dreams

Sina* is a 28-year-old video editing assistant who fought hard to build a life in Tehran. After completing mandatory military service, he refused to return to his hometown of Neyshabur in eastern Iran, knowing opportunities for a young man with a background in film editing and independent student theatre were bleak there. Through a college friend, he found his footing at a video content creation studio in the capital, climbing from camera assistant to assistant video editor within six months, before losing his job as a result of the US-Israel war on Iran. As told to Arya Farahand. 

It has been a few days since the guns fell silent, and the sliver of hope I felt when the ceasefire was announced is already fading. Out of all the resumes I sent in desperation, only one company called me for an interview. The salary they offered would not cover the bare minimum to survive. My family keeps calling from Neyshabur, repeating the same line: “Come back, there’s work for you here.” What they intend as a lifeline feels like salt in the wound.

I had stopped taking money from my father, my salary grew, and I was buying gifts for my two sisters. I was, for the first time in my life, truly independent. Now, I am sitting in my grandmother’s empty apartment in Tehran, staring at a phone with almost no internet, waiting for a job offer that’s not coming.

This is what the war has done to me. Not a scratch on my body, but everything else – gone.

Croissants on the roof

The morning the war started, we were in a briefing meeting, drinking tea. A colleague had brought fresh croissants. Then we heard the roar of a fighter jet, a whistle, and seconds later, an explosion.

Our initial instinct wasn’t terror, but naive curiosity. Against every survival guide we had read from the previous war, we piled into the elevator and went up to the roof, mugs still in hand. Pillars of smoke were rising across the city. Then, another explosion hit, deafeningly close. We sprinted for the stairs.

Our manager sent us home. The city had seized up. My driver called to say he couldn’t get through the gridlock, so we started walking – 40 minutes under the glaring sun, past stranded people and stalled cars. At one point, a middle-aged driver lost his nerve, swerving into the bus lane against traffic. A bus appeared head-on and deadlocked the lane. Trapped, he looked ready to explode. I didn’t stick around. I just kept walking.

I went to my grandmother’s house. Hard of hearing, she hadn’t heard a single blast and was simply overjoyed to see me. I drank tea, sat in front of the television, tried to process what was happening, then ate lunch and slept.

The city hollowing out

When I woke up, I reached for my phone, only to be reminded that the internet was dead. I am someone who fills every spare moment with online gaming or Instagram. Without either, the boredom was stifling. I couldn’t smoke in front of my grandmother, and the forced abstinence only added to my agitation.

In the days that followed, the city hollowed out. Whenever I stepped into the alley – using a quick errand as a pretext to sneak a cigarette – I saw fewer and fewer people. In our building, only five of the 12 units remained occupied. I could tell by the empty spaces in the parking garage.

When my cigarette supply ran out, the corner shop didn’t have my brand and the supermarket was charging double. With no certainty that my March salary would be paid, I settled for a cheaper, unknown brand. It was like inhaling truck exhaust.

The days blurred: the unemployment anxiety, the stifling boredom, the desperate secret cigarettes. I tried buying VPNs twice. The first worked for a single day. The second – the seller blocked me the moment I transferred the money.

The closest I have come to death

The true nightmare came on the night of March 5. A mild explosion jolted me awake around 4m. I walked to the kitchen for water. Then a blast ripped through the air – a sound seared into my brain for life. I froze. My grandmother stumbled out of her bedroom in terror. I pulled her into the kitchen.

Then came the barrage. More than 10 consecutive explosions, each less than 10 seconds apart. My grandmother sat on the floor beside me, arms wrapped tightly around my leg, head buried. It was the closest I have ever felt to death.

When it finally stopped, the windows held. My grandmother, shaken, recalled how during the Iran-Iraq war, sirens had warned them in time to reach shelters. What she found most painful about this war was the absolute lack of warning – no sirens, no shelters. Just sitting, waiting for the next blast. With tired legs, she climbed back into bed. I did not sleep until morning.

Ten voices in my head

Through all of it, I kept telling myself, “Hold on”. Our manager had hoped this war, like the previous conflict, would end in under two weeks. Whenever my parents called, begging me to return to Neyshabur, I said no.

On March 17, we had our final online meeting. The studio’s debts were mounting, invoices unpaid, and our manager saw no end in sight – for the war or the internet blackout. For the new Iranian year, starting on March 21, only 200 resources staff would remain. The rest of us were laid off, without pay.

As the call ended, it felt like 10 different voices were screaming in my head. I couldn’t rely on my grandmother’s meagre pension. My father was already supporting a family of four. The calculation was merciless: move back to Neyshabur and work at my uncle’s supermarket. Instead of planning how to improve my life, I was plotting survival.

I packed up and left. It was a gruelling 10-hour bus ride through eerily quiet roads. What haunted me most were the final moments in Tehran. The city felt hollow, silent, swallowed by a darkness I had never seen before.

The void

From Neyshabur, I called my manager, hoping against hope. He laid out the brutal math. During the previous war and the December protests, waiting out the shutdowns had been viable. But a relentless year of economic bleeding, capped by this blackout, had driven revenue to zero. Even if the internet were restored tomorrow and we worked nonstop for months, it wouldn’t be enough. The studio hadn’t paused. It had collapsed.

I updated my resume, bought a return bus ticket, and went back to my grandmother’s apartment. There was nothing to go back to. I just needed to feel like I was doing something.

When the ceasefire was announced, I felt a sliver of hope. It lasted about a day.

My life used to be a blur of motion: the studio, independent theatres, cafes with friends, early mornings and late nights. Now, my entire existence has shrunk to four walls. The war has ended, at least for now. The internet remains largely throttled, the economy is in ruins, and the job market that existed before February 28 has not returned with the ceasefire.

Outside, people are beginning to move through the streets again. For them, perhaps, something is resuming. For me, there is nothing to resume.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.

*Name changed for security reasons

JUNIOR Andre has joked that his mum Katie Price “crushed his dreams” of becoming a professional footballer, after he was scouted as a child.

The 20-year-old, whose dad is Mysterious Girl singer Peter Andre, is now carving out a career for himself as a musician and actor.

But once upon a time, Junior had high hopes of becoming a footballer.

And he was even scouted by professional club Millwall, before trialing for premiere league side Chelsea, Junior has revealed.

Appearing on the Not My Bagg podcast, Junior said that glamour model mum Katie informed him he didn’t have the skills to make it big time in the sport.

“My mum crushed my dreams,” said Junior.

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“She watched me play once and she says, ‘Junior, let’s be real, you’re not gonna be a footballer. You’re not good enough. Don’t worry, you’re gonna be an entertainer’.”

“But, also, equally, I wanted to be a musician and actor,” assured Junior.

Continuing that he would play Saturday league, he said: “I used to play every week and I loved it.

“When I was young I got scouted at Millwall, and I had a trial and Brighton and Chelsea and I was loving it.

“But I was never actually really that good, I was just above average.”

Just this month, Junior made his acting debut as he is starring in a new coming-of-age drama called Finding My Voice.

He stars alongside his dad Peter and EastEnders star Michelle Ryan in the flick.

Alongside acting, Junior has been in the studio working on new music, with the budding star seen recording in a recent episode of his sister’s reality show, The Princess Diaries.

Despite his famous parents, it’s not all been glamorous for Junior, who revealed in the TV show that he had also been working full time for TFL while his music was on hold.

Junior revealed he worked through the nights, full time, while he sorted out “differences” with his record label.

Speaking on his secret TFL job, Junior said: “It’s been a long time coming, it’s been hard, you know I’ve obviously had to do nine-to-five, Monday to Friday.

“I found a night job basically just working on the London underground, grafting, lifting heavy metals, cutting, filing, painting. I got them jobs so I could do my music career, so I could fund it.”

Princess, 18, gushed over her brother for following his dreams self- sufficiently.

The reality TV star said: “So proud of Junior, his last two singles went in at number one , but while he was sorting differences out with his label he went to work through the nights and work a full time job so he was fully self sufficient. Which I’m super proud of.”

Former L.A. mayor and current candidate for governor Antonio Villaraigosa wants voters to know that he navigated billion-dollar budgets, cracked down on violent crime and championed the expansion of bus and rail lines.

The onetime state Assembly speaker argues he’s the only Democratic candidate with the experience to do the complicated job of running California.

But Villaraigosa left City Hall in 2013 — eons ago in the world of politics. President Obama was still in office, singer Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” was atop the charts and Apple Watches weren’t yet a thing.

Because of his distance from elected office, combined with a decent but overshadowed fundraising effort, Villaraigosa lacks a high-profile platform to attract attention in today’s fractured media universe, an essential ingredient he needs to remind voters about his experience and accomplishments as mayor and a state lawmaker.

Antonio Villaraigosa gets his photo taken with students from Hazeltine Avenue Elementary School while visiting Placita Olvera in 2013.

(Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

Recent polls show Villaraigosa, 73, wallowing at the bottom of the field, though none of the major Democratic candidates have an overwhelming edge.

Villaraigosa also ran for governor in 2018, coming in third in the primary election behind Democratic rival Gavin Newsom, who went on to win and is now serving his second term, and little-known Republican businessman John Cox.

Political strategist Mike Madrid, who worked for Villaraigosa on that campaign, said the former mayor’s absence from politics in recent years is a major liability in this race.

“He’s a dogged, determined candidate,” Madrid said. “But there are pretty stiff headwinds.”

Villaraigosa got a boost last week when the State Building and Construction Trades Council of California pledged $1 million to an outside committee supporting him.

His allies argue voters aren’t paying attention to the governor’s race because eyes are on President Trump, immigration raids and the Iran war.

But the new funding is a pittance compared to some of his rivals. Billionaire Tom Steyer is tapping tens of millions of his own money to pump out ads. Tech companies and billionaire Rick Caruso are supporting Matt Mahan, the mayor of San José, with millions.

Another contender, Rep. Eric Swalwell (D-Dublin), has the power of incumbency. Swalwell launched his campaign on “Jimmy Kimmel Live!” and is a regular on cable news shows, while former Orange County Rep. Katie Porter, who is also running, recently served in Congress and campaigned for the U.S. Senate two years ago.

With the June primary looming, Villaraigosa’s campaign risks sputtering out.

Angeleno Celine Mares holds a copy of Newsweek featuring newly elected Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa as he is sworn into office on the steps of City Hall July 1, 2005.

(David McNew / Getty Images)

Leaving a Compton church earlier this month, he reacted to Mahan’s support from technology companies, and the billionaire money in the race.

“When you have overwhelming sums of money influencing elections, there’s a great deal of concern for those of us who care about our democracy,” said Villaraigosa. “As much as they say it’s about free speech, it actually drowns out speech.”

(During his 2018 bid for governor, though, Villaraigosa was a major beneficiary of Californians using their wealth to wield political influence. Charter school backers, including Netflix co-founder Reed Hastings and philanthropist Eli Broad, spent around $23 million on efforts to boost his campaign. )

Earlier in the morning, he rallied runners at a 10K road race in L.A.’s Chinatown, lighting firecrackers, posing for photos and looking as energetic as when he was mayor and would dart into the street to personally fill potholes.

Villaraigosa flitted around the racers’ VIP tent, spotted a bowl of fortune cookies and made a beeline. “You have an active mind and a keen imagination,” he read aloud.

“Antonio V.!” a middle-aged man called out as the former mayor passed.

Minutes later, Villaraigosa swapped his black and white Veja sneakers and jeans for dress shoes and a suit for the church service in Compton, at which an overwhelmingly Black audience gave him a warm reception.

Building a coalition of Black and Latino voters helped him win the 2005 L.A. mayor’s race in a dramatic upset of then-Mayor Jim Hahn, and brought wide attention to the one-time high school dropout, who was raised by a single mother on Los Angeles’ eastside.

Newsweek magazine featured Villaraigosa on its cover with the headline, “Latino Power: L.A.’s New Mayor and How Hispanics will change American Politics.”

But national acclaim can be fleeting. Today, voters aren’t as interested in identity-based politics, said Fernando Guerra, a professor of political science at Loyola Marymount University who has known Villaraigosa for decades.

Guerra said Villaraigosa is struggling to differentiate himself in the race because his pitch to voters is not unlike the moderate path taken by Mahan. Another contender, former Health and Human Services Secretary Xavier Becerra, overlaps with Villaraigosa when it comes to biographical details: Both are from the L.A. area, Latino and relatively close in age.

“What’s made it so difficult is that [Villaraigosa said], ‘Here’s my path,’” said Guerra. “Well, guess what, there are one to two more candidates who are also on that path.”

Strategist Madrid questioned whether voters even want to hear about a candidate’s experience at a time when anti-Trump messages rally Californians. “They want a fighter,” he said.

Since leaving the mayor’s office, Villaraigosa has enjoyed success in the lucrative private sector. He purchased a $3.3 million home in the L.A. neighborhood of Beverly Hills Post Office in 2020. . A recent campaign filing shows he’s spent the last few years advising companies including the health company AltaMed, financial lender Change Company and crypto currency exchange Coinbase Global.

Then mayor Antonio Villaraigosa holds a news conference at the Department of Water and Power on Hope Street July 22, 2005, urging all of Los Angeles to conserve energy in an effort to ensure Southern California avoids blackouts.

(Ken Hively / Los Angeles Times)

He also worked for a few years for consulting firm Actum and briefly advised the Newsom administration on infrastructure projects.

“It’s not that I didn’t like the public sector,” said Villaraigosa, explaining his decision to run again. As he talked about his desire to serve, he cast a gauzy image of the aughts in Los Angeles, taking credit for the downtown resurgence, skyline full of construction cranes and fewer homeless people on the streets during that period.

“Most people look back on those years and say they were some of the best years we’ve had in the last 25 — at least,” said Villaraigosa.

Stuart Waldman, president of the business group Valley Industry and Commerce Assn., argues Villaraigosa’s experience in the private sector and distance from elected office is a good thing.

“Look at what the economy was like, look at what the city was like” under Villaraigosa, said Waldman. “That’s what he’s going to be judged on.”

Villaraigosa started his career working for labor and civil rights groups before entering politics. Elected to the state Assembly in 1994, he pushed legislation that banned assault weapons and created healthcare coverage for children. His outgoing personality established him as a coveted fundraiser for Democrats in Sacramento and paved the way for him to be chosen as Assembly speaker.

As L.A. mayor, he brought down gang crime through a program that used former gang members to broker truces. Voters backed his ballot measure to expand L.A.’s transit system through new sales tax money in the middle of the Great Recession. He drove down pension costs after a bruising battle with city unions. At the same time, he established himself as a national leader on climate issues and education.

His reputation took a hit after an affair with a television reporter led to the breakup of his marriage.

The media scene that covered Villaraigosa back then is vastly diminished, with young people now getting news from TikTok videos, message boards or Instagram posts.

Weighing in on recent TV news layoffs in Los Angeles, Villaraigosa called himself “lucky” that there were plenty of newspaper and television reporters covering him as mayor, recalling that he’d get a dozen cameras to his press conferences.

Asked to compare his 2018 campaign for governor with this one, he said, “I didn’t have to reintroduce myself last time in quite the way I’ve had to this time.”

Villaraigosa spent a significant time in Mexico in recent years to see his now ex-wife Patricia Govea, a clothing designer. “She was in Mexico 80% of the time, the last six years. So I` went to Mexico a lot.” The pair’s divorce was finalized last year.

During a debate in front of Jewish voters on L.A.’s westside last month, Villaraigosa appeared to seize on the fact that he was the sole Angeleno on the stage, introducing himself by saying, “It’s good to be home.”

He told the crowd about his work as president of the American Civil Liberties Union of Southern California and criticized UCLA — his alma matter — for its handling of incidents targeting Jewish students on its campus.

It remains to be seen if he’ll have a hometown advantage. In the 2018 race for governor, Newsom won more votes than Villaraigosa in Los Angeles County. While Villaraigosa did well in Latino communities in central L.A. and on the Eastside, Newsom captured more votes in wealthier, whiter areas.

But at the Compton church, a security guard approached Villaraigosa and told him she’d worked on his 2005 campaign, while others promised to vote for him.

“I know he has a track record,” said Valerie Bland, a 63-year-old former port worker from Long Beach, as she watched Villaraigosa work the pews. “I haven’t even looked at anyone else.”

Former Assembly speaker Fabian Núñez, a longtime friend of Villaraigosa and managing partner at Actum, hopes voters dig into Villaraigosa’s record.

“We have short-term memories in this country,” said Núñez.

Kelly: Let’s try and get to know you a little bit more away from the pitch. Firstly, I always like asking: what were you like as a youngster?

Nathan: If you asked my mam or dad, they’d say I was a headcase! I was just a bit itchy, I always had to move. I could never sit still and relax. I always had to do something. So they had to burn me out. I always wanted to be in the grass or playing football, just running around to drain my energy. I think I was hard work for my parents, I’d say it like that!

Kelly: It sounds like maybe it was quite a chaotic household. How many siblings have you got?

Nathan: I’ve got an older brother, a younger sister and a younger brother. I think it was just a constant battle of me trying to beat my older brother. It was just so hard because the age difference. We all had training at different times and they’d be running out of the house and you’d forget your boots or they’d be taking two cars in different directions. It was a bit of a carnage, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kelly: Are you still close now?

Nathan: Ah yeah, of course. I talk to them more or less every day on the phone. Every chance I get to go home I will. My mam goes to every game – home and away. She watches them all.

Kelly: So she flies over? Are they still in Ireland?

Nathan: Yeah, they live in Ireland, so she flies over and she goes everywhere to be fair.

Kelly: Home and away?

Nathan: Yeah.

Kelly: That is some commitment!

Nathan: I know, I tell her, ‘listen, you don’t have to’ and she’s like, ‘no, I want to’.

Kelly: Not everyone’s got a son that’s a Premier League footballer though… I kind of get the appeal!

Nathan: Yeah, I don’t think that she watches the matches. I think that she just looks at me the whole game and sees what I’m doing. She’ll come after, ‘Why were you scratching your leg so much in the match?’ … ‘I don’t know. How do you know that?’

Kelly: Aw, bless her, that’s really sweet. How would your best friend describe you?

Nathan: I’d like to think that they’d describe me as the same lad I was growing up. The first thing that would pop in their head… they wouldn’t say I’m a footballer. I think they’d just say, ‘ah Nathan, he’s just a good lad like… he’s a bit of craic and he comes out when he can’ … but I don’t think that they’d look at me as a footballer, which I really enjoy. And it just means when I’m with them, I can just be myself and just enjoy being one of the lads.

Kelly: So if the manager gives you a day off, what would you do?

Nathan: It depends. If it’s a weekday and it’s good weather, I’ll play golf with a few of the lads here and we’ll get out in the sun.

Kelly: Are you any good?

Nathan: I’m all right. Listen, I can play. I’m not the greatest, but I’m not the worst.

Kelly: Who do you play with here?

Nathan: The group right now is me, Keane Lewis-Potter, Kris Ajer, Hakon Valdimarsson. It’s a good crew because we have a lot of players and we do a little Ryder Cup-style.

Kelly: Oh nice!

Nathan: So it’s staff v players.

Kelly: Wow!

Nathan: Yeah, because there’s a lot of players. We did that last year. We did 18 holes in the morning, we went for some lunch, and then we did 18 holes in the afternoon and it was really good fun. Players won, so thank God!

Kelly: Oh, that was my next question. Have you got any secret hobbies?

Nathan: I like cooking, so that’s something. When I cook, I think I just forget about everything. I’m just in my own little zone and my head kind of goes quiet, which is nice.

Kelly: Are you a good cook?

Nathan: It depends who you ask…

Kelly: If I was asking your girlfriend…

Nathan: Yeah, she’s actually saying: ‘Ah, you’re getting better at cooking!’

Kelly: That’s a bit patronising!

Nathan: Yeah, and I was like… ‘Does that mean I was bad?’

Kelly: Fair enough. What do people get wrong about you the most?

Nathan: Maybe I get a bit of stereotypical: ‘Ah, he’s just a footballer.’ Maybe they get that and then think, ‘oh, he’s actually pretty nice to talk to… he’s all right… he’s kind of relaxed… he’s chill’.

I always want to be just a good person as well. That’s important for me, just to be a nice person, a good person, a caring person. As much as I want to be the best footballer I can ever be, I also want to be the best person I can be and I think that’s something that I always strive towards as well.

Kelly: What’s the toughest moment of your career been? Has there been a tough moment?

Nathan: I had one game for Brentford against Wolves and I had two mistakes in the game. I gave away two goals, we lost 3-1 or something like that and I got battered off the Wolves fans because I’d just left Wolves and the fans had so much to go against me, so much stick. I was like, ‘oh my God, this couldn’t have got any worse’.

To be fair, that night Thomas Frank rang me and he was like, ‘listen Nathan, that’s probably the worst game you’ll ever have in your career’, and he’s like, ‘so it’s only up from here’.