Total repression and air strikes bring unrelenting dread for Iranians
Total repression and air strikes bring unrelenting dread for Iranians
Tonight, the city hums with the soft rhythm of traffic. But the sound is laced with unease. A woman on a rooftop listens, her eyes scanning the streets below. The silence is fragile, a momentary calm before the storm. She knows the threat is ever-present, a shadow that looms over every step taken outside her home.
Baran – a pseudonym – is a young businesswoman who now fears venturing out. “Opening my door feels like a gamble with my life,” she says. The fear began with the drone attacks, which turned the city into a battlefield. Even when no bombs fall, the quiet is suffocating. She stays in touch with friends, sending messages to confirm their whereabouts. “The silence itself is terrifying,” she adds. “I try to stay alive, but the question that haunts me is: will I even see tomorrow?”
Months ago, Baran’s hopes for change were shattered during January’s crackdown. Protests demanding reform had swept the nation, but regime forces responded with force, killing hundreds. “I can’t remember life without being reminded of the loved one I lost,” she reflects. The trauma lingers, a constant weight on her shoulders. Now, the repression is absolute. Dissent is invisible, as state agents patrol streets and monitor conversations.
Footage obtained by the BBC shows regime loyalists driving through Tehran at night, their cars adorned with flags. These are not just patrols – they are warnings. The state controls all narratives, broadcasting clips of demonstrations and funerals on television. Pro-regime officials and protestors repeatedly condemn America and Israel, painting the conflict as a battle for Iran’s soul. “The people are willing to suffer martyrdom,” the propaganda claims, but independent voices face danger. Journalists risk arrest, torture, or worse, trying to capture alternative stories.
Ali, a middle-class, educated man in his early 40s, had once believed the assassination of Ayatollah Khamenei would spark a new era. Now, he sees armed men patrolling his neighborhood, checkpoints blocking movement. “Walking the streets feels like entering a graveyard,” he says. “The city looks dead, yet we keep breathing, hoping something will break the cycle.” His words echo the collective anxiety of Tehran’s residents, who live in fear of both foreign bombs and domestic enforcers.
In her apartment, Baran listens for the next explosion. “What’s the difference between our sky and the rest of the world?” she asks. “They sleep under stars; we sleep under rockets. Both skies give light, but different kinds of light.” She believes the war will persist for years, its psychological scars deeper than any physical wound. “It’s inside our homes, in our blood,” she says. “This dread doesn’t just linger – it lives with us.”
With additional reporting by Alice Doyard.
