I tutor English on the side—private students, mostly high school kids preparing for university exams. This afternoon, three of them showed up to our session with the same question:

"Miss, why did we attack Israel?"

I had to pause before answering. Not because I didn't know what to say, but because I had to choose my words carefully. Even in my own home, even with students I trust, you never know who might repeat what you say. And words, in Iran, can be dangerous.

"The government says it was retaliation," I told them. "For previous attacks."

"But miss," one of the girls pressed, "won't they just attack us back now?"

Yes, I thought. Yes, they will.

But what I said was: "That's usually how these things work."

The oldest student, a boy about to graduate, looked tired. "My father says the dollar went up again this morning. He says food is going to get more expensive."

"Probably," I admitted.

"Then why did they do it?" the girl asked again. "If it's just going to make things worse for us?"

That's the question, isn't it? That's the question millions of Iranians are asking today, the question state television won't address, the question that hangs over every conversation in every city and village across this country.

Why did they do it if it makes our lives harder?

I didn't have a good answer for my students. I told them to focus on their English homework. I told them that understanding the world requires learning to ask hard questions. I told them things that were true but insufficient.

What I wanted to say—what I couldn't say—is this:

They did it because they can. Because the consequences fall on us, not them. Because escalation helps them maintain power and control. Because they've been doing this for decades and they have no reason to stop.

My students left an hour later, textbooks tucked under their arms, questions still unanswered.

Tonight, the missiles are no longer flying. But the questions remain.

And somewhere, in Tehran, in Isfahan, in the halls of power I will never see, men are making decisions that will shape my students' futures without ever asking what they want.

That's the part that keeps me up at night.

Not the missiles.

The certainty that tomorrow, those same men will make more decisions, and we will all live with what comes after.