An Iranian friend of mine once told me that ever since fleeing his homeland in the early days of Iran’s Islamic Republic, his grandfather had kept a packed suitcase by his front door, awaiting the day he may return. Alas, in his case, that day never came: the old man was buried before he could ever revisit the places and people he most cherished.

As a new wave of protests sweeps through Iran, nearly 47 years since the establishment of the current regime, once more I, and many other lovers of Iran but despisers of the Islamic Republic, find ourselves daring to hope again. Or, at least, hoping to dare to hope again. For, having seen previous uprisings so brutally crushed by the Iranian authorities, it has always seemed to me a frustratingly forlorn hope.

It’s the hope that kills you. As someone who loves Iran deeply, but has no Iranian blood, I can only imagine what it must be like for actual Iranians at times like these.

Would the flame still burn so brightly within a new generation of Iranians?

Thousands upon thousands of the best and most brilliant Iranians have fled the Islamic Republic over the past half a century or so, depriving their country of a multitude of talents while enriching many a society across the Western world. Yet almost every Iranian I’ve ever met in the diaspora has told me that, above all else, they long for the day of their return.

In protests past, as hopes of return have been brought tantalisingly close, I have heard many an Iranian share stories of what they most look forward to doing on the day they can go home. For some, it is a special place they long to return to. For others, it’s a dear relative they haven’t seen for decades or, in some cases, have never even met in person. For still others, there are gravestones they long to visit, having not been able to be present at the end of their loved one’s life, nor to pay their respects in the years since their absence has been felt.

In each case, like the grandfather whose packed suitcase remained by his door for the rest of his time on this Earth, I have witnessed time and again a deep assuredness that the long-awaited day will surely one day arrive. And yet, as a Brit and therefore, if not simply a pessimist, then at least a realist, I find myself fearing what it might be like were another generation to pass and the status quo to remain.

What if, like my friend’s grandfather, a whole generation of Iranians in exile were eventually replaced by another generation who had never even been able to set foot on their native soil? Would the flame still burn so brightly within them – that desperation to return and hope to build a brighter future together for all future generations?

Or would a whole generation of Iranians – sons and daughters of those in exile – no longer wish to return home? Would they even question whether Iran could truly be referred to as their ‘home’, having never been able to set foot there?

Then again, given that Iranians continue to flee the country in droves, perhaps there will always be a new Iranian to take the place of the grandfather at the beginning of my tale, at least until Iran is free again.

Such, anyway, are the thoughts that consume me at a time like this, when my social media feed at least – if not mainstream media – is awash with yet another array of photographs and videos of a new uprising in the country I love the most.

Until the day comes when the Islamic Republic is finally consigned to history, such will be my thoughts each and every time a new revolution threatens to unfold. Until that day when, God willing, such hopes need be hoped no more.