How the Country I Was Taught to Hate, Saved My Life

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How the Country I Was Taught to Hate Saved My Life
Today, a judge will sentence the hitman Iran sent to kill me on American soil. It’s proof that the country where I sought refuge protects the freedoms I love.
By Masih Alinejad
10.29.25

Growing up in a tiny village in northern Iran, I learned to chant “death to America” at the age of 7, along with all the other schoolchildren. In the ideology of the Islamic Republic, America is the monster, the Great Satan, the Other. Every morning we screamed those words until our voices cracked—not out of conviction, but because not joining in was dangerous.

At home, on our black-and-white television, I watched hours of programming in which bearded clerics warned women that if a single strand of their hair revealed itself under their hijabs, they would be condemned to hell for eternity. But there was no need to wait for the afterlife to taste punishment. As a teenager, I was beaten by the regime’s morality police for freeing a few strands of hair and for daring to wear my headscarf a little too loosely. I was jailed for the “crimes” of writing political slogans and handing out pamphlets that questioned the Islamic regime. In a prison cell, I learned how dangerous truth could be in the Islamic Republic.

At the height of Iran’s reform movement in 2005, I became a journalist covering parliament. But before anyone had even read my writing, my appearance caused controversy: A lawmaker threatened to punch me senseless because a few strands of my unruly curls had escaped from under my headscarf. He would have carried out his threat had he not been stopped by other officials and journalists.

Later on, when I wrote about corruption among the elected members, I was expelled from my post. It was 2009, and I was hopeful that change for the better could come through the ballot box, but I felt a sense of hope and danger unlike anything before. A few days before the election, the regime’s intelligence officers called me in, threatened me, and forced me to sign a pledge promising not to report on the election. When I ignored the warnings, my car was vandalized. The perpetrators left a calling card: a single handcuff hanging from the driver’s side door handle.
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When I landed in New York in 2009, I wasn’t chasing the American dream. I was simply seeking safety. Naturally, I experienced some culture shock as I came face to face with aspects of ordinary life that many Americans take for granted.

The first shock came underground. On the subway, I sat down next to a man. No one gasped, no one stared, no one told me to move. In Iran, the simple act of sitting beside a man who isn’t family could have earned me a stern lecture on morality, a slap to the face, or a ride in the morality police van.
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In 2021, the FBI informed me that I was the target of a kidnapping plot. Iranian intelligence operatives had hired private investigators to surveil me in Brooklyn. They camped outside my home, followed my movements, and made plans to kidnap me and take me to Venezuela, a close ally of Tehran. It sounded absurd, like something out of a spy movie.

But it was real. The FBI foiled the plot just in time.

Then came something even darker. In 2022, a hitman named Khalid Mehdiyev lurked outside my Brooklyn home, watching me as I watered my garden—a small patch of green I had created. Each plant carried a memory: basil and mint for the kitchen of my childhood home, a cherry blossom for my mother, a peach tree for my father. I found out during Mehdiyev’s court testimony that he saw his opportunity with me on the porch that day—but by sheer chance, his gun was still in his car. By the time he had retrieved it, I was back inside, unaware of the danger on the street.
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Today, those hitmen will be sentenced in a Manhattan court. This is more than a personal victory. It’s a reminder of why I came to America: how the United States has given me a place to call home, freedom to express myself, and protection from those who wish to harm me. My life in America is proof that dictators do not respect borders. Even here, in my home, I glance over my shoulder. But I believed America could be a sanctuary for those who stand up to tyranny, and I still do.

It’s ironic that a child who once chanted “death to America” has, as an adult, been given a second life in the same country she was taught to hate. When I say America means freedom, I don’t mean the freedom to pursue wealth or power. I mean the right to an ordinary life: the right to sit, to sing, to swim, to dance, to move, to exist without asking permission.

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