A new path for me

And rowing as a metaphor for life.

The end of an era

Last week, I was informed by the leadership of The Washington Post that my role covering Iran and Turkey was being eliminated, just four months after I arrived here in Istanbul. I was far from alone: nearly the entire foreign staff was laid off, along with hundreds of other reporters and editors. All told, the Post’s newsroom is now just over half its previous size.

It’s been a difficult and disorienting time. I’ve been extraordinarily lucky in my career so far, and this is the first layoff I’ve ever experienced. Given the state of the journalism business since I graduated from college in 2010, that alone feels remarkable. The future is uncertain for me, but I’ve been deeply heartened by the outpouring of support and kindness from colleagues, friends, acquaintances, and total strangers. It’s something I’ll never forget. That includes the hundreds of people who have newly subscribed to this newsletter over the last week — thank you, and welcome.

I’m now looking for new opportunities to report on Iran. In that spirit, New Lines Magazine was kind enough to commission a freelance piece from me, timed to the 47th anniversary of the Iranian revolution. You can read it here: a piece about the Islamic Republic’s broken promises of economic justice.

It was a pleasure to bring in more history and analysis than I’d normally be able to in a newspaper article, and I’m grateful for the chance to try something a bit different while staying grounded in reported fact.

For now, I’m trying to savor whatever time I have left in Istanbul. One of the great joys of my time here has been taking up rowing, which I do regularly with a local Turkish club.

On the Golden Horn, not too long ago

I had never rowed before moving to Istanbul, and now I can’t get enough. The city’s manmade and natural beauty, the vigorous exercise, the chance to get out on the water — all of it is wonderful. But it’s also been therapeutic, especially over the last few weeks of difficult news from Iran and professional upheaval. Every stroke is a new chance to get things right—and if you mess up, another chance comes immediately after. The stroke can feel complicated at first, but you soon learn that you can’t overthink it. It’s best not to watch what your oars are doing; instead, focus on your hands, and the oars take care of themselves. You can’t grip the oars too tightly — instead, as one of my instructors often says, you have to hold them like a delicate egg. You do best when you pay attention to your crew mates and try to stay in sync with them — which means you can’t be too in your own head.

Over the next few weeks and months, I have a feeling I’ll be getting out on the water as much as I can, and I hope I can carry those lessons over into my real life, no matter what comes next.

Thank you all for continuing to show interest in my work—it means more than you can know.