When bombs started falling on Tehran in February, we heard much about the political ramifications, including the death of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, Iran’s supreme leader.
But what about the ordinary people who call the capital home?
Maryam Rahmanian, an Iranian-American photojournalist living in Tehran, wants to tell their stories.
She took portraits of civilians who decided to stay in the city, asking them what the war meant to them and how 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,” said Rahmanian, who works in Tehran with the permission of the 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 told Rahmanian, recounting when the war began. “Everyone was very scared. We went up to the rooftop and saw the smoke.”
They were all asked to go home. Salemeh, a human resources manager, was the last person to leave.
“When I stepped outside, the atmosphere felt very different,” she said. “The streets were extremely crowded. Mothers were crying. A route that usually takes me 40 minutes took nearly 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 mental health.
“I jump at every noise, wondering if something has been hit again,” she said. “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 loss of war reminds Akram how it was during the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s.
“It feels as if history is repeating itself in front of my eyes,” she told 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 major difference, of course, is the technology. “Now we receive news within seconds on our phones, while in the past information was passed person to person,” she said. “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 instructor. She remembers waking up early for an online class when the bombing began.
“Half an hour before the session, the sound of a powerful explosion shattered the calm,” she said. “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 access to the internet, all her classes were suspended.
“It didn’t just stop my work – it cut me off from normal life,” she said. “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 university on the first day of the attacks.
“We were near the campus when I first heard the sound,” she said. “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 mother told her not to come back home. Power cuts left their neighborhood in darkness.
“But I stayed in Tehran,” Sara said. “My attachment to my home and my life here is why I remain. I will stay in Tehran until the very last moment. … I want to witness what is happening in my city with my own eyes – to see the reality.
“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 art collector in Tehran, recalls the frightening 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 said. “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 said the sound of explosions is something he won’t forget.
“I’ve experienced blast waves; my hearing is still affected,” he said. “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 outside – when a violent explosion shattered her peaceful morning.
“It was so powerful that I thought our rooftop had been hit,” she told 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 said her first feelings were fear 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 said.
At night, whenever they heard reports of attacks, Azadeh and her husband would check on relatives and friends through messages.
“Because of my animals, I stayed home to care for them,” she said. “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 she was waiting for her work situation to get sorted out so that she could join him.
Then the bombing began.
“I was at work when it happened – a sudden, terrifying sound,” she said. “Fighter jets crossed the sky. In that moment, everything changed.”
During air raids, she would hold her ring tightly, keeping herself connected 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 said she pays whatever she has to so that she can stay connected to the internet.
“I call relatives, send updates, share photos to reassure families searching for news of their loved ones,” she told Rahmanian, who as an accredited journalist has access to the internet that many Iranians do not. “Information moves by word of mouth. I have become a link between people.”
The night before the attacks began, Mahtab’s visa had come through.
“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 said. “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 every explosion brought a new wave of panic. She felt that her mother’s fear was even harder to bear than her own.
“Then something changed. The fear didn’t disappear – it settled in. It became familiar,” she said. “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 used to be afraid to leave the house, but slowly she started stepping out again. “I saw people holding on in small ways – making jam, preparing for Nowruz, creating tiny reasons to keep going. I did the same,” she said. “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 lost 12 members of her family when her home in Tehran was destroyed by an attack 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 told 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 said her 20-unit building was built by her grandfather and his brother and that almost everyone inside was family.
“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 finally began.
“It felt like the world collapsed on me,” said the writer, who lives alone. “War is the worst thing a person can experience. This is the third time, and even once is more than enough.
“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 told 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 said.
Ali, originally from Afghanistan, has been living in Iran for the past 40 years.
“I have seen a lot in my life, but this war breaks my heart all over again,” he said. “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, but Ali tries to look after their homes and the area.
“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 said.
Tehran feels quieter than it ever has.
“The usual life and energy of this season are gone,” Ali said. “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 end, though he fears it will not.
“At night, we gather in the mosque and pray for Iran’s safety. We hold onto hope that something good will come for everyone.”
