Finally, the cat is out of the bag. With United States President Donald Trump first announcing a 20% surcharge for facilitating the passage of commercial shipping through the Strait of Hormuz, and now shifting the focus to investments in America (“Trade and Investment Deals that the various Gulf States will be making into the United States”), the “art of the deal” has been laid bare. The war with Iran was never about democracy, human rights, or non-proliferation; those are merely pretexts to control Iran’s vast energy reserves and the strategic choke points of global trade. But behind the sterile headlines of geopolitics lies a human reality. I wish to share something far more personal: my experience of stepping into Iran at one of the most extraordinary, painful moments in its modern history.
Late in the evening on July 1, I was deeply moved and, frankly, astonished, to receive an invitation, extended on behalf of the Rehbar, Ayatollah Mojtaba Khamenei, to attend the funeral ceremonies of his father, the late Supreme Leader Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei. The invitation came suddenly; everything — from the visa and booking the flights to arranging the state protocols — moved with breathless speed. My eldest daughter, Irtiqa, was gripped by fear when she heard the news. Aware of my outspoken stance on Gaza and concerned about the dangers of travelling to Iran, she only calmed down after extracting a promise from me that I would return as soon as the ceremonies were over. Within hours, I was aboard a Mahan Air flight bound for Tehran.
Landing in Tehran, I braced myself for an atmosphere thick with fear and wartime paralysis. Instead, I stepped into a scene of profound, composed calm. The officials who received us were polite, orderly, and reassuring. The airport’s VIP lounge bustled with diplomats and leaders from across the globe. Former Union Minister Salman Khurshid and several distinguished spiritual leaders from India were on my flight. It gradually dawned on me that I was the only female political leader invited from India, and a Sunni woman at that. In a region so often fractured by sectarian divides, this gesture of inclusive solidarity made the honour all the more profound.
From the airport to our hotel, the meticulous organisation was striking. There was no chaos, no frantic mobilisation. No one looking at the quiet, efficient streets would have believed that this was a country living under the constant threat of annihilation. Upon reaching the hotel, after being warmly welcomed, a young Iranian woman in a flowing black abaya was assigned to guide me, attending to my every need with effortless grace.
But what shattered my preconceptions most was the sheer presence of women in the public arena. On every corner, I saw female journalists, broadcasters, and camera operators, clad in abayas and headscarves, interviewing international delegates with fierce professional confidence. I have long known of Iran’s high female literacy rates and the prominence of women in universities, medicine, and education. Yet, seeing them command the media landscape stood in stark, defiant contrast to the western caricature of the silent, secluded Iranian woman.
The next day remains permanently etched in my soul. We were taken to pay our final respects before the coffins of the late Ayatollah and his family.
Nothing prepared me for the sight of the tiny coffin of 14-month-old Zahra Mohammadi Golpayegani, placed gently beside her grandfather. Her photograph, showing her with a pacifier still in her mouth, was a devastating testament to stolen innocence. As I looked at her, my heart broke, and my thoughts instantly turned to the thousands of children pulled from the rubble of Gaza — children whose faces are rarely shown on western screens.
For a Muslim, the scene was an agonising echo of Karbala, where the innocent and the young were denied even water and martyred. Thirteen centuries later, it felt as though the tragedy of Karbala had returned to the banks of the Tigris and the streets of Tehran. It was a grief too profound for words.
Yet, even in this state of national mourning, the dignity of the Iranian people was breathtaking. It reminded me that this is not merely a modern state, but a civilisational giant thousands of years old, carrying its sorrow with poetic eloquence.
During my stay, I visited the Husayniah Jamaran in Tehran, the historic prayer hall and home of the founder of the Islamic Republic, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Standing inside that simple, three-room apartment was a deeply humbling experience. It is a place where the walls do not speak of luxury, but of faith and immense sacrifice. How rare it is to see a global leader live in such austerity while wielding absolute power. One cannot help but contrast this humility with the ostentatious and hedonistic lifestyles of some leaders in neighbouring Muslim countries, whose extravagance surpasses even that of many billionaires in the West.
It was during these quiet moments of observation that I truly understood why Kashmir has historically been called Iran-e-Sagheer, or Little Iran. The cultural threads are woven tight: in the spice of our food, the cadence of our languages, the curves of our architecture, and the protective, immediate warmth with which strangers are welcomed into a home.
I saw this warmth reflected in the vibrant diversity of everyday Tehran. Women dressed as they pleased: some in strict black chadors, others in colourful headscarves paired with jeans, and young women riding scooters with their hair catching the breeze. They spoke freely, argued passionately, and occupied public spaces with confidence. At an official state function, I met two female Iranian parliamentarians. They sat confidently in the very front row, side by side with the country’s highest leadership.
Once again, the monochromatic, oppressive image projected by the West crumbled before my eyes.
What I took home with me was not the political posturing of empires, but the quiet, steel-like resilience of ordinary Iranians. This is a society that has lived under the crushing weight of sanctions and the threat of war for decades. Yet, their streets are spotless, their universities thrive, and their people walk with an unyielding, quiet pride.
They are a testament to the fact that nations cannot be understood through television screens, geopolitical rhetoric, or satellite imagery. I returned to Kashmir with a heavy heart, but with an enduring truth: beyond the smoke of war, there lives a beautiful, ancient society determined to preserve its dignity, its culture, and its humanity, even in the darkest of times.
The only regret I carried back from Iran was that, because of my packed schedule, I could not visit some of its most revered shrines:. Perhaps it was not meant to be this time. I will return to visit these blessed sanctuaries in better times.
Mehbooba Mufti is president, Jammu and Kashmir Peoples Democratic Party (PDP)
Published - July 16, 2026 12:16 am IST