Firsthand reports from contributors inside Iran
Tehran, a city of contrasts, where the glow of high-rises hides the struggles of those who keep it moving. For many internet taxi drivers from distant provinces, driving through Tehran’s jammed streets isn’t just a job—it’s a desperate bid for survival.
Yet, what remains largely unseen is the reality of where their days end—curled up in the backseat of their cars, parked under bridges, in quiet corners of affluent neighborhoods, or alongside the city’s busy terminals.
High living costs and astronomical rents have turned their cars into homes, making Tehran’s streets a refuge for those who can no longer afford even the most basic shelter. Annual inflation has soared to over 40% in the past five years, pushing many lower middle class Iranian into poverty.
Reza’s nightly struggle: Azadi bus terminal
It’s past midnight near the Azadi Bus Terminal in western Tehran. The last buses have long departed, and the once-bustling station is now eerily quiet. In the shadows, a row of cars belonging to internet taxi drivers—working for Uber-like services called Snapp and Tapsi—sit idle. Their drivers, including Reza, rest inside, preparing for a few hours of broken sleep before the grind begins again.
“This is where I sleep most nights,” Reza says, motioning to his car. The terminal feels slightly safer than parking on random streets, but it’s far from secure. He pulls a thin blanket from the back seat and tucks a worn pillow into the corner. Before settling in, Reza locks his doors carefully, constantly on alert for theft or assault.
“A few months ago, a driver was stabbed over a stolen radio,” he explains. "People are desperate out here."
Originally from Zanjan, Reza, 54, left his family behind to earn a better living in Tehran. But now, trapped in this cycle, he questions the sacrifices. “I wanted to send more money home, but every night I sleep here, I wonder what I’m really gaining,” he says, gazing at the terminal’s flickering lights. “All I think about is going back home, but what’s left for me there?”
Mahmoud’s makeshift home: Ariashahr Square
Ariashahr Square, in western Tehran, remains lively even as the night deepens. Beneath a nearby bridge, Mahmoud, seemingly in his forties, parks his car—the bridge’s underbelly has become his home. Despite the dangers, he’s built a small community with other drivers and laborers who share his plight.
“It feels strange to call this home, but it’s all I have,” Mahmoud says quietly, pulling his jacket tighter against the cold. He drives long hours each day, making barely enough to survive—around 7,000,000 rials ($10). By the end of his shift, he’s too exhausted to speak.
“I use the park’s toilet, and I cook dinner on a portable gas stove on the sidewalk,” he explains. When asked about showering, he sighs. “Sometimes I go a week without one. Other times, I find a public bath.”
Mahmoud recounts a night when he woke to the sound of a fight between two drivers over a parking spot. “It’s the stress,” he says. “Living like this makes you territorial over nothing.”
Still, Mahmoud’s heart remains with his family back in Lorestan, hundreds of kilometers to the south. “My kids think I have a small place here,” he says, his voice heavy. “If they knew I was living like this, sleeping in my car, how would they look at me?”
Mahmoud explains that, with no job opportunities in his hometown and the wages being too low, he was forced to borrow money to buy a car and work as a driver in Tehran.
Kamran’s silent struggles: Saadatabad
In the wealthier district of Saadatabad in northern capital, the contrast between affluence and struggle is stark. Kamran, 31, parks his car in the shadows of a high-rise apartment block, feeling both safer and more invisible.
“I park here because it feels secure,” Kamran says. “But I also feel like I don’t exist. The people here don’t notice you. They don’t want to.”
After a long day of driving passengers through the city, Kamran’s loneliness deepens at night. “Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I’m at home,” he says. “But when I wake up, I’m just parked on a street, alone.”
Though Saadatabad offers relative safety, the isolation takes its toll. “There are moments I feel like I’m disappearing,” Kamran says. “If something happened to me, no one would even know.”
A growing crisis: Tehran’s underpass communities
Mahmoud isn’t alone beneath Tehran’s bridges. As he speaks, other drivers begin to gather, sharing cigarettes and quiet conversation. Ali, a driver who’s been sleeping under another bridge near Enghelab Square in central Tehran for over a year, describes the camaraderie among those forced to live in their cars. “We look out for each other,” he says. “It’s dangerous, but at least we have that.”
An economist in Tehran, who requests anonymity for fear of government reaction, explains how the cost of living has pushed low-income workers, like these drivers, to the brink. “Housing prices in Tehran are so inflated that these drivers have no choice but to live in their cars,” he says. “They are the invisible workforce keeping the city running, yet they live in the shadows.”
The economist calls this trend the “underpass phenomenon,” where hidden corners of Tehran become makeshift communities for the working poor, including taxi drivers and day laborers. They struggle to afford even basic shelter in the city they help keep alive.
The emotional toll
Psychologist Soheil Rezaei highlights the emotional toll of this forced lifestyle. “Owning a home gives a person a sense of belonging. Without that, people feel lost,” he explains in an interview with Ebtekar daily. “When you’re constantly moving, without a stable place to call home, it damages your spirit.”
Rezaei adds that even renters often avoid personalizing their spaces, knowing they’ll eventually have to leave. For those sleeping in their cars, like Tehran’s internet taxi drivers, the displacement is even more profound. “They’re living only half a life, without stability or peace,” he says.
The emotional damage can be severe. Rezaei has seen rising rates of depression, anxiety, drug addiction, and even suicide among individuals living in such precarious conditions. “We’re facing a future where more and more people are living without a sense of belonging,” he warns, “and this creates a deep societal crisis.”
Mohammad Mashinchian, Senior Governance Researcher at Pittsburgh University, told Iran International in an interview that the Iranian government's approach to managing the country has failed, leading to new forms of poverty.
"This governance is deeply intertwined with the Islamic Republic’s ideology, making it resistant to change or reform. When the government fails to recognize citizens' rights, it creates an environment where working becomes unprofitable for everyone," he said.
Invisible at night, vital by day
For drivers like Reza, Mahmoud, and Kamran, each night in Tehran is a fight for survival. They spend their days navigating the city’s chaos, ferrying passengers from one end of the capital to the other, but at night, they fade into invisibility. Whether parked near Azadi Bus Terminal, under a bridge in Ariashahr, or in the quiet streets of Saadatabad, these drivers are simply trying to make it through another night.
Their resilience is a testament to the human spirit, but their plight reveals the failures of a system that leaves them with no other choice. Tehran’s streets have become their home, and the human cost is growing, one sleepless night at a time.
After two decades of alienating the majority of Iranians—leading over 61% of eligible voters to abstain from the June 2024 presidential election—some within the system now appear to be considering a revival of pre-2005 traditional conservatism.
A report from the centrist website Entekhab noted on Wednesday that the current structure of Iran’s conservative camp appears disjointed, especially after their defeat in the July presidential election, which saw the election of non-factional candidate Masoud Pezeshkian with the backing of “reformist” groups.
Since the disputed 2009 election, which secured ultraconservative Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s second term, conservatives have attempted to present a unified front ahead of every parliamentary and presidential election. However, these attempts repeatedly fractured, and if not for interventions from Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei and the Guardian Council, the reformist camp might have reclaimed power.
This infighting has steadily diminished the conservative camp, particularly over the past 11 years since pragmatist Hassan Rouhani’s presidency. What remains is a core group of 100 to 160 ultraconservative politicians, primarily linked to the Paydari Party, who advocate for a non-democratic Islamic government rather than the Islamic Republic's semi-democratic structure.
Their ranks have now dwindled to fewer than 80 parliament members and a handful of others in appointed roles, such as those in the Expediency Council.
According to Entekhab, “moderate” conservatives now hold the upper hand in Iranian politics, with Majles Speaker Mohammad Bagher Ghalibaf leading efforts to restore the conservative camp to its pre-2005 stance. The report noted that Ghalibaf has actively worked to limit the influence of Paydari members within the Majles.
This narrative, however, is questionable. To secure his role as Speaker, Ghalibaf maneuvered between Paydari members, other conservatives, and a few pro-reform MPs, ultimately winning the position with votes from the latter. By spring 2024, Paydari had dwindled to just over 60 members, marking one of its lowest points in popularity and membership.
President Pezeshkian disclosed on the day of the Majles vote for his cabinet in August that it was, in fact, Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei—not Ghalibaf—who ensured that all ministers received the necessary vote of confidence from parliament.
Over the past 20 years, especially during Ahmadinejad's presidency, hardliners succeeded in sidelining many moderate conservatives, including former Majles Speaker Ali Akbar Nateq Nouri. In recent years, they have also marginalized other influential conservatives, such as the Larijani brothers—former Chief Justice Sadeq Amoli Larijani and former Majles Speaker Ali Larijani—as well as former President Hassan Rouhani and nearly all of his "pragmatist" allies.
Now, as the country's economy is in its weakest point, the public, as well as politicians in Iran are beginning to remember what Ahmadinejad and the Raisi administration have done to a better economy that existed in Iran until 2005.
Ahmadinejad’s presidency brought sanctions, international isolation, and squandered a massive windfall from soaring oil prices, leaving the treasury depleted by 2013. According to President Pezeshkian’s reserved remarks, the Raisi administration also left virtually nothing for the new government. On his first day in office, Pezeshkian had to borrow from the Khamenei-controlled foreign currency reserve to settle government debts to farmers.
While the shift toward a more moderate conservatism is being spearheaded by Parliament Speaker Ghalibaf, Pezeshkian has shown signs of aligning with hardliners to secure his position.
Over the past week, banners and messages have appeared on highways and over bridges across Tehran urging people to donate to war-affected Lebanese. Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps established Hezbollah in 1982 and has heavily armed and funded the group in the decades after.
The fundraising campaign comes as Iran’s own economy is under pressure, with inflation and the rising cost of living taking a toll on livelihoods.
While the level of Iranian assistance to Hezbollah has fluctuated over the years, US officials estimated in 2018 that Iran transfers around $700 million annually to Hezbollah.
A banner in Tehran asked citizens to send an SMS to express readiness to donate to Lebanese while similar campaigns on state TV and through text messages from the paramilitary Basij group encourage people to donate cash, gold, or even to financially sponsor a Lebanese family.
The efforts have drawn criticism from ordinary Iranians, who feel that the government is prioritizing foreign interests over domestic needs.
“It was revealed that the Islamic Republic was sending funds of 50 million dollars per month to support this group," Ali Shirazi, an Iranian journalist, told Iran International TV.
"But this is not the only expense. Military, weaponry, drones, and missile assistance are also provided, and the reconstruction of damaged buildings falls on Iran’s budget,” he added.
Iran's financial and military support for Hezbollah has come under more scrutiny following Israeli strikes on Hezbollah-linked financial institutions, including the Al-Qard al-Hasan bank in Beirut which may have disrupted Hezbollah's access to funds.
"Bunch of freeloaders"
Discontent with the donations campaign is evident among Iranians, many of whom expressed their frustration to Iran International via messaging apps which protect their anonymity.
“The rise in currency exchange rates, the dollar, and the increasing prices of gold have had a very negative impact, destroying the weaker and lower-income classes,” a Tehran resident said.
“People are now finding their food in garbage bins. More than two million students couldn’t attend school this year,” he added.
Others called for redirecting funds towards addressing domestic issues rather than supporting foreign militant groups.
“If we want to help, we prefer to support our fellow compatriots, especially those in need in provinces like Sistan and Baluchestan, rather than sending money to Hamas and Hezbollah,” said a businessman from the northern city of Rasht.
The government’s push for donations was described as out of touch with the reality faced by most Iranians. “For 45 years, we haven’t heard any good news from the media. If the money spent on Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine were spent in Iran, everything would flourish,” commented another citizen.
As inflation continues to rise, with the US dollar trading at 690,000 rials and predictions of further price increases by the end of the year, Iranians are strained.
“I don’t know how long we have to pay the price for Hassan Nasrallah, Ismail Haniyeh and a bunch of freeloaders," a retired citizen said referring to slain Hezbollah and Hamas leaders, "but the impact it’s had has paralyzed everyone’s lives".