For many people, a childhood home is more than an old address. It holds thousands of memories — a place where generations lived, laughed, cried and grew up. For Hoda Tondgouyan, that home carries meaning far beyond its walls. It is where her family identity took shape, with traces of her father, mother, grandfather and grandmother in every corner, each shaping a part of her life’s story.

What stands out most in her account is a life lived alongside loss — a loss that was neither sudden nor simple. It was marked by long years of uncertainty, waiting and hope, followed by the arrival of devastating news. Yet amid that bitterness, she speaks of the warmth of family life, her grandmother’s hospitality, her grandfather’s routines and memories that remain alive.

Hoda Tondgouyan’s conversation with a Shana reporter is the story of a woman who never saw her father and did not hear his voice until years into adulthood, yet feels his presence reflected in her character and that of her siblings. She speaks of the hardships of war, unfair judgments directed at the families of martyrs and the hope her grandmother held onto until the end of her life. What follows is not only a personal story, but a human portrait of a chapter in Iran’s modern history.

A House Kept Alive by Memory

Looking around the house, Tondgouyan says at least three generations have lived there. Much of what she knows are stories she heard, though she experienced part of it herself. “This is my father’s and grandfather’s home,” she says. Her grandfather was a leather merchant in Tehran’s bazaar, and many of her memories involve accompanying him there. When he later became unable to travel easily, his friends came to visit him at the house, keeping those connections alive.

She recalls how her mother and grandmother kept the home warm and welcoming. The house hosted frequent gatherings and religious ceremonies. Her grandmother made a habit of keeping several dishes ready, knowing that neighbors, passersby, friends or relatives might drop by at any time. She even welcomed the fruit vendor who delivered produce, inviting him in for a meal. As a result, the house was always prepared for unexpected guests.

“This house is full of memories,” Tondgouyan says with a bittersweet smile. “Talking about it could take hours.” She remembers the two mulberry trees in the yard and the constant activity — jars of pickles being prepared or trays of herbs being cleaned. Her grandmother prepared separate packages for each grandchild, sending them home with baskets full of food and necessities.

She adds that her grandmother also sorted clothes and household items, donating some to families who could not afford them and setting aside others for dowries. “This house was always full of people,” she says. “Today it’s much quieter, but in the past, the door was always open.”

A Question About a Father

Asked about her father, Tondgouyan pauses. “It’s difficult to answer,” she says, noting that he was not physically present in the house during her lifetime.

She says she has worked for about 22 years in the National Iranian Oil Company, and that her father’s presence has been felt so strongly that family members believed he guided them even in dreams, reminding them where misplaced items were.

Although she has no shared memories with him, she recounts an incident from early childhood when she suffered a serious head injury. Around the same time, her father appeared in a dream to a friend, complaining of a headache. The friend then called her mother, prompting them to take her to the hospital.

“I’ve experienced moments like this many times,” she says. “I’m sure he was present, even though I never saw him.” She adds that she has never even seen her father in a dream. Years later, she finally heard his voice on a cassette recording of a speech he gave to Abadan refinery workers during a period when many were being arrested. Hearing that voice for the first time was overwhelming. “It’s strange to grow up without ever hearing your father’s voice,” she says.

 From Personal Life to Career Choice

Tondgouyan says she has written for years but does not call herself a writer. She recalls that her father was once rejected from a job at Bank Melli because of his religious beliefs, an experience that stayed with her. Later, at her grandfather’s urging, she joined the oil industry at a time when there were no formal regulations governing such hires.

She initially worked in a department handling payroll calculations, then studied accounting, earned another degree and has spent nearly 22 years in the profession.

Friends of her father have told her they see strong similarities between them — in temperament, humor, love of travel and seriousness at work. “I think most of these traits came from him,” she says.

How She Was Named

Tondgouyan says her father named her while he was in prison. In one of his final letters, he chose her name and then wrote that he did not wish to continue correspondence, likely to avoid further pressure or torture. “I’m grateful he chose my name,” she says, adding that he hoped it would guide her in life.

She says the home was where she felt her father’s presence most strongly. He had a habit of visiting his mother every weekend, no matter where he was living — a tradition the family continued for years. While attending school, she often stayed overnight with her grandparents, sharing in the routines that had existed during her father’s life.

Her grandmother, she recalls, was rarely without tears, often saying that seeing the grandchildren reminded her of her son. Despite losing her sight later in life, her grandmother held onto a quiet hope that her son might one day return. “That hope stayed with us,” Tondgouyan says.

The Wounds of War Across Generations

Tondgouyan speaks of her mother’s struggles raising the children alone and of the social judgments they faced. “People see the surface and think families of martyrs are supported and privileged,” she says. “They don’t see how the damage of war continues into the next generations.”

She recalls the days when her father’s remains were returned to Iran. For 10 days, the family lived between hope and grief as celebrations turned into mourning. At her school, classmates once questioned why she was there. After her father’s remains arrived, she says, the entire school gathered around her to apologize.

“We lived with this pain,” she says quietly. “I only hope it never happens again — not to our children, not to anyone.”