Between Silence and Snow

Some dreams wait quietly inside of us. Mount Shah Alborz (13,681 feet) was one of mine. I left Iran with my family during the Iran-Iraq War in 1986, eventually building a life in Germany and later the United States. Yet the mountains of Iran never left me. Yet 17 years ago, I returned, drawn back to the landscapes that shaped my beginnings. But it was not until April 2026, as war broke out once again in Iran, that the dream of skiing Shah Alborz finally became reality. Together with my partner Mohammad Hajabolfath and friends Ehsan Darabi and Mobin Movahedi, I set out toward a mountain that was far more than a summit.

By mid-April, winter still lingered on the higher slopes of Shah Alborz. When Mohammad suggested that we set off, there was no need for further discussion. Ehsan and Mobin agreed immediately. If anything, the uncertainty beyond the mountains only strengthened our decision. In a way, the contradiction of it all – the fact that war was unfolding around us – became a silent source of motivation in itself. After sunrise, we drove to HassanJoon village. At the trailhead, everything stood still. Then, almost without noticing, we began walking. Snow gradually replaced the dusty trail, skis replaced boots and the familiar rhythm of a ski tour settled in. Conversation drifted between route choices, memories and long stretches of silence.

Sometimes we spoke about the route, sometimes about our lives. Just as often, we said nothing at all. The mountain soon set the pace, and with every step, the outside world seemed to drift a little farther away.

By early afternoon, we reached a small mountain hut built by our friend Saber Sadeghian in memory of his father, Najman Sadeghian. Saber welcomed us with unmistakable joy. Above the entrance hung a simple inscription: “Those who step into your house, instead of questioning their faith, give them a piece of bread.” Those words stayed with me. At a time when the world beyond the mountains felt increasingly uncertain, their message was beautifully uncomplicated: kindness comes first. That night, surrounded by the silence of the mountains, these words appeared to be perfectly adequate.

The following morning, the mountain demanded our full attention. The terrain steepened. Giant wind-built cornices guarded the ridges while soft snow gradually gave way to hard ice. One by one, we fitted ski crampons and continued upward. Shah Alborz makes for a long summit day, and fatigue builds slowly. Yet none of us questioned continuing.

Each of us had our own reasons for being there. With every step, I found myself thinking of those who no longer could. The innocent people caught in conflicts beyond these mountains – including the children of Minab School, whose lives had recently been taken by violence. I could change nothing. But I could carry their memory upward.

Beyond the ridgelines, another world continued its endless cycle of headlines and conflict. Up here, untouched snow stretched across the mountain. It wasn’t escape, but something much harder to define. We reached the summit without celebration. No countdown. No dramatic final push. Only the quiet realization that there was nowhere higher to climb. We stood together in silence, looking across the Alborz Mountains toward an endless horizon. Only then did it become clear that this journey had never been about skiing alone. It was about friendship, memory and belonging. About discovering that dreams do not ask permission from history. Even in uncertain times, something inside us keeps moving forward.

The descent began across wind-hardened snow before opening into long, satisfying turns. The mountain that had resisted us all morning finally invited us to ski. What had challenged us on the ascent now rewarded every turn. Turn by turn, the valley drew closer until Najman House appeared once more below us – a quiet symbol of hope waiting exactly where we had left it.

Mountains solve none of the world’s conflicts. But they remind us of perspective, endurance and time. Human conflict passes across them like weather. Civilizations endure far longer than wars or political events. The mountains remain. And so do memory, language and the people who call them home. Perhaps that is why we return – not to escape history, but to remember that history is never the whole story.