Iranian Americans in Montgomery County have lost contact.

As the regime in Iran unleashes deadly force on anti-government protesters and shuts down communication networks, they worry about family and friends they can’t reach — and the future of their native land.

Sometimes, news trickles out. Occasionally, a phone call goes through.

Three Iranian-American women in the county spoke to The Banner this week about how they’re coping. Two have heard from family members in Iran. A third, Phaedra Askarinam, has yet to hear anything.

On Thursday, three Iranian American friends stopped by her Bethesda home to console each other. And to cry.

“There are no words,” she said.

Finally, a call

Bita Malakuti, 52, a freelance journalist who lives with her husband and son in Gaithersburg, didn’t hear from her Iran-based family for nearly a week. Much of her family, including her mother, and many of her friends live in Tehran, Iran’s capital.

Then on Wednesday her mother called. Their chat was short, because international calls are expensive. Malakuti’s mother, who uses a wheelchair, sounded concerned but told her daughter not to worry — she was safe inside her home.

Malakuti worries anyway.

She also connected with her mother-in-law, who was “very sad, like crying all the time.”

Born and raised in Tehran, Malakuti said she was exiled from Iran for her work as a journalist. She said she would return if she could, despite the violence.

“I would love to go there and be next to my people,” she said.

For now, she’s checking her phone every five minutes.

“I’m still waiting for some good news,” she said.

‘Completely broken’

Zohreh Hashemi, 52, hadn’t heard from her family in nearly a week.

People are afraid to leave their homes, even for emergencies, she said, but the world isn’t paying enough attention. She wants Donald Trump to take more action.

“I have so much family,” she said. “Ninety million people in Iran, they are my family.”

Hashemi, who lives in North Potomac, said she and her family left the city of Mashhad to raise her now-grown daughter in the U.S. so she could be free.

But most of her family, including her father, lives in Iran. Her fears for them can be paralyzing.

On Tuesday morning, she said, “I couldn’t stand up.” She and her Iranian American friends are “completely broken.”

Then Wednesday night her father called. She couldn’t believe it was his name on her screen. “Please don’t go out,” she pleaded.

Her father tried to reassure her, she said, but was careful with his words, fearing the government could be listening.

Hashemi has also spoken with her daughter’s friend, a dual U.S. citizen who is in Iran. She had been protesting when shooting broke out.

She fled and found refuge when a stranger opened their door and beckoned her inside. She stayed through the night, leaving for home after the scene settled.

Trying to heal

Askarinam, the Bethesda woman who hasn’t heard from her family, lives with her husband and two sons but has many close family members in Iran.

“It really gets to me and makes me kind of paralyzed,” she said. “And then, you know, I have to get over it.”

She was born and raised in Tehran, and she left at the age of 19 for Israel, where, as a Jewish person, she felt she’d be safe.

“I just wanted to get out. I wasn’t happy,” she said. “You’re not free. You can’t say whatever you want. You can’t wear whatever you want. You can’t do anything in Iran.”

She hasn’t returned for nearly 40 years.

Askarinum turns to her art — she works in many media — for healing. She asks people to give her a worn shirt, which she cuts from top to bottom and then sews back together — a symbolic healing.

And she reaches out to others coping with the same angst. She joined a group of about 15 other Persian American women Tuesday at a guided meditation in Reston, Virginia.

Many of the women were crying. She said it felt good to open up a little bit.

But she woke up the next day wondering, “What now?”