From online classrooms to Revolution Square: A Tehran teacher’s daily rhythms amid war

In the context of the “Ramadan War” between the U.S. and Iran, life in Iran has been upended: schools, universities, and factories bombed, streets deserted. Mehran, a 47-year-old teacher in central Tehran, has been forced to teach online from a cramped corner of his apartment.

“Life doesn’t stop like many think, but it has a completely different rhythm,” Mehran told Al Jazeera. His daily journey reflects a microcosm of a city trying to maintain normalcy amid war — from frustrating virtual classrooms to empty drugstore shelves, hyperinflation, and packed free buses.

Bandwidth battles

Mehran’s day begins with a fight for bandwidth. After internet restrictions, the education system moved to the domestic platform “Shad.” “The national internet exists but is terribly slow due to the surge in users,” he said wearily. In their apartment in the Amirabad district, his 14-year-old daughter Mehraneh squints at an old tablet, his 8-year-old son Sam clings to his mother’s phone near the window to catch a signal, and his wife Azadeh manages finances for a private company from another room.

Survival burdens

When the virtual class ends, Mehran visits a nearby pharmacy to buy heart medication for his mother. The shelves look tidy, but dozens of essential drugs have been missing for over a month. Pharmacist Mehri says prices for both domestic and imported medicines have soared. “Medicine now eats up a quarter of my salary; before it was only 7%,” Mehran says. He considers himself luckier than many families who lack life-saving drugs due to the U.S. naval blockade and suspended flights.

At the Jomhouri electronics market, Mehran buys a new TV after the old one broke from a nearby bomb blast. He takes the subway instead of a taxi because of skyrocketing fares. Public transit has been free since the war began, a government measure. The electronics shop owner says TV prices at his store have risen by 40–60 million rials (29–44 USD), reflecting the rial’s depreciation against the dollar. Ali Morad, 59, who runs the shop, says prices have doubled even for domestic goods due to rising labor costs, rent, and raw materials, pushing customers away as purchasing power shrinks.

Illusions of normalcy

Exhausted, Mehran rests at Osta Park. The scene is strangely peaceful: children playing, families picnicking, young people exercising. An elderly woman reads a book. “For just a second, you forget you’re living under a blockade,” Mehran reflects. But Mona, 22, sees it differently: “This peace is a mask of a city learning to dance on the edge of crisis.” She claims people in the park aren’t there for leisure but to find a free space to breathe, as family budgets are eroded by food prices doubling and internet bills. “They seem to have collectively granted themselves a one-hour ceasefire from thoughts of war before returning home,” Mona adds.

Finding rhythm in the dark

As night falls, Mehran doesn’t go home but heads to Enghelab (Revolution) Square near the University of Tehran, where hundreds gather to chant patriotic slogans supporting the state and armed forces. “These gatherings make us feel we’re all in the same trench,” he says. “We don’t have stealth jets or aircraft carriers, but we have voice and physical presence. War takes away comfort but returns a spirit of social solidarity.” Initially political declarations, these gatherings have become psychological anchors. “By the 10th night, I came out of duty; by the 30th, I looked for familiar faces; by the 100th, I realized it’s not just politics. It’s the daily fabric for a stable rhythm when every other rhythm has collapsed,” Mehran confides. He wonders: “If the gatherings stop, where do we put our energy, anger, and hope? Would the silence be heavier than the bombs?”