When bombs started falling on Tehran in February, we heard a lot concerning the political ramifications, together with the demise of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, Iran’s supreme chief.
But what concerning the bizarre individuals who name the capital residence?
Maryam Rahmanian, an Iranian-American photojournalist dwelling in Tehran, needs to inform their tales.
She took portraits of civilians who determined to remain within the metropolis, asking them what the war meant to them and the way it has affected their lives.
“Some people had to keep working. Some stayed home and endured the hours in uncertainty. Some were focused on protecting loved ones. Others tried to hold on to a sense of normal life as that life became increasingly fragile,” mentioned Rahmanian, who works in Tehran with the permission of the federal government.
“These stories do not offer a complete account of the war. They offer something narrower, but no less essential: a record of how war is lived, carried, and remembered by those who remain inside it.”
“I was at work around 9:40 a.m. when I heard the sound,” Salemeh advised Rahmanian, recounting when the war started. “Everyone was very scared. We went up to the rooftop and saw the smoke.”
They had been all requested to go residence. Salemeh, a human assets supervisor, was the final particular person to depart.
“When I stepped outside, the atmosphere felt very different,” she mentioned. “The streets had been extraordinarily crowded. Mothers had been crying. A route that normally takes me 40 minutes took practically three hours.
“What caught my attention the most was the schoolchildren – it was truly a very striking scene. You could clearly see stress and anxiety among people.”
The traumatic scenes have left a heavy toll on Salemeh’s psychological well being.
“I jump at every noise, wondering if something has been hit again,” she mentioned. “There is construction near our house, and even those constant sounds make me anxious.”
“Now I truly understand what it means to live with the fear of war in your own country. Our daily routine has changed, and nothing feels normal anymore.”
The destruction and lack of war reminds Akram the way it was in the course of the Iran-Iraq War within the Nineteen Eighties.
“It feels as if history is repeating itself in front of my eyes,” she advised Rahmanian. “When I see destroyed buildings in Tehran, I remember Khorramshahr, where entire streets were reduced to rubble. In Narmak, a building was hit and only one child survived. He was pulled out from under the rubble, crying and asking for his mother – his mother who was gone. I had seen similar scenes during the Iran-Iraq War: children left alone after losing their entire families.”
A serious distinction, after all, is the expertise. “Now we receive news within seconds on our phones, while in the past information was passed person to person,” she mentioned. “I followed the news constantly, and I believe that when casualty numbers are not fully announced, it is not necessarily to lie, but sometimes to prevent fear and panic.”
“I believe Israel and the United States have manipulated the situation, and I am proud that we have stood against a superpower and defended ourselves. For me, it is an honor to stand firm and say we resisted.”
Rezvaneh is a Korean language teacher. She remembers waking up early for a web based class when the bombing started.
“Half an hour before the session, the sound of a powerful explosion shattered the calm,” she mentioned. “I reached for my phone to inform my student— but the internet was suddenly cut off. Shortly after, my student managed to send a message: ‘War has started.’ From that moment, everything changed.”
With no entry to the web, all her lessons had been suspended.
“It didn’t just stop my work – it cut me off from normal life,” she mentioned. “Fear quickly settled in. I live next to a mosque, and that made everything more frightening. I kept thinking it might become a target.”
“Nights became the hardest. Every time I tried to sleep, my heart would start racing uncontrollably. To cope, I turned to small distractions – reading books, watching films – but the anxiety never fully left me.”
“One night in particular is unforgettable. During the first week, I woke up to the relentless sound of explosions. The windows were shaking violently, and fear filled every corner of my home. I didn’t sleep at all that night. My heart was pounding so hard that resting was impossible.”
Sara was driving her boyfriend to his college on the primary day of the assaults.
“We were near the campus when I first heard the sound,” she mentioned. “At first, I thought it was a protest. Then the explosions came. Smoke rose from the center of the city. I panicked and ran a red light to get away. What is usually a 20-minute drive home took two hours. Streets were blocked. The city I love was under attack.”
Her mom advised her to not come again residence. Power cuts left their neighborhood in darkness.
“But I stayed in Tehran,” Sara mentioned. “My attachment to my residence and my life right here is why I stay. I’ll keep in Tehran till the final second. … I wish to witness what is going on in my metropolis with my very own eyes – to see the fact.
“If anything happens to our nation, I want it to be for the people. I want unity, not chaos. We don’t have many elites — we just want to live normal lives, without war or sanctions.”
Sadra, an artist and artwork collector in Tehran, remembers the scary uncertainty after war broke out.
“When the attack began, I knew something had happened, but I didn’t know where or how. There was no clear information,” he mentioned. “We were standing in the yard, calling out to each other. I could hear the fear in people’s voices. Everyone was waiting, expecting the next strike to hit nearby.”
He mentioned the sound of explosions is one thing he gained’t overlook.
“I’ve experienced blast waves; my hearing is still affected,” he mentioned. “It’s not just fear in the moment. It stays in your body. This kind of trauma will remain for years.”
“And yet, every morning, life continues. Nature goes on, unchanged. There’s something powerful in that. It reminds me that I have to stay connected to others, no matter what happens.”
“In the long term, I am hopeful. History has shown that Iran endures. But in the short term, war takes a heavy toll – on families, on children, on ordinary people.”
Azadeh was feeding her pets – and the birds exterior – when a violent explosion shattered her peaceable morning.
“It was so powerful that I thought our rooftop had been hit,” she advised Rahmanian. “My husband woke instantly and asked what had happened. I told him I thought it must have been something on the roof. Then my neighbor began calling again and again. When I answered, his voice was filled with fear. He asked if we were safe. I said yes. Then he told me that key places in the city had been attacked. That was the moment I understood the war had begun.”
She mentioned her first emotions had been concern and sorrow.
“Iran is not just my country. It is part of me, and I am part of it. It is my identity. How can anyone feel happiness when their own body is wounded?” she mentioned.
At evening, each time they heard reviews of assaults, Azadeh and her husband would test on kin and associates via messages.
“Because of my animals, I stayed home to care for them,” she mentioned. “Some nights the explosions were so close that I felt a bomb could fall on our house at any moment.”
“I am not afraid of death. But I used to say: If I die, let it be in my own home, surrounded by my memories and everything I love.”
Mobina’s husband went to Germany in January, and he or she was ready for her work scenario to get sorted out in order that she might be a part of him.
Then the bombing started.
“I was at work when it happened – a sudden, terrifying sound,” she mentioned. “Fighter jets crossed the sky. In that moment, everything changed.”
During air raids, she would maintain her ring tightly, preserving herself related to her husband.
“He told me, ‘Keep your phone on.’ He also said: ‘If the war continues, I’ll come back by land. I want to be there with you. If I have to, I will fight.’”
Mobina mentioned she pays no matter she has to in order that she will be able to keep related to the web.
“I call relatives, send updates, share photos to reassure families searching for news of their loved ones,” she advised Rahmanian, who as an accredited journalist has entry to the web that many Iranians don’t. “Information moves by word of mouth. I have become a link between people.”
The evening earlier than the assaults started, Mahtab’s visa had come via.
“My sister was already in Dubai, and I was supposed to join her there, then continue on to England. It was a future I had imagined for years,” she mentioned. “Still, deep down, I felt something coming. I told a friend, ‘I think it might happen tomorrow.’ They didn’t believe me. The next morning, I woke up to the sound of fighter jets and explosions.”
Mahtab remembers how each explosion introduced a brand new wave of panic. She felt that her mom’s concern was even more durable to bear than her personal.
“Then something changed. The fear didn’t disappear – it settled in. It became familiar,” she mentioned. “I found myself recognizing the sounds, trying to understand what kind of attack it was. That frightened me more than anything else – how quickly fear can become normal.”
She was once afraid to depart the home, however slowly she began stepping out once more. “I saw people holding on in small ways – making jam, preparing for Nowruz, creating tiny reasons to keep going. I did the same,” she mentioned. “I went out and bought something for the New Year. It felt heavy – but necessary. Then came another kind of pain.”
“Hearing that historical sites had been damaged made me cry. These are not things you can rebuild. They carry memory, identity, history. When people say, ‘We’ll build better ones,’ they don’t understand what has been lost.”
Bahareh misplaced 12 members of her household when her residence in Tehran was destroyed by an assault in early March.
“We were only able to identify them later through DNA. My father. My mother. My relatives. My whole world, all in one place,” she advised Rahmanian. “My brother was among them, too. He was only 17 years old. He loved space. He dreamed of becoming an astronaut. I used to wait for the day he would come home and tell me he got into university. That moment never came.”
She mentioned her 20-unit constructing was constructed by her grandfather and his brother and that just about everybody inside was household.
“There was nothing left. No structure, no walls, nothing recognizable. Just dust. And worse than the destruction of the house was this: there was nothing left of my family there. Nothing. Not even a small personal item, not a single thing I could hold onto as a memory. Not a photo, not a piece of clothing. It was as if everything had been taken away completely.”
“And I don’t even have a home anymore. A place where people can come, sit with me, and offer condolences. There is no space left for grief to exist in a normal way.”
Sama had been fearing war for months when it lastly started.
“It felt like the world collapsed on me,” mentioned the author, who lives alone. “War is the worst factor an individual can expertise. This is the third time, and even as soon as is greater than sufficient.
“Alongside fear, I also felt anger – toward those outside Iran, toward officials who brought us here, and toward (US President Donald) Trump. It felt like a kind of collective trauma descending on us. Being in the Middle East, we are always the first to suffer.”
Sama advised Rahmanian that she feels hopeless.
“I feel like Iran may become like Lebanon, where war becomes something constant. My family is in Tehran, and I have nowhere else to go,” she mentioned.
Ali, initially from Afghanistan, has been dwelling in Iran for the previous 40 years.
“I have seen a lot in my life, but this war breaks my heart all over again,” he mentioned. “It brings back the memories of my youth in Afghanistan – the fear, the uncertainty, the loss. Now I feel it again.”
Many of his neighbors have fled, however Ali tries to take care of their houses and the world.
“I water their flowers. I take care of them as best as I can. Seeing them bloom gives me a little comfort – a small relief in the middle of all this worry,” he mentioned.
Tehran feels quieter than it ever has.
“The usual life and energy of this season are gone,” Ali mentioned. “When I look at people, I see sadness and anxiety on their faces. The same questions are in my mind too: What will happen next? Will I have to leave again, or will I stay and continue?”
He hopes for the war to finish, although he fears it won’t.
“At night, we gather in the mosque and pray for Iran’s safety. We hold onto hope that something good will come for everyone.”
