Raha Nik-Andish

My back’s feeling better so I’ve started driving for Snapp! again. My first passenger of the night was a man in his mid-fifties, with white hair and a neatly pressed shirt. His mild aftershave permeated the car. Before we reached the highway, his phone rang. ‘Everything in my life is there,’ he said. ‘House, office, bank accounts …’ He didn’t sound tired or angry, just resigned. From snatches of his conversation, I realised he had lived in Dubai for 24 years. His business was good: several properties, several accounts, a successful life outside Iran. With the start of the war, though, his residency was withdrawn, and now he was stuck in Tehran.

He said the boiler could be fixed but it would be better to replace it. He put the call to the supplier on speakerphone. We were told a new boiler would be around 700 million rials (nearly £400). He hung up. ‘With this economy,’ he said, ‘you end up choosing between something being broken and not having it at all.’ While he was working to repair the boiler, I asked after his family. His hands stopped for a moment. ‘My father died two weeks ago.’

Last Friday afternoon, two days after the ceasefire was announced and two days before the peace talks in Islamabad failed, I went to a café. For the previous forty days we had been cut off from the world – not only because of the bombing, but because of the internet blackout. Making plans had been impossible; people either ran into each other or they didn’t.

Some friends of mine support the war and some are vehemently against it. Some of those who wanted the Americans and the Israelis to bomb Iran have changed their minds since the war started. Iranians in the diaspora want war but those of us living it first-hand are frightened.

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.’