Raha Nik-Andish

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.’

I live on the top floor of a block of flats in western Tehran. I turned off the lights and watched the city below. It was slowly changing shape. Shops were closing. People were running through the streets. My phone rang. It was a friend. ‘We’re going to Qeytarieh Square,’ he said. ‘Come with us.’

This piece was written before Iran imposed an internet blackout on 8 January.

Six months ago I thought about buying a car, for reasons not of convenience but of necessity. My income as a freelance university lecturer in Iran barely pays for my daily commute. I thought I could drive at night for the ride‑hailing service Snapp! to cover my living expenses. I had enough savings to buy a hatchback Saipa Quik – but then its price went up 66 per cent.