It’s been a while #nostr #foodstr

It’s been a while, #nostr #foodstr

Shahpasand Kebab a truly #Persian dish made with tender lamb fillet, grilled tail fat, and charred tomatoes, served with fragrant buttery Persian rice. #foodstr

My search for the best cağ (pronounced “ja”) kebab brought me to Koç in Erzurum, and I have to say, it made me reconsider my standards. Coming from a culture that takes great pride in its kebabs, this was seriously impressive. The service is excellent, you’re welcomed and served almost immediately with a selection of meze. There’s no traditional menu here; once you’re seated, the cağ kebab keeps coming, one skewer at a time, until you say “tamam.” It’s a simple concept, but done perfectly. The kebab itself is delicious, tender, flavorful, and best enjoyed with lavash bread. Pairing it with ayran completes the experience. #foodstr

Hello #datca #knidos

#foodstr

#Fethiye

One of the highlights of the trip was meeting a Turkish couple in #Alanya, Meral and Omar, who run a wonderful seafood spot called Karides. They lived in the Netherlands for many years before recently returning to #Turkey, and you can really feel that blend of perspectives in both their food and their hospitality. There’s no fixed menu; just a kind of daily, evolving kitchen. You begin with meze and rakı, and for the main course it’s whatever fresh catch they have that day, often served simply, sometimes with their own twist on fish and chips. As a cook, I’m not easily impressed, but this food was genuinely exceptional. What stayed with me even more than the food, though, was the spirit behind it. Meral and Omar are both travelers and bikers, and as a biker and traveler myself, I connected with them instantly. There’s something very open, grounded, and borderless about them. From the moment you walk in, you feel at home, t felt less like visiting a restaurant and more like reconnecting with old friends I hadn’t seen in years. Meral was also kind enough to share tips on beautiful spots along the road to #Fethiye, which made the journey even more special. I think one of the greatest rewards of traveling is meeting people like this. They go beyond nationality, they’re simply, genuinely human.

Drove 650 km from #Doğubayazıt to #Kayseri in a single day, what a route. The scenery was stunning the whole way. #Turkey feels incredibly green and lush compared to #Iran, which is mostly desert aside from the northern and western regions. Funny contrast too: Turkey has little oil, while Iran has plenty, sometimes feels more like a curse than a blessing. Road trip day 2

The only thing that kept me going during the war was cooking and experimenting in the kitchen—it helped my creativity flow and took the edge off the pain. But with no internet for nearly three months, I couldn’t share any of it on Nostr. So here it is now. #foodstr #grownostr

There was a lot of hassle at the border crossing with the car, but the view of Mount #Ararat shrouded in clouds made it all worthwhile. Road trip day 1

Set free, if only for a while, Beyond the border. Road trip day 1 #Iran #Turkey #Bazargan

Something remarkable is happening in #Iran right now. In the aftermath of state violence—after young protesters are killed—many families are choosing to mourn in a way that quietly breaks expectations. They still wear black. The grief is visible. The loss is undeniable. But instead of ritual lamentation and orchestrated weeping, you hear percussion. You see clapping. And then, you see dance. Some call it a “dance of mourning.” And no, it’s not denial. It’s not a party. It’s something far more layered—and far more powerful. To understand why this matters, you have to understand the backdrop. For over four decades, the Islamic Republic has cultivated a very specific aesthetic of grief. Mourning has been stylized, ritualized, and politicized. Public sorrow often comes with a script—chants, elegies, martyrdom imagery. Grief, in many ways, has been choreographed. What these families are doing is stepping out of that choreography. They haven’t abandoned sorrow. The black clothing remains. Faces are heavy. The air carries that unmistakable density of fresh loss. But then the rhythm begins—hands striking drums, palms meeting in unison. Bodies begin to move. Not wildly. Not euphorically. But deliberately. When a mother dances at her child’s funeral, she isn’t saying she doesn’t hurt. The pain is right there, visible in every gesture. But she’s also saying something else: You don’t get to own this moment. You don’t get to turn my child into your symbol. You don’t get to dictate how I love, how I grieve, how I remember. That shift changes everything. Rituals are never neutral. They carry power. They shape meaning. When people alter the ritual—even slightly—they alter the story. By introducing rhythm and collective clapping into spaces long dominated by lamentation, these families reclaim authorship. The body itself becomes a statement. It says: you may have taken a life, but you will not define it. There’s something deeply human happening here, too. Trauma freezes the body. It locks grief inside the chest. Rhythm does the opposite—it moves energy. It synchronizes people. It creates a pulse that says, we are still here. The scenes are haunting precisely because they hold contradiction so openly: black clothes, tearful eyes, and yet steady percussion echoing through the space. It’s not joy replacing sorrow. It’s sorrow finding motion. In many cultures, funerals include music or even dance. But in Iran’s current context, this carries extra weight. When a state has spent decades promoting a singular, sanctified model of mourning, any deviation becomes quietly political. Choosing percussion over prescribed lament becomes symbolic independence. It signals that culture isn’t fixed. It isn’t owned. And maybe that’s the most striking part. This isn’t loud resistance. It’s not slogans or confrontation. It’s intimate. It’s about reclaiming meaning at the moment of farewell. The message feels clear: yes, you caused this loss. Yes, the grief is real. But we refuse to let death dictate the entire atmosphere. We refuse to let darkness be the only language available to us. There’s a melancholic gravity in these gatherings. The dancing isn’t celebratory in a shallow way. It carries weight. It honors the wound. But it also insists that the person who was lost was alive—vibrant, rhythmic, embodied. And so they are remembered in motion, not only in silence. That’s why this phenomenon feels so powerful. It holds two truths at once: profound sorrow and unbroken dignity. It doesn’t erase grief. It reshapes it. Sometimes resistance isn’t about shouting louder. Sometimes it’s about changing the rhythm—while still dressed in black—and moving anyway. #dance_of_mourning

#BBC News just labeled the Iranian regime’s 22 Bahman (Feb 11) rally a “family festival.” Let that sink in. 22 Bahman is not a celebration. It marks the anniversary of the 1979 Islamic Revolution — the moment that ended freedom in Iran and ushered in decades of repression, executions, censorship, and state violence. For the regime, it is a carefully staged display of loyalty; for millions of Iranians, it symbolizes the loss of their country. Framing this day as a “family festival” normalizes an authoritarian regime while conveniently ignoring the recent massacre of tens of thousands of protesters whose only crime was demanding basic rights and freedom. This isn’t neutral journalism — it’s propaganda laundering. It’s misleading. It’s deeply insensitive. And it legitimizes state violence and mass murder. Worse, it mocks the very struggle Western values claim to be built on: the fight for freedom, dignity, and human life. If freedom matters — and it does — this kind of coverage must be called out. People deserve truth, not sanitized narratives that protect power and erase victims. #AyatollahBBC #nostr

I don’t know if you’ve heard about the Huda Beauty situation or not, but here’s the story. This brainless influencer shared a video from a pro–Islamic Republic regime march where people were tearing up photos of Trump and the Israeli flag. Almost immediately after that, a campaign to throw away Huda Beauty makeup went viral, and—unbelievably—her stock tanked as well. Then Huda comes out and says she “didn’t know what she was posting” and wasn’t aware of the real context behind it. A perfect example of how influencers don’t just lack empathy, but also lack the brainpower to tell right from wrong. She tried to strike a left‑liberal pose and ended up backing the terrorist Islamic Republic regime, just because it’s anti‑Israel. And yes, Huda Beauty comes across as openly antisemitic.

Many so-called “leftist” activists love to preach about human rights. But in reality, their morality is selective, political, and deeply hypocritical. Here are 9 uncomfortable truths: 1. They stay silent when Islamist or authoritarian regimes murder their own people — like in Iran — but scream when the West is involved. 2. When Muslims kill Muslims, it’s suddenly “complex.” No outrage. No urgency. No solidarity. 3. Antisemitism is tolerated in their circles. Jewish lives don’t seem to matter as much. Dead kids in Gaza trend. Dead kids in Ukraine don’t. Apparently, not all children are equal. 4. They are obsessed with being “anti-West,” even if it means defending dictators and extremists. 5. They fear being called “Islamophobic” more than they fear injustice. 6. Their empathy is selective. Some victims get headlines. Others get erased. 7. Most of them are intellectually lazy. They repeat slogans, follow trends, and never think beyond hashtags. 8. Greta and influencers like her are part of the problem: loud against the West, quiet about China, Iran, Russia, and real oppression. 9. They talk about justice, but practice double standards. They talk about equality, but rank human lives. This isn’t activism. This isn’t morality. This is ideological tribalism. They don’t stand for humans. They stand for narratives. And if your compassion depends on politics, you don’t have compassion at all. Human lives are not props. Human suffering is not a trend. Enough hypocrisy.

خاطره‌ای در ذهنم مانده است: چند سال پیش، در جمع دوستانی از دوران دانشجویی که همگی خارج از ایران تحصیل کرده‌اند و در دسته “طبقه متوسط تحصیل کرده” قرار میگیرند، صحبت از حمایت من از دودمان پهلوی شد. واکنش همه‌شان نگاهی آمیخته به تعجب و تمسخر بود؛ با لبخندی کنایه‌آمیز میگفتند: “ما که مدتهاست از پهلوی عبور کرده‌ایم!” به آنها گفتم: “فاصله‌ی پنجاه‌ساله‌ی حاکمیت آخوندی در برابر دوهزار و پانصد سال شاهنشاهی، چیزی در حد یک عطسه است و مطمئنم روزی همگی شگفت‌زده می‌شوید وقتی بفهمید مردم خیلی وقت است که انتخاب خود را کرده‌اند.” پهلوی ستیزی یک بیماری لاعلاج نیست؛ ریشه‌اش بیشتر در ناآگاهی تاریخی و کینه‌های به‌جامانده است؛ کینه‌هایی که گاه از این می‌آید که گاه فلان عمو یا دایی چپ‌گرا در دوران پهلوی زندانی بوده، در حالی که همان چپ‌ها و مجاهدین بعدها به دست آخوندها سلاخی شدند. همین دوستان به ظاهر فرهیخته که امروز به هویت ایرانی مدرن خود می‌بالند، بهتر است به یاد بیاورند که آنچه امروز به عنوان فرهنگ و هنر مدرن به آن افتخار می‌کنند، حاصل تلاش‌های بی‌وقفه‌ی رضا شاه کبیر، شاه فقید ایران و شهبانو فرح پهلوی است. امیدوارم روزی از این پیش‌فرض‌ها رها شویم و دشمن واقعی این سرزمین را درست بشناسیم؛ دشمنانی که چیزی جز سه جریان فاسد نیستند:  ملا، چپی، مجاهد. ‌پاینده ایران. دی‌ماه ۲۵۸۵.

Today, Iran lost one of its true giants. Bahram Beyzayi was not just a filmmaker or a playwright — he was a national conscience. A man who carried the weight of history, myth, and truth on his shoulders, and never set it down, no matter the cost. “Bashu, the Little Stranger” remains one of the most humane films ever made in this land. Created in the middle of the Iran–Iraq war, it refused the language of hatred and destruction. Instead, it spoke for children, for the displaced, for those whose lives are shattered by war. It was a brave, clear cry for peace at a time when silence was safer. Beyzayi never bowed to power. He did not compromise, he did not flatter, and he did not submit to censorship. For that courage, he paid with years of exclusion and exile. In the final decades of his life, far from home, he continued his work and research at Stanford University, carrying Iran’s stories, myths, and wounds with him wherever he went. He lived with dignity, and he created with responsibility. He taught us that art is not decoration — it is memory, resistance, and truth. Today, we mourn not only an artist, but a guardian of Iranian culture. A national hero whose voice will never fade. Rest in peace, Bahram Beyzayi. Iran remembers.

This chart isn’t “economic misfortune.” It’s theft. In the 1970s, before the Islamic Revolution, 1 USD bought ~7 Iranian rials. Today it buys 1,300,000+. That collapse wasn’t an accident. It was designed. They printed. They stole. They lied. You paid. A state–clerical mafia took control of the money and used it to fund itself: endless proxy wars, patronage networks, repression, and corruption so deep it burned the future of an entire generation. While young people lost opportunity, mobility, and hope, the regime exported inflation and imported violence. This is how it works: Print money to fund power Debase savings to hide failure Push the cost onto citizens Wrap it in ideology You worked → they debased. You saved → they inflated. You stayed → they robbed you slowly. This isn’t unique to Iran. This is fiat money behaving exactly as designed when captured by unchecked power. Opt out. #Bitcoin exists. No slogans needed — just facts: fixed supply, no central printer, no permission, no insiders. You hold it yourself or not at all. No cleric, general, or bureaucrat can dilute it to pay for their wars. #Bitcoin doesn’t fix corrupt states. It cuts them off from their favorite weapon: the value of your labor. If your money can be printed, it will be stolen. #bitcoin isn’t an investment. It’s an exit.

Friday #foodstr