In a disused factory outside Tehran, a fiberglass elephant had hung for months, part of a surrealist art exhibition eagerly awaiting its June debut. However, life intervened dramatically. Following a devastating 12-day war triggered by American and Israeli airstrikes, the exhibition was postponed, leaving the artists marooned at the gallery. Night after night, they gathered in the courtyard to witness what gallery owner Houman Dayhimi sardonically called ‘the fireworks’ – a terrifying ballet of streaking missiles and booming explosions that made reality blend eerily with the surreal art around them. ‘It was surreal,’ Dayhimi reflected. For Iranians like him, adapting to geopolitical whims was routine. His Dayhim Art Society, once a bustling furniture plant employing 700, had been transformed into an art space and tech hub after American sanctions drove it to bankruptcy a decade prior. An exhibition at the Dayhim Art Society, a gallery outside Tehran, was postponed because of the recent conflict with Israel, mirroring the surreal events unfolding outside.
Despite this history of adaptation, the recent escalation with the United States and Israel—occurring as Iran’s regional power seemed to wane—hinted at a deeply unpredictable future. ‘We know that change is coming, but we don’t know what or how,’ Mr. Dayhimi admitted, ‘And that’s what makes it worse. It’s so unpredictable.’
Decades after Iran’s revolution, its people have become adept at navigating the delicate balance between state mandates, external pressures, and their personal freedoms. In upscale restaurants, directives for women to wear hijabs are often gracefully sidestepped by young women with unconcealed hair. Internet censorship is routinely bypassed with VPNs, allowing access to platforms like Instagram and TikTok, while American sanctions ironically fuel a bustling black market. During an eight-day visit in July, the overt presence of religion felt notably subdued; clerics were scarce on the streets, and the daily call to prayer was rarely heard, despite Iran’s status as a theocratic republic.
Tehran also presented familiar images: many women observed the hijab, police patrolled on motorcycles, and enormous murals glorified national heroes while demonizing adversaries. One such mural vividly displayed ‘DOWN WITH THE USA’ over an American flag dropping cartoon bombs. (An anti-American mural in Tehran.) Yet, nearby, vibrant street art celebrated flowers and ancient Persian warriors, adding layers of unexpected beauty. And while ‘Death to America!’ echoed during Friday Prayer, a surprising number of Iranians privately expressed disagreement, especially after the recent bombs made the ‘cartoon’ threats disturbingly real. (A government-assigned translator, whose work was thoroughly vetted and found to be excellent, assisted journalists during the trip, navigating the usual restrictions.) The city itself seemed to carry a fresh wound, its composure shaken by a conflict few desired or foresaw. Residents spoke of being unnerved, gripped by uncertainty about what the future might hold.
The ‘Den of Espionage’: A Look Back at US-Iran Hostility
On Taleghani Street, a long, two-story building stands like a diplomatic ghost, once the heart of U.S.-Iran tensions, now a museum. Its facade still bears the ‘United States of America Embassy’ sign, an eagle crest intact. But inside, the lobby is a stark contrast, adorned with images of skulls, crossbones, and a macabre Statue of Liberty. A poster of Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, watches over with a subtle smile. The 1979 hostage crisis, where Iranian students seized the U.S. Embassy and held 52 Americans for 444 days, remains a foundational trauma, shaping decades of animosity. The deserted embassy has been repurposed into the ‘U.S. Den of Espionage Museum,’ offering Iran’s official narrative of the past.
For a mere $1.40, foreigners can enter through what was once the Roosevelt Gate. The path winds through an overgrown garden, where stray cats doze beneath pine trees. A stark reminder of a failed 1980 rescue mission—charred helicopter parts from an American military collision that killed eight service members—rests on a plinth. An inscription declares, ‘The sands in the desert were God’s agents.’ (A collection of vintage American spy gear and communications equipment is on display from a former CIA station in Tehran, including a secure communications room where some Americans were interrogated during the hostage crisis.)
Upstairs, the ambassador’s office is remarkably preserved: leather chairs, a grand desk, and a pristine American flag. (Ironically, Iranian factories produce thousands of U.S. flags annually, mostly for burning at protests.) A smiling portrait of President Jimmy Carter hangs on the wall. Our guide, Amir, a 21-year-old military conscript, noted, ‘Carter paid the price,’ referring to the crisis’s impact on his 1980 re-election. Amir, like many in a nation accustomed to self-censorship, preferred to use only his first name. Beyond a steel door, the museum’s centerpiece—the C.I.A. station—reveals an impressive array of vintage American spy equipment: partitioned rooms, encoding/decoding machines, satellite transmitters, eavesdropping devices, industrial shredders, and tools for forging passports and license plates.
Wax figures sit amidst heaps of shredded paper, illustrating the painstaking, years-long effort by Iranian students to reassemble American documents salvaged from the embassy, later published in several books. (Wax figures depict American diplomats shredding documents in one of the museum’s exhibits at the former embassy.) The museum’s narrative portrays the American hostages as ‘guests of the ayatollah,’ emphasizing their supposedly fair treatment. Yet, historical accounts from many former hostages detail psychological abuse and physical mistreatment. The overarching message is unequivocal: America’s interest in Iran was solely to meddle, not to assist.
Despite its powerful message, the museum attracts a limited audience, roughly 5,000 visitors annually, predominantly from Russia and China. This trickle of visitors has further diminished since the June conflict; during our visit, only one other person was present. On the way out, a museum manager presented a plaque commemorating Maj. Gen. Qassim Suleimani, the Iranian commander killed in a 2020 American drone strike in Iraq. Afterward, a stop at the newly opened Boof Cafe on the embassy grounds offered a moment of respite. Adorned with photos of Charlie Chaplin and Marlon Brando, the cafe’s soft-spoken owner, a man in his 60s, smiled warmly but politely avoided political discussion. ‘That’s up to the politicians, not ordinary people like me,’ he stated regarding U.S.-Iran tensions. He slid an iced Americano across the table—a surprisingly delicious taste of American culture within the ‘Den of Espionage.’
Jammed Signals: The Daily Grind in a Shifting Reality
Beyond the symbolic walls of the former embassy, American cultural echoes were surprisingly present: Pixies songs hummed in coffee shops, a vintage Lincoln Continental graced a hotel lobby, and young men immersed themselves in Grand Theft Auto in dimly lit gaming cafes. However, for most, the present was a relentless daily struggle, intensified by the recent downturn in U.S. relations.
Siyavash Naeini, a 59-year-old taxi driver, navigated Tehran’s notorious traffic with a stream of curses. His ride-hailing app, Snapp!, a local equivalent of Uber, was barely functional. The authorities, in an effort to thwart Israeli and American warplanes, were jamming GPS signals across the city, inadvertently crippling services like his. Since June, Naeini’s income had plummeted by 70 percent. Yet, he couldn’t stop working. Diagnosed with terminal cancer, he desperately needed money for his life-sustaining medications. ‘Since I started chemotherapy, I can’t feel the pedals very well,’ he admitted, pausing at a red light.
While he initially received drugs at subsidized rates from a government pharmacy, supplies often dwindled, forcing him to the black market where prices soared tenfold. The financial toll was immense: ‘My wife sold her jewelry,’ he recounted, ‘I sold our rugs.’ As we reached our destination, I offered my condolences, but Mr. Naeini waved them away. He didn’t seek pity, only acknowledged the universal ‘struggle of life.’ With that, he drove off, disappearing into the evening cityscape, in search of his next fare. (An evening view of Tehran.)
Waiting for Godot: Martyrs, Deliverance, and Existential Musings
Near the British embassy, a street sign proudly proclaims ‘Babbi Sandz Street.’ This tribute honors Bobby Sands, an Irish Republican Army member who died on hunger strike in a Northern Ireland prison in 1981. While reviled in Britain, Sands ascended to martyrdom in Iran, joining a pantheon of heroes enshrined by authorities to embody the revolution’s values and subtly irk adversaries. The British embassy, in a quiet act of defiance, later moved its entrance to an adjacent street to avoid the provocative address. Similarly, until recently, Egypt’s embassy in Tehran was on a street named after Khalid al-Islambuli, Anwar Sadat’s assassin, a name now changed to signal warming ties between Iran and Egypt.
The reverence for Bobby Sands even manifests in unexpected ways. Just before midnight, I found myself at ‘Bobby Sands Burgers,’ a bustling fast-food joint in northern Tehran, where a queue of eager diners stretched down the street. The counter, adorned with neon images of the deceased Irishman, underscored the manager, Kia Garabandi’s, conviction: ‘Bobby Sands stood for freedom and liberation,’ he explained. ‘Iranians can relate to that.’ Despite the irony of naming a burger restaurant after someone who starved to death, Garabandi saw no contradiction. ‘A great man,’ he asserted, ‘And we make great burgers.’
With such pervasive turbulence, many looked beyond history to an elusive future, hoping for a kind of deliverance. At a memorial for the head of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards, killed in an Israeli strike, one mourner expressed a welcome for the war, believing it would hasten the return of the Mahdi, a religious savior who would convert all to Islam. ‘Even you,’ he declared, pointing at me.
However, not everyone held their breath for such a savior. In downtown Tehran, students flocked to Cafe Godot, an artsy hangout named after Beckett’s famous play. Homayoun Ghanizadeh, the cafe’s owner and a renowned director, observed, ‘It’s an existential tragicomedy. Iranians can relate to that.’ He elaborated, ‘Just like in the play, every day a messenger comes and says: Godot won’t come tonight, but he will surely come tomorrow night. And the next day, it all starts over again.’ He concluded, ‘In my view, the Islamic Republic is also in a state of waiting. Although their Godot is quite different from the one ordinary people are waiting for.’ (Young people gather at Cafe Godot in Tehran, reflecting on the nation’s uncertain future.)