us into every war of the past century.

And that’s what truly breaks me.

Because I’ve been there.
I lived with families. I sat at their dinner tables. I danced at their weddings. I was taken in like a sister, not because I was special, but because that’s just who they are.
I spent seven weeks traveling through Iran. Not in a resort. Not in a tour bus. On trains, in homes, in markets, in mosques. I was alone, and I was safe. I was foreign, and I was loved.

So when I hear people today talk about Iran as if it’s the villain of the world, when I hear them regurgitate propaganda like obedient little machines, I get angry.

Not because I’m Iranian.
But because I’m awake.

Because I’ve seen what they refuse to see.

Lately, I’ve even had people ask me, “Do you seriously compare the US and Iran?”

Honestly? That question makes me laugh.

Here’s what I said, and I stand by every word:

“You’re right, it’s hard to compare. One of them drops bombs, invades countries, stages coups, and calls it ‘freedom.’ The other has never done that. So yes, totally unfair comparison.

Iran has a culture that spans thousands of years, rooted in poetry, philosophy, art, and resilience. The US, on the other hand, is a few hundred years old, built on colonialism, slavery, and endless wars. So no, I don’t compare them. Iran is far more sophisticated in every sense of the word.”

And if that doesn’t tell you enough, let me share this:

I’ve been to the U.S. many times. I’ve traveled there, respected their culture and their visa rules.
But one day, I was due to fly, and my ESTA was suddenly denied.

Why?

Not because I’m Iranian.
Not because I lived or worked there.
Not because I committed a crime.

But because I dared to visit Iran.

I was officially banned from entering the U.S. because I had spent time in one of the most hospitable, beautiful, peaceful countries I’ve ever visited.

And that, right there, tells you everything you need to know about the U.S. vs. Iran.

Final Thoughts

If you’re reading this and you’ve never considered Iran,
I hope you feel curious.
Not scared. Not judgmental. Just… open.

Because what you think you know? You don’t.
And what I found?
It was raw, real, and poetic.

Just like the tiles.

Just like the people.

Just like truth, when you dare to look for it.

Love and Light,

Emma

xoxo