In Tehran, Money is Scarce, Shoppers are Absent, and the Threat of War Does Not Recede
On a bright spring day in Tehran, Sanai Ghaznavi Street, where fast-food establishments and flower shops are located alongside stores selling food and household goods, looks like an ordinary place. A major report by the BBC.
Photo: Fatemeh Bahrami/Anadolu via Getty Images
In a country where people have long been tested by crises, this is a cross-section of a nation simply trying to live another day, while its future depends on forces beyond its control.
For Mohammad, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, even the act of raising the striped awning over his family's shoe shop is an act of hope.
"It's nice to be here," he tells us as we enter his tiny shop, with shelves from floor to ceiling crammed with sneakers of all sizes. "So many people have lost their jobs and are now idle."
And there are almost no customers.
"There used to be so many," his father Mustafa laments sadly, and proudly explains that this business has belonged to their family for 40 years.
An Iranian website, Asr-e Iran, recently cited an unofficial estimate that up to four million jobs might have disappeared or been affected by the combined impact of war and the government's almost complete internet shutdown.
From the overflowing shelves of this store, boxes with logos of Western brands such as New Balance and Clarks protrude. "Made in China," both father and son indifferently note. "Even fakes are expensive in Iran," Mohammad adds.
I expect them to express hope that a fragile peace will prevail and negotiations with America will succeed so they can import genuine products when it comes to the latest shoe fashion trends.
"We hope the war starts again," Mohammad declares, smiling ironically. His father gives his 27-year-old son a meaningful look.
"Look at my gray hair, I understand more than him."
"We are simply tired of living with an economy that continues to worsen," says Mustafa. "Some people believe that if the war resumes, the situation will ultimately improve dramatically."
Entering a neighboring shop, Shahla, an elderly woman in a light headscarf, tries to hold a loaf of bread on a clipboard, which holds her shopping list and a wad of bills.
Seeing us, she stops and shares her thoughts.
"People now pay three times more for a loaf of bread," she complains, running her fingers over the soft white slices inside the bag. "People are going through hell just to pay for bread now."
She surveys this green street in central Tehran, located halfway between the wealthy north with its gleaming shops and chic cafes and the poorer, conservative south.
"Wealthy people are doing fine, but not the low-income workers," Shahla explains.
What message would she like to convey to the negotiators?
"Enough, stop," she declares. "I don't think anything good will come of this for us, because Trump is just threatening people."
As she rushes to finish her shopping, a young man walks past, clutching a small glass bottle of green paste in his hand.
"This is 'valak' oil," he says, using the Persian word for wild garlic that grows in the foothills of the snowy Alborz mountains to the north. "I made it myself."
"We are just trying to live our lives, creating things that bring joy," the 45-year-old architect and teacher stoically explains.
He doesn't want to get involved in the "super complicated" politics of Iran and the entire region, or in predictions about what might happen next.
But he expresses his dissatisfaction that due to the internet shutdown, which has lasted for more than 50 days, he cannot even access a website to translate words when reading a book.
Even Iran's Minister of Communications, Sattar Hashemi, recently called for the ban to be lifted, emphasizing that about 10 million people, mainly from middle and low-income groups, depend on digital communication for their work. He called it "a right of citizens."
Restrictions are gradually and selectively easing—though security officials state they will remain in place as long as "hostile threats" persist.
Security oversight has noticeably increased. This is felt on this street as well.
Plainclothes security personnel—from the paramilitary volunteer organization Basij or the IRGC—are now everywhere.
A few minutes' drive away, in Ferdowsi Square, several bulky black armored vehicles, surrounded by armed uniformed men, send an even clearer signal.
Like this street, the square is also named after a much-loved Persian poet.
I ask the architect what one change could significantly alter his life.
"Freedom," he replies quickly and decisively. "Freedom of thought and freedom to have a future."
A little further down the street, a popular cafe is bustling with visitors waiting their turn to buy popular toasted sandwiches and iced coffee. Even in times of crisis, Tehran's cafe culture survives.
A row of seats by the open window offers visitors a front-row view of street life.
In this city, contrasts are stark. Women in headscarves and long coats share the sidewalk with groups of young men and women in baggy jeans, with piercings and tattoos.
Photo: Fatemeh Bahrami/Anadolu via Getty Images
Many women, young and old, no longer comply with laws that tell them to dress "modestly" and cover their heads—a legacy of the "Woman, Life, Freedom" protests that swept across Iran several years ago and, like all Iranian protests, were suppressed with force.
Small demonstrations against the rising cost of living in late 2025 escalated into a nationwide wave of anti-government protests earlier this year, resulting in several thousand deaths during the security forces' crackdown.
Ali smokes imported "Napoli" cigarettes with a friend. The war gives him no peace.
His sister, with short-cropped hair and fashionable turquoise glasses, joins them.
"It was terrifying during the war," Ali recalls. "We felt alone. Our families were in other Iranian cities, and we couldn't contact them."
Their future prospects also frighten them. Ali's sister tells us that she just quit her job as a cook because the restaurant owner said he could no longer pay her.
"I love President Trump and I hate President Trump," Ali declares. "I love him because he said he would help the people of Iran. I hate him because he didn't."
As the sun sets, journalists head to one of the many nearby squares where government supporters gather every night in response to their new leaders' call to demonstrate defiance and solidarity.
In Valiasr Square—a whole grove of Iranian flags against the backdrop of a new colossal mural depicting the former Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, killed during Israeli airstrikes in the early hours of the war on February 28.
Tonight, rows of chairs stretching across the square are filled with people who have come for an open-air debate on issues such as whether their late leader approved of negotiations with America.
One woman, draped in black, with a flag over her shoulders, rises from her seat and sharply objects to the moderator on stage, who informed those present that the deceased Ayatollah initially opposed negotiations with the enemy but later approved them.
"Things were different then," she shouted, emphasizing that their late leader never trusted the West and knew that his negotiators would be wrong.
Photo: Fatemeh Bahrami/Anadolu via Getty Images
After a while, the topic changes. Another woman takes the microphone and emphasizes the importance of the hijab—the head covering for women.
"But we shouldn't be so strict with those who don't want to wear it; I think now is a time that calls for national unity," she advises, showing unexpected openness.
A young woman, also dressed in black and holding a flag, approaches the journalists and states in English: "We will only negotiate with President Trump from a position of strength."
19-year-old Reyhaneh, who studies microbiology at Tehran University, also holds a photograph of the new Supreme Leader, Mojtaba Khamenei.
She brushes off my question about how no one seems to have seen him since he was severely wounded in the attack that claimed his father's life.
"Everything is in his hands now, and will be in the future too," she insists.
As we leave the square, a sudden roar erupts.
A convoy of clerics in white and black turbans, dressed in camouflage, with rifles slung over their shoulders, rumbles past on motorcycles—another impressive moment of the night.
The path leads us again down Sanai Ghaznavi Street.
At 10:30 PM on this warm spring evening, small groups of young people are still standing outside the fast-food restaurant and cafe on the other side of the street.
We notice Mustafa, the shoe seller, on the sidewalk in front of his brightly lit shop, talking with a few friends.
Were there many shoppers today?
"Not many," he says, shrugging. "We just want this war to end."
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