TEHRAN, April 15 (Xinhua) -- In the sparse starlight, the lingering snow on the Alborz Mountains in Tehran shines a faint, frigid white, an almost surreal contrast to the image of raging flames across the horizon after air strikes hit an oil depot just a few days ago.
To this day, the shadow of air raids and the threat of enemy aircraft still looms large, and the scars left by bombs remain scattered across neighborhoods in this metropolis of more than 10 million.
Yet throughout Tehran, lights continue to burn gently yet unwaveringly, holding daily life together. Crowds still surge beneath the lamps of Tajrish Bazaar. Beneath dim streetlights of the Enqelab Street, readers still gather at bookstores, driven by their undiminished hunger for knowledge. And in kitchens across the city, pots simmer on stovetops, releasing the warm fragrance of stews.
FIRST LIGHT RISING FROM ASHES
On Feb. 28, Iran came under heavy U.S.-Israeli attacks. In the days that followed, towering fireballs and deafening explosions became a grim fixture of urban life. On the night of March 1, a thunderous blast shook the building where I was staying. When I opened the windows, the acrid smell of burning chemicals rushed in. Fighter jets roared and air-defense systems thundered, as flames intermittently split the night sky.
Of late, joint U.S.-Israeli strikes came at an unrelenting pace, hitting targets across the capital and provincial cities alike. Since the outbreak of war, explosions have been reported in non-military areas including gas stations, university campuses, residential neighborhoods, and even medical facilities.
On a Sunday in early March, four oil storage facilities and an oil production transfer center around Tehran were heavily bombed. Residents awoke the next morning, only to find in despair that their city was smothered under a blanket of toxic black smoke. It was as if an apocalyptic scene had played out overnight. Thick, tar-like soot coated the broad streets, parked cars and balconies, while noxious fumes seeped into every corner of the metropolis.
When a rare spring rain fell on this city of millions, it mixed with the high concentration of chemicals in the air to form a highly corrosive acid rain. Many residents woke to searing throat pain and burning eyes; for those with asthma or respiratory illness, the danger was immediate and severe. Even at midday, with sunlight entirely blocked by smoke, the city remained shrouded in gloom, forcing residents to turn on indoor lights to see clearly.
In a high-rise apartment in northern Tehran, a 28-year-old writer shared her wartime notes. When enemy jets screamed overhead at intervals of only seconds, she and four friends, who had moved in together for companionship and safety, instinctively huddled in a narrow space wedged between a concrete pillar and a storage cabinet. It is not a real bunker, but it has become their only psychological refuge against the threat of death. She admitted she had developed severe insomnia, being "afraid to fall asleep for fear of dying in my dreams."
For her and many ordinary Iranians, life meant more than fear of missiles overhead. It was a profound sense of helplessness, exhaustion and mental strain. On social media, people spoke of being "drained by isolation and uncertainty, with life increasingly dominated by fear of what might come next." One post lamented that their generation seemed to have "lived through every bad thing that could possibly happen."
Meanwhile, U.S. sanctions and ongoing chaos continued to drive the Iranian rial downward, intensifying hardship for ordinary people. Sahradi, a local trader, said: "The rising freight costs alone are enough to bedevil any merchant. But we must keep doing business and get goods to the market. It's the most basic contribution we can make to our country."
On the night of March 7, more than a dozen taxis lined up outside the blood donation center at Gandhi Hospital, where young women and middle-aged men queued to give blood for the wounded. Inside, medical staff in white uniforms hurried from room to room. One nurse, wiping sweat from her forehead, said, "People are coming from far away to donate blood for the injured. It's deeply moving."
In such moments, the resilience and solidarity of the Iranian people come into sharp focus: even far from the front lines, small acts of compassion are helping to sustain a nation under siege.
LIFE GOES ON
Tehran's lifelines endured despite weeks of bombardment. Arman, a local friend of mine, told me that the capital still maintained adequate supplies, with water and electricity functioning normally. The government has undertaken significant efforts to keep daily life running.
As Nowruz, the Iranian New Year on March 21, approached, several large malls and supermarkets in Tehran reopened, and traffic and pedestrian flow slowly resumed. Shops glowed with warm light, their shelves fully stocked with goods; subway stations teemed with waiting passengers, just as they always did; buses carried more standing commuters. In pockets of the metropolis, there was a collective urge to "hit a reset button" -- to simply snap back to the rhythmic pulse of life amid conflict.
Tehran's sprawling subway system stood as a testament to its gradual recovery from the paralyzing blow inflicted by conflict. Among the largest in the Middle East, its lines -- especially Line 1, the main north-south artery -- carry millions of commuters each day. During the conflict, surface transportation became unreliable and hazardous due to volatile fuel prices, road damages from recent air strikes, and strict military controls. The vast underground transit system thus became the safest and most dependable shelter and lifeline for millions of civilians.
The subway car offers a vivid cross-section of Iranian society: weary civil servants, blue-collar workers on the way home, students with backpacks and shoppers returning from errands.
Down here, the shrill air-raid sirens of the surface could not be heard, nor could the plumes of smoke rising from fires be seen. Only the steady, rhythmic and hypnotic clatter of wheels against rail filled the space. The vast, orderly flow of passengers below ground was a testament to the Iranian spirit. Above, the city may be ravaged, but deep within, the essential gears of life continue to turn without pause.
That resilience was on full display at the famous Tajrish Bazaar in northern Tehran. The 200-year-old market is not only a bustling commercial hub but also a living museum of everyday citizen life. Inside the bazaar, spring sunlight filtered through gaps in the ancient brick arches, spilling over the winding, narrow passageways. The air was rich with complex sensory experiences: the delicate fragrance of fresh early-spring narcissus blossoms, the smoky sizzle of fat dripping from grilling stalls, the warm, heady aroma of the famous Baghali Ghatogh, or fava bean and egg stew, and the distinct scent of piled saffron. These scents, steeped in the richness of daily life, stood in jarring contrast to the acrid fumes of war on the other end of the city.
HOPE FOR BETTER LIFE
Nowruz, meaning "New Day" in Persian, is Iran's traditional festival marking the arrival of spring and the New Year.
Fresh flowers are a symbolic New Year's purchase for Nowruz, representing renewal and hope. At the market, tables were filled with colorful bouquets, fruits and festive gifts.
A middle-aged woman holding a bundle of pink carnations told me, "This year's holiday was completely different from previous ones. We had hoped to celebrate in peace, but they didn't allow that. At this moment, we must stand behind our soldiers and cheer them on." Her eyes showed both anxiety and determination. "I sincerely wish for peace and friendship across the world," she said softly. "I feel anxious, but I believe in my country."
Inside the market, a young man named Sepehri gripped a bouquet of yellow daffodils. "In past years, I would be traveling with my family around this time, but this year I stayed in Tehran," he said. "I pray that once the war ends, I can take my children to see different places around the world."
People used flowers and holiday shopping to make a statement: although their lives had been torn apart, the familiar rhythm of life persisted.
On the night of Chaharshanbe Suri, Iran's "Fire Jumping Festival" on the eve of the last Wednesday before the Persian New Year, this deep-rooted vitality and unyielding spirit of ordinary people asserted itself more directly, even with a hint of defiance.
As a key ritual welcoming the Nowruz, people would ignite bonfires and leap over them, praying for health and good fortune in the new year. The flickering flames serve both as an attempt to drive away the long winter and misfortune, and as a silent protest against hardship and a war imposed on them. They signaled that no matter how fierce the bombardments are, nothing could extinguish the desire for a better life.
As the New Year holiday drew to a close, nearly all stores in the Palladium Mall in northern Tehran were operating normally. In the large supermarket on the basement floor, shelves were fully stocked, showing no signs of panic or shortages. In the meat section, workers moved methodically, cutting fresh lamb, beef and chicken to customers' requested sizes and arranging them neatly in chilled display cases.
On the upper floors, long lines formed at the food court, where people waited to buy fast food, traditional Persian dishes and cold drinks.
The smooth, efficient functioning of this modern commercial system during wartime sent a powerful signal to the public: Iran's domestic supply chain had not collapsed under heavy airstrikes, and the small commercial units that made up daily life still possessed remarkable capacity for self-repair, organization and resilience.
"ENEMY CAN NEVER BREAK OUR WILL"
At Enqelab Square, ceremonies praising the martyrs and bidding them solemn farewell have played out again and again. Beneath the ringing vows of resolve and the grand visions of a future rebuilt lies something quieter and broader: ordinary people's longing to return to the calm of everyday life, to the fuss and friction of the familiar.
Seyeed Aslani, born in the past war years, said his family was overwhelmed by fear and pressure at first, but soon shifted to determination. "There are explosions every day, but life has to go on."
War, he noted, has never brought anything but indiscriminate harm to civilians and the ruthless devastation to small businesses. No foreign power's intervention can truly or benevolently resolve the intricate tensions within Iran; the nation's fate, he said, must ultimately be written by its own people.
Many who have taken to the streets were impelled not by fury or fervor, but by a sense of responsibility, an insistence on protecting the place they call home.
Each evening, Ali Shekagh, a schoolteacher, would bring his family to the square to show support. He insisted that their presence has only one purpose: to offer a sliver of morale support to the fighters bleeding on the front lines. He longed for the day when the gunfire would fall silent and foreign military bases would retreat permanently from this battered region, leaving the Middle East with the possibility of lasting peace.
Walking through Tehran's neighborhoods, I heard accusations and protests interwoven with expressions of helplessness and hope.
"In our hearts we know we will win this war," said Taraghari, a university student, with a steady tone and calm gaze, "because we stand with our country."
Ali, a factory worker whose home and livelihood were both destroyed, said: "We've endured so much pain, but we must remember that the enemy can never break our will."
Mostafa Maurouti, a retired member of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, said: "The Iranian people are more united than ever. We urge everyone to remain on the streets; it greatly helps the fighters on the front."
Perhaps the truest expression of the collective feeling came from Hamza Dawud Shah, a 41-year-old merchant. "No sane person in the world wants to see another's home reduced to rubble, their life taken away," he said. "No one wants to witness the terror of airstrikes, or defenseless women and innocent children killed in pools of blood. This war, forced upon us, is profoundly unjust and has brought unbearable suffering. "
"But I still believe that something good will arrive one morning ... If we're forced to endure this brutal war now, it is only because we are trying to protect ourselves, our families and our country from total destruction," he said.
In the spring of 2026, Iran bore the inevitable marks of war, including physical devastation and economic strain. Yet on the Persian plateau, where civilizations have risen and fallen for millennia, its people have not relinquished their fundamental humanity and dignity to bombs and sanctions.
With a remarkable resilience that invites awe, Iranians strove to keep the functioning of daily life in the wreckage, and pursue independence and survival with unyielding pride in the tightest blockades, clinging to the quiet promise of Nowruz, and holding that life will return and peace will eventually find its way back to them.
As an ancient Persian proverb goes: "This, too, shall pass." ■
