In the early hours of June 12, 2025 (23 Khordad 1404), with the launch of Israeli airstrikes on Iranian soil, a new chapter in Iran’s contemporary history was opened. The deafening sounds of explosions and reports of military commanders and nuclear scientists being killed were the signs of a war that quickly surpassed military confrontation, penetrated the core of daily life, and triggered a social, psychological, and economic crisis for millions. This article, relying on real accounts from Iranian citizens, seeks to provide a human picture of those tense and uncertain days—conversations that mostly pertain to the period of the Twelve-Day War and reflect its atmosphere.

Living Under Crisis and Incompetence

In the first days of Israel’s assault, Iranian citizens faced long lines for bread and fuel, and finding a safe place became a major concern. People who had been worn down for years by mismanagement, official incompetence, and economic and social pressures now had to carry the heavy burden of war as well.

Ali, who owns a small grocery store in the Tarasht district of Tehran, describes the rush for food: “During the first days of the war, all the bottled water and dry, canned goods sold out quickly. People were buying biscuits, pasta, canned tuna, and oil in bulk. Some even borrowed money or asked to buy on credit.”

The start of the war delivered a final blow to small business owners who were already struggling with skyrocketing inflation, economic stagnation, and increasing taxes.

Naser, who runs a clothing store, says: “Almost everyone has shut down. The few who are still open are just hoping to sell something today so they can bring a bite of bread home. People’s economic situation is terrible, and now many bank cards don’t work—like Sepah and Pasargad. People don’t have much cash on hand either. This whole situation is just one more disaster on top of the last.”

Tehran: A Defenseless City

Amid the attacks, it became clear to everyone that despite decades of threats against Israel, the Islamic Republic had no real or structured plan for civilian protection during wartime—no shelters, no safe rooms, not even functioning air raid sirens. Although the government claimed that metro stations and mosques were open around the clock for people to take shelter, photos of closed metro stations in Tehran revealed the emptiness of such claims. Moreover, metro stations are entirely unsuited for such situations and often even lack basic amenities like public restrooms. In such conditions, people could do little more than put tape over their windows in an “X” shape, as during the Iran-Iraq war, in hopes of preventing shattered glass.

Maryam, who lives with a roommate in a Tehran neighborhood, says: “The worst feeling is knowing there’s nothing you can do. There’s no shelter or safe place to go, and there aren’t even warning sirens to let us know we should be ready. There’s literally nothing you can do to protect yourself. My friends and family keep calling, saying ‘stay safe,’ and I appreciate it, but how am I supposed to protect myself? If they hit, they hit. The most I can do is tape the windows. I thought about going to Esfahan to be with my family, but honestly, you don’t know what the right decision is. You don’t know where is safe.”

Tehran in Limbo

During the war, the streets of Tehran emptied. Those with private cars braved heavy traffic to exit the city, either staying with relatives or renting homes in other cities for steep prices. Bus and train capacities filled up, and those without private vehicles or the means to travel were left stranded, helpless, and without alternatives.

Reza, a 61-year-old bus driver, says: “I want to leave. Every night I’m jolted awake by the anti-aircraft and explosion sounds. But I have to stay. I’ve got nowhere else to go, and I can’t afford to leave. I was scared, but now I’m back to work. I need to earn money. If a bomb hits us, so be it. What can we do?”

Ramin, 38, left his home in northern Tehran for a village in Gilan: “I feel better here. It wasn’t wise to stay in Tehran. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll stay here until things go back to normal.” Ramin is a programmer and can work remotely if he has internet access.

Nassim, who works at a publishing house, says: “We went north and stayed there for five days, then thought we’d come back and check on our home. Tehran was really empty. A paradise for thieves. My mom wanted to visit my grandmother’s house. That same night, while we were there, an explosion hit near our place. When we returned the next day, we saw the blast wave had shattered all the windows, part of the walls, and even some of the living room ceiling. Worse still, we found out someone had broken in and stolen all the valuables.”

Sara, 29, an architect who lives alone in Tehran, says: “I’m staying in my own place. I feel more at peace here. I can play my setar and paint. I also have two cats—I can’t just leave them. I understand that people cope in different ways during times like this. I respect those who left Tehran. That’s how they’re looking after themselves.”

Mothers and Infants at the Heart of Crisis

Among those who remained in Tehran, pregnant women, new mothers, and breastfeeding women experienced particularly difficult circumstances.

Saba, a 29-year-old woman, was in her twelfth week of pregnancy when the war began: “I was scheduled for my first-trimester screening—a crucial test to detect chromosomal abnormalities. But after the war started, nothing was open. Even hospitals weren’t doing routine ultrasounds. My doctor was unreachable—I only had the receptionist’s number. She told me the doctor had left Tehran and no one knew when he’d return. After much searching, I finally found a place that appeared to be operating, but when I got there, the doors were shut. No one answered.”

Saba adds: “In the end, one of my friends helped me get the ultrasound and bloodwork done, but I’m sure many pregnant women couldn’t. That test determines whether the fetus has chromosomal disorders or disabilities. With the current situation, a lot of children with disabilities will probably be born after the war. That’s truly tragic.”

Samira says: “I have a three-month-old son. The first night of the attack, I had gone to bed early, and my husband was watching over the baby. Around 3:20 a.m., I woke up to switch shifts with him. He looked panicked and said, ‘They’ve hit!’ I asked, ‘What?’ He said, ‘Israel has bombed Tehran.’ I was terrified. I picked up my son and held him tight in my arms. For me, as a new mother, those days were incredibly difficult.”

Mansoureh, mother of eight-month-old Liana, says: “I haven’t slept more than two hours a night. Either I wake up from the sounds of explosions or I’m so alert I’m ready to grab my baby and run at any moment. My daughter still only breastfeeds. These days, she clings to me more than ever. Even when her dad or grandma wants to hold her, she doesn’t calm down. She wakes up crying at night. I feel like my anxiety is transferring to her through my milk.”

Securing baby supplies was another major concern for Mansoureh: “It was really hard to find diapers. Most bank cards don’t work—you have to try different ones to see which might go through. Most ATMs are down or out of cash. You spend hours trying to get a few hundred thousand tomans. I know parents who feed their babies formula are also in trouble—formula was hard to find even before this, and now it’s worse.”

Fear of Nuclear Radiation: A New Concern

As the war continued, the fear of nuclear radiation gradually became a serious concern. Pooneh, who lives in Amirabad near the Atomic Energy Organization, says: “On the sixth day of the war, some Ministry of Health officials came to our door and gave each family member three iodine tablets. They told us to take them only if the Ministry announces it. They said there was a risk of nuclear radiation and that iodine tablets could help. Later, a friend in Yousefabad told me the same thing happened at her house.”

Employment Crisis

During this period, many employees worked remotely or were forced to take unpaid leave. Some private sector workers faced mass layoffs. For example, Alibaba, one of the largest travel and tourism companies in Iran, laid off 45% of its staff due to decreased sales. Mehdi, who was laid off, says: “The morning they let me go, they told me I had to settle accounts and not return the next day. Alibaba is a big, well-known company worth billions, but it couldn’t survive the war. And their first response in a crisis was mass layoffs. As far as I know, the remaining staff were told their salaries would be cut by 20–30%.”

Overtime was canceled in many companies, salary payments were delayed, and employees faced severe financial strain. Meanwhile, physically going to work could be life-threatening. Leila, a computer engineer at the Niroo Research Institute, says: “I live in Shahrak-e Gharb, ten minutes on foot from my workplace. I had been working remotely for a few days but considered going in to water my plants—thankfully I didn’t! On Sunday (June 15), I heard the sound of drones from home. They sound like fans. Apparently, they were targeting the institute but missed and hit nearby. I called my coworkers—some were still going in and were really shaken. There’s no way I’m going back. They might hit the target next time. I just feel awful for all the research and projects I had there. Everything’s on my work computer. One of my laptops is still there. My poor plants must be dead by now. And I don’t even know if I’ll get paid.”

Internet disruptions also had major effects on businesses and people’s lives. In the midst of crisis, when access to reliable information and communication is most vital, the government reverted to its usual tactic: restricting the internet. People experienced severe slowdowns, broken VPNs, disruptions to messaging apps like WhatsApp and Telegram, and ultimately a complete shutdown.

This wasn’t the first time such disruptions occurred. Since November 2019 (Aban 1398), citizens and businesses have repeatedly endured the bitter experience of being disconnected from the world.

Farnaz, a translator for a dubbing studio, says: “I use Hamrah Aval internet, which during this time was mostly either nonfunctional or just national. I had a translation project I needed to send via WhatsApp, but since I couldn’t connect, I had to text the client and ask for an email address. The evening I finally sent the file, the internet shut down completely.”

In Search of Safety and Hope

During the war, what Iranian people—especially the youth—felt most acutely was the deepening collapse of security and hope for the future. Pouyan, 24, a gym coach and theater actor, says: “A missile hit near our home. The whole house shook like it was falling apart. The windows shattered. These days I’m constantly taking oxazepam for anxiety. I feel completely numb—nothing matters anymore.”

When asked whether he considered leaving Tehran, he replies: “We stayed. We’ve got nowhere else to go. Some campaigns have been launched to help the elderly and people with disabilities. I put my number on Instagram, offering to do shopping for them. I posted that I can help people who want to visit family or friends but don’t have transport. Since I stayed in Tehran, this is what I can do. It helps me feel a bit better, too.”

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: The Invisible Wound

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) occurs when someone cannot naturally process a traumatic event, and its psychological effects persist long after the incident. It can follow events like war, earthquakes, sudden death of loved ones, or other human catastrophes.

In PTSD, the mind compulsively replays the traumatic event. The person experiences the incident over and over in their memory. Even in normal situations, they feel threatened and unsafe. They may have recurring nightmares, panic attacks during the day, or extreme reactions to sounds, images, and specific situations. Some withdraw from social life and fall into unwanted isolation.

Mitra, a 52-year-old woman in Tehran, says: “Around 2 a.m. every night, I jolt awake and can’t go back to sleep. My body tenses up, and I have severe anxiety. I feel like at any moment, a missile will hit our home and tear me, my husband, and daughter to pieces. I feel heavy in my chest during the day. I can’t focus. Sometimes my daughter says I called her or moved something, and I have no memory of it.”

Niloufar describes her painful experience on the first night of the Tehran attack: “That night there was a terrifying sound near our house. I jumped out of bed. I was confused for a few seconds. As I ran from my room to be with my family, those few seconds replay in my mind constantly. Since that night, I wake up at that same time in a terrible state. Before this, I didn’t know what real fear was. Every fear I’d had before now feels like a joke.”

Sonya, who lives on Sana’at Boulevard in Shiraz, says: “Our house is near SAIRAN. One night I heard a buzzing sound like a fan. It was probably a drone that got taken down before doing damage. But the next morning around 10 a.m., there was a massive blast, and the house shook. A column of smoke rose into the sky. The smoke lasted for hours. I live alone. I was so scared I called my mom, but the line cut off before I could even explain. I didn’t have any signal for ten minutes. She was terrified. The shockwave shattered some neighbors’ windows. That night, the trash bin at the corner was full of broken glass. Now I avoid standing near windows. Every little sound—a car, a slamming door, a rattling window—makes me freeze, thinking another explosion is coming.”

Among the Rubble

In the final hours of the Twelve-Day War, Mohammad’s rented home was hit by an Israeli missile and completely destroyed. He wasn’t home at the time, but when he returned, he found everything in ruins. “I lost around 700 to 800 million tomans worth of belongings. My lease still had six months left, but now I need to find another place, and I don’t have a single toman to put down. My landlord lost the property and can’t return my deposit.”

Mohammad is currently housed temporarily in one of the hotels the government has offered to displaced persons: “Accommodation, food, and services are free, but only for two weeks. I don’t know where I’ll go after that. My whole life is now in this hotel room. I’ve gone everywhere—filed a complaint with the police, contacted the Crisis Management Organization. They told me they only offer financial help to property owners, not renters. I’ve lost everything, and there’s no agency to help. People like me had no preparation for a disaster like this. If they don’t give us financial aid or loans for rent, we’ll be left homeless.”

What this report attempts is to preserve the voices and accounts that are usually lost in the noise of official news and grand political analyses. To speak of mothers’ anxiety, youths’ despair, employees’ helplessness, and the collapse of small businesses is not just to document the past—it is essential to building a future where people, regardless of status or belief, deserve to live in peace and dignity.

In a world where destruction has become the dominant language, storytelling itself is a form of resistance—a way to reclaim meaning amidst devastation, and perhaps the first step toward healing.