The Friday Prayer Imam of Kazeroun in southern Iran was shot dead on Friday, Iran’s official IRNA News reported, in the latest murder to unseat the provincial town's top cleric since the dawn of the Islamic Republic.
Mohammad Sabahi's mysterious death makes him the third Friday Imam of the relatively small town of around 100,000 people to have been killed since the 1979 Islamic revolution.
“Despite the efforts of the doctors and medical staff at Namazi Hospital in Shiraz, the Friday Imam has passed away due to the severity of his injuries,” Kazeroun’s governor, Mohammad Ali Bekhrad, told IRNA on Friday evening.
While refraining from using the word “martyred” - typically deployed when a person's death has a political or religious background - IRNA added that Sabahi was shot by an assailant after Friday prayers.
Imams are appointed to lead Friday prayers by official religious authorities ultimately led by Iran's supreme leader Ali Khamenei.
Conflicting reports initially emerged, with Iranian media first announcing Sabahi’s death and later describing his condition as critical following an armed attack in which the assailant committed suicide.
Bekhrad earlier denied the attack was an act of terrorism, instead suggesting that a personal conflict may have been behind the shooting.
While also refraining from using the word “martyred”, the governor told IRNA investigations into the details of the incident are ongoing.
Three slain imams
Shortly after news of the shooting broke, a popular Telegram channel claimed the assailant was a war veteran. Mehdi Mazarei, head of Kazeroun’s Martyrs Foundation, contradicted the report and warned that anyone spreading false information would face prosecution.
Mizan News, affiliated with Iran’s judiciary, also reported that initial claims identifying the assailant as a war veteran were false, saying, “this individual is not a veteran but has a criminal record.”
According to Mizan, the assailant attempted to harm a judge 20 years ago using explosives, resulting in self-inflicted injuries, and later served six years in prison for a bombing in Gachsaran in southwestern Iran as well as for weapon theft and bribery.
Sabahi previously served as the Friday Imam of Kharameh in Fars province for a decade before resuming his role in Kazeroun in November 2019.
In a similar case on May 29, 2019, Mohammad Khorsand, another Friday Imam of Kazeroun, was fatally stabbed while returning from a Ramadan prayer.
Security forces quickly apprehended a suspect named Hamid Reza Derakhshandeh, who was sentenced to death by Iran’s judiciary, with his execution confirmed and carried out by the Supreme Court within two months.
On July 31, 1981, Abdolrahim Daneshjou, then the Friday Imam of Kazeroun, was shot dead near his home after evening prayers. State sources linked this attack to members of the People's Mujahedin of Iran also known as MEK, which is now an exiled opposition group in Albania.
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.