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

به نام خداوند رنگین‌کمان که بخشد به گیتی هزاران نشان

If I could step back and tell my younger self one thing: seize the moment however it comes. Don’t let the world dilute it. Take it in completely—leave nothing of the experience unfinished. GN #nostr 🔥🍷🥩🥔 #foodstr #grownostr

#spring and other stuff transmitted successfully. #sourcherry #greenplum #grownostr

#Kashan - day 2 #Iran

Kashan day 1 - fabulous place #grownostr #kashan #nowrooz

Modi #dogstr

#iran #war By Mana Neyestani

بهار دلکش رسید و دل به‌جا نباشد. نوروز پیروز. ۲۵۸۵ Light finds its way back. #Nowruz Pirooz.

I was never really a fan of Trump. During his first term, I honestly thought he might end up messing things up globally, especially when it came to #Iran and the risk of war. When Biden took office, I felt relieved. But after four years, I found myself pretty disappointed with that choice. At some point, my perspective shifted. Watching how things played out—especially around Iran and the growing risk of conflict—I started to feel like it’s one of those situations where you’re stuck choosing between bad options. Kind of like what some Iranians might be facing right now: choosing between war and the current regime staying in power. And in that kind of scenario, I’d choose war over the regime a hundred times. In the same way, I’ve reached a point where I’d pick Trump over left-leaning alternatives every time. And now there’s this almost surreal phenomenon coming out of Iran. With every strike against the mullah regime, you see reports of people actually celebrating. Even during protests by the Iranian diaspora, the Israeli flag has been a constant presence. There’s a noticeable shift in sentiment—some people would rather see the country’s oil tied to the US and Israel than flowing toward China or Russia. To put that into perspective, this is a country where naming streets after international figures—controversial or otherwise—has never really been off the table. You’ve got places like Nelson Mandela Boulevard and Argentina Square, alongside roads named after figures like Khalid al-Islambouli and even Henry Corbin. So in that context, a bit of rebranding almost feels overdue. Swap out a few names, modernize the theme—why not? Khomeini Square becomes “Trump Square,” maybe a polished “Bibi Alley,” a “Lindsey Graham Road,” and for a more symbolic touch, something like “Abraham Lincoln Carrier” to really capture the spirit of freedom delivered, quite literally, offshore. At that point, it’s not even satire anymore—it’s just urban planning catching up with the times. From where I stand, it looks like the future of the Middle East could involve a strong alignment between Iran, the US, and Israel. That’s something many Muslim-majority countries—especially in the Gulf, as well as Turkey—might view with concern. A secular, democratic Iran could pose a real challenge to their economies in particular.

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

Milad Tower #tehran 📸 @npub1yhf5...u9qy

Brotherhood… terms and conditions apply. #iran