Waiting for War

Usually the last days of February are filled with anticipation of the Persian New Year holiday, Nowruz. People shop for new clothes; grocery stalls brim with mounds of oranges; mothers bargain for tiny goldfish in water-filled plastic bags. Tehran used to move faster at this time of year. People spoke with more confidence and even the smog seemed less suffocating. But this year the city is on pause.

A friend who recently defended her doctoral dissertation invited a few of us to her home. When she opened the door, I said: ‘Tehran seems quiet. Shouldn’t it be busier this time of year?’

She gestured at a nearby street vendor. ‘See that woman? Every night she calls the municipality, asking them whether the Americans will attack tonight. People aren’t planning for the New Year; they are planning for the day after an attack.’

Conversations at the gathering orbited an invisible centre. One person mapped an escape route. Another mentioned filling the car with petrol before it gets dark. A third discussed hoarding cash. A few days ago, withdrawing money wasn’t a problem; now ATMs are often empty, or dispense limited sums, as people are moving their savings out of banks and changing rials into dollars.

My sister calls me every day. She’s worried about the meat in her freezer going bad if the electricity is cut off. ‘Have you stocked up yet?’ she asked. She has stored enough food and water for two weeks. At her insistence, I went to the supermarket. The bottled water had vanished from the pavement outside. ‘We don’t have quotas,’ the shopkeeper told me. ‘Just one or two bottles per person.’ Candles and batteries are scarce.

On social media we are told to buy tinned fish and beans, any food that will last. But prices have risen so much I could only afford two tins of tuna. Beside the front door, next to my slippers and outside shoes, I keep a bag with my important documents. In the morning before going to work, people check their torch batteries rather than their emails.

My mother is more silent than usual. She keeps state TV on in the background but watches Instagram on her phone. The reels posted by the Iranian satellite channels in London – Iranian International, Manoto and BBC Persian – showed the fortieth-day commemorations for the people killed during the protests in January.

Many mourners in the videos are wearing white. They clap and dance by their loved ones’ graves. Instead of Islamic prayers there is traditional drumming from southern Iran, or songs by local singers or singers who were popular before the revolution. One reel shows a middle-aged man – perhaps a father – stricken by grief, barely held up by his relations, yet waving his arms in time to the music. It made my mother cry. Dancing has always been a mainstay of Persian family get-togethers; now dancing in graveyards has become a sign of defiance.

At the university where I teach part-time, undergraduate classes are again online but graduate classes are still in person. There have been more demonstrations on campuses in Tehran. Protesters have reverted to calling Sharif University of Technology ‘Aryamehr’, as it was known before the revolution, after one of the titles of Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. A toy mouse dangling from a tree branch represented a scared Ayatollah Khamenei, still in hiding. The student protesters were attacked by members of the Basij militia. One clambered up the tree to free the mouse, to mocking shouts of ‘Cry, Basiji, cry!’

After the crackdown on the Green Movement demonstrations in 2009, it took two years before people dared to go out on the streets again. This time it has been only weeks.

‘We used to worry about grades,’ one student said to me, ‘now we’re worried about surviving two weeks without electricity or water.’ My 11-year-old niece called me to say: ‘Uncle, let’s agree to meet in a place, in case the phones don’t work.’

During Ramadan, after the evening call to prayer, people used to fill the restaurants and cafés. Now out driving for Snapp! I’ve noticed how empty even the grocery stores are. One evening, a passenger with two children got in. After a long silence, he said: ‘We protested for our kids’ future, now everyone negotiates only for themselves and their own interests.’

‘Are you afraid of war?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I fear that life will continue the same afterwards.’

At midnight I picked up a young university lecturer. ‘Students have no hope,’ she told me. ‘War or no war won’t alter their feelings.’

I dropped her off and parked by a flower stall where a street singer, her voice strong and resonant, was performing an old song by Hayedeh that is officially banned: ‘Year after year, regret is all we have.’ None of the people who had gathered around applauded. No one filmed. They simply listened.