Under fire: Iran between pride and exhaustion

It was just past midnight on 12 June when I was jolted awake by a deafening noise.

The explosions came in waves - long, continuous, terrifying. At first, I was frozen, disoriented. Then came the sharp crack of anti-aircraft guns, more explosions, and the roar of fighter jets flying alarmingly low. My mind struggled to make sense of it - until one chilling thought hit me: “Dear God… it’s happened - the thing we prayed would never come.”

I reached for my phone, frantically scrolling through news feeds. For hours, there was nothing. Just silence.

Then the alerts came.

I was right. Reports confirmed targeted strikes, deadly sabotage, and the killing of dozens of senior Iranian military commanders and nuclear scientists. The unthinkable was unfolding. 

As morning light crept across Tehran, it revealed scenes even our worst fears hadn’t prepared us for: high-rise towers reduced to rubble, dozens of civilians dead, and a grim truth printed across every headline: Israel had launched an all-out war on Iran.

For the next 12 nights, the persistent whirr of Israeli drones filled the skies overhead, underscored by the steady staccato of anti-aircraft fire. The sudden, surreal announcement from Donald Trump warning residents to evacuate Tehran, a city of over 10 million, triggered a chaotic exodus as terrified families fled in panic.

But many of us stayed, and we endured.

A city in shock

A fragile ceasefire was declared on 24 June, halting the fighting - for now. But the calm feels more like a pause than a resolution.

Iran remains in shock. The streets may be quieter, but a lingering sense of dread remains that the conflict could erupt again at any moment.

Israel's failure to subdue Iran shows it can no longer dictate the regional order

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Despite the painful memory of the Iran-Iraq War, Iranians were utterly unprepared for the return of a large-scale conflict. There were no functioning air-raid sirens, no public shelters, and no emergency protocols. The promise of “resistance” and “strategic depth” - repeated by clerics and military commanders - had failed to translate into meaningful civilian protection.

At night, families across Tehran and other cities went to bed not with a sense of safety, but with a fragile hope that Israeli bombs would spare their homes. That hope was repeatedly shattered, as strikes hit homes, hospitals, ambulances, and even a prison complex.

In fact, the gulf between the government’s defiant slogans and the people’s defencelessness had never felt so wide.

“We had no shelters, no alarms, nowhere to go. Every night we went to bed hoping the bombs wouldn’t fall on our roof,” said Mahshid, a mother of two in central Tehran.

As destruction mounted, the government responded by tightening security: shutting down the internet, erecting checkpoints, and trying to prevent unrest, or perhaps trying to avoid further surprises from the enemy.

'We had no shelters, no alarms, nowhere to go. Every night we went to bed hoping the bombs wouldn’t fall on our roof

- Mahshid, Tehran

State media projected a curated image of calm: triumphant headlines, military resolve, even claims of having shot down Israeli F-35 jets.

But beneath that façade, the real story unfolded through encrypted chats and underground news channels. Despite near-total censorship, people shared images of destroyed neighbourhoods, civilian casualties, and expressions of rage, sorrow, and disbelief.

Many residents found little comfort in official statements. The government’s reassurances rang hollow. The disconnect between rhetoric and reality deepened the public’s sense of isolation and betrayal.

“The money that should have gone to defence was spent in Syria, Lebanon, and elsewhere. And now we have no real air defence,” said Hamed, a father in western Tehran.

'All we wanted was to live a quiet life'

The Israeli strikes caused massive destruction. Despite claims of targeting only military sites, civilian neighbourhoods bore the brunt. Even when Israel issued evacuation warnings, strikes often followed just minutes later, leaving no time or safe place to escape.

Many fled, their cars lined up along the highways stretching across the city, waiting for the next phase of the war. They had no choice.

The final night before the ceasefire felt like hell had descended upon us. I remember my sister calling me in the middle of the night, crying, and imploring, “Dadashi (meaning dear brother in Persian), please don’t go to work tomorrow. The Israelis have issued a warning saying they will bomb your area.”

We didn’t have to wait long.

Two loud explosions rattled our windows shortly afterwards. I rushed to check on my sick and fragile elderly mother. Israel had bombed a residential area near us. Just hours earlier, missiles had struck Evin Prison, killing dozens: guards, prisoners, administrative workers, and visiting family members.

“The Israeli beasts have shown their true face again,” said Mohammed, a civil servant, referencing the wars in Gaza and Lebanon.

“We never thought we’d see this in our own capital.” 

The man spoke from a place of quiet desperation: the fear of losing not only loved ones but also the fragile stability he’d built over years - a modest home, savings, a life carved out under constant economic pressure and suffocating sanctions. His words echoed the silent anxiety gripping many Iranians who are neither part of the fight nor represented by the slogans broadcast daily. 

For younger Iranians - already burdened by unemployment and restrictions - the war has become just another chapter in a life marked by crisis.

“We were never part of their rhetoric,” said Hamed, a businessman. “I never followed news from Gaza or Lebanon. All we wanted was to live a quiet life. Now Israel is right above my head.”

Anger, pride, a fragile ceasefire

In the days following the ceasefire, state media hailed the conflict as a “strategic victory” over the “Zionist enemy”.

Tehran’s billboards were quickly covered with slogans like “Strength and Victory” alongside images of fallen commanders, martyrs, and economic symbols of Israel in ruin. Speeches and rallies echoed the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps slogan: “Fingers remain on the trigger.”

“Almost everyone in Tehran knows someone affected,” said Sedigeh, an environmental activist. “A son on the front, a neighbour wounded, a cousin whose home was destroyed.”

'They hit our cities, but we hit back. We’re angry, but we’re also proud. We showed them we’re not weak'

- Reza

But behind the slogans, the people feel exhausted. Public criticism of the establishment remains dangerous - mostly whispered in private chats and anonymous posts, but the frustration is unmistakable.

Some hard-liners, meanwhile, criticised the government for agreeing to a ceasefire at all. In their eyes, the war should have gone further.

Many Iranians feel caught between an unrelenting external enemy backed by the West and a ruling establishment whose rigid ideology has dragged the country to the brink.

Still, a sense of survival prevails. For many, the goal now is not revenge - but endurance.

“We need to protect Iran, not just with missiles, but with wisdom,” said Hesam, a journalist. “We played a game, conceded 10 goals, and scored two. And we’re calling that a win?”

For him, the war revealed long-standing failures: economic decay, international isolation, and a nuclear policy that keeps inviting disaster.

“Until the nuclear issue is resolved, we’ll never see peace. Declaring victory is delusional,” Hesam said.

In fact, one belief that unites many patriotic Iranians is that Israel is determined to disintegrate and destroy Iran. Therefore, the survival and unity of the country - not slogans or vengeance - must now be our ultimate goal, and we must do everything to achieve it.

While the conflict may have temporarily ended, the trauma lingers. Social media channels now offer mental health resources, PTSD support groups, and advice on coping with post-war anxiety.

And yet, alongside the bitterness, there’s pride. Despite the destruction, many saw Iran’s response - missile attacks on Israeli territory and the downing of drones - as a testament to national resilience.

In fact, for people clinging to anything that resembled order, these moments offered a fragile but vital sense of hope: that Iran had not yet been rendered defenceless, and that its armed forces was still fighting for the homeland.

“They hit our cities, but we hit back,” said Reza, a retired bank clerk. “We’re angry, but we’re also proud. We showed them we’re not weak.”