‘Where the scent of wood mingles with gunpowder, I crafted a cello’ – An Iranian luthier tells his story

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Tehran, Saturday, 8:00 AM, 28 February 2026. The sky hangs heavy, leaden, as if weeping not rain, but dread. When the concussive blast sends tremors through the very marrow of my being, a vibration that penetrates the soul of maple and spruce wood, my hand trembles upon the instrument. Not from fear, but from the profound sorrow for the innocent lives lost, for homes reduced to dust. Yet, in these very moments, my instrument is my sanctuary.

This is the geography of war: a realm where politicians, in their sealed chambers, sacrifice the fate of the blameless on the open fields of fire. Amidst this devastating cacophony, as the world around rushes towards dissolution, what can one do? I found my path to survival in the act of creation. In the quiet solitude of my workshop, where the scent of wood and varnish mingles with the acrid smell of gunpowder in the city air, I began crafting a cello.

The choice of a cello is a choice to linger longer in this grey existence. Crafting a cello is a protracted lament, a meticulous care that polishes the soul. In the absolute solitude of my workshop, as the city empties itself from fear of death and danger lurks at every turn, I have found solace in birthing this instrument.

As I pen these words for the esteemed journal, The Strad, my instrument remains unvarnished. Its body is still bare – vulnerable and exposed, much like ourselves. The wood, imbued with the very dread that saturates the air, has entrusted itself to my trembling hands. It awaits its varnish, as if my cello, in harmony with me, awaits the day peace returns, so it may don the dignified raiment of the ‘voice of concord’.

When the deep thrum of an explosion rattles the windowpanes, my hand rests upon the raw body of the instrument. I worry that, before it is brought to luminescence and its voice can resonate from its wooden throat to the ears of the world, it turns to ash. Yet, I persist. In these arduous days, shaping wood is my sole recourse for survival and defiance.

My cello is still uncoloured, naked and patient. Perhaps this is the truest reflection of our present state: suspended between devastation and creation. I build this instrument with the conviction that music, even in absolute silence, continues to beat. Tomorrow, when the sun rises and the volleys fall quiet, it will be I, and this bare wooden form, ready to be transformed by varnish and grace into the unparalleled melody of life. Until that dawn, within the sanctuary of my hands, I shall continue to polish hope.