The “Ramadan War”, as the US-Israel war on Iran is popularly known, disrupted daily life in Iran. Universities, schools and industries were bombed, and streets were emptied out.

Mehran, a 47-year-old teacher based in central Tehran, has been forced to teach his students online from a cramped corner of his modest apartment as distance learning has become the norm.

“Life hasn’t stopped here, as some might imagine, but it has taken on a completely different rhythm,” Mehran told Al Jazeera, which shadowed the teacher, who wished to be identified by a single name, as he navigated a new reality dictated by the war.

From the frustrations of a virtual classroom to pharmacies with bare shelves, and from hyperinflation to crowded, fare-free public buses, Mehran’s day offers a microcosm of a city desperately trying to maintain normalcy as war leaves its indelible mark.

The digital bottleneck

Mehran’s day begins with a gruelling battle for bandwidth. Following the curbs on the internet during the early days of the war, the education system shifted to the domestic “Shad” e-learning platform.

“The national internet is available, but it has become frustratingly weak due to the massive surge in users,” the teacher explained with an exhausted smile. “Sometimes my voice breaks up, and suddenly dozens of students just vanish from the platform.”

Inside his small apartment in the Amirabad neighbourhood, the day is a cacophony of overlapping lives. In the living room, his 14-year-old daughter, Mehraneh, squints at an old tablet for her own lessons. In the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen, his eight-year-old son, Sam, clings to his mother’s smartphone, hovering near the window to catch the strongest signal.

Meanwhile, Mehran’s 41-year-old wife, Azadeh, manages the finances for a private company from another room – a job that transitioned entirely to remote work until last month.

“The weak internet can barely sustain one stable connection, let alone three or four at the same time,” Mehran said. “Add to that the cramped space and total lack of privacy, and the daily toll just multiplies”.

The cost of survival

When the virtual school bell rings, Mehran heads to a nearby pharmacy to buy heart medication for his mother. At first glance, the shelves look neat and well-stocked, but a closer look reveals that dozens of essential medicines have been unavailable for over a month.

According to Mehri, a young pharmacy worker, prices for both domestic and imported drugs have skyrocketed.

After paying for a month’s supply, Mehran quietly slips the boxes into his bag.

“Medicines now eat up a quarter of my salary; they used to be just seven percent,” he noted. Still, he considers himself lucky. Other families face severe shortages of life-saving drugs due to the United States naval blockade of Iranian ports and suspended flights that have crippled supply chains.

The economic strain is even more glaring at the Jomhouri electronics market. Mehran travelled there to buy a new television ahead of football’s World Cup, which is going to be held in Mexico, the US and Canada, as his old set was damaged by explosions near his home during the final week of the war.

Football is the most popular sport in Iran. Its national team has been based in Mexico amid the conflict with the US.

Mehran has opted for the metro over a taxi amid soaring inflation. Public transport has been free since the war began, a government measure to ease traffic and conserve petrol.

Inside an electronics shop, a vendor observed: “The war made transportation free, but it made everything else unaffordable, especially food.” The vendor noted that TV prices in his shop alone had surged by 40 to 60 million rials ($29 to $44) – roughly matching the dramatic plunge of the local currency, the rial, against the US dollar.

At a nearby shop selling TV stands, 59-year-old owner Ali Morad said prices have doubled since last winter, despite the goods being entirely locally manufactured. He blamed soaring wages, rent, and raw material costs, which have driven customers away as their purchasing power has evaporated.

An illusion of normalcy

Exhausted by the market, Mehran takes a break at the nearby Osta public park. The scene is jarringly serene: children bouncing around colourful playgrounds, families picnicking under ancient trees, and young men vigorously using outdoor gym equipment.

In a quiet corner, an elderly woman sits entirely absorbed in a paperback book, insulated from the chaos.

“For a second, looking at this, you forget we are living under a blockade,” Mehran reflected. “You see Tehran wresting its right to live from the jaws of breaking news and a relentless war.”

But 22-year-old Mona sees a different reality. The calm, she argued, is just the “face of a city learning to dance on the edge of crisis”.

Speaking to Al Jazeera, Mona explained that the people in the park are not there for leisurely strolls; they are seeking a free space to breathe. Their household budgets have been decimated by doubled food costs and internet bills.

To Mona, the parkgoers are hiding profound exhaustion behind a facade of tranquility. “It’s as if they collectively decided to grant themselves an hour-long ceasefire from the idea of war before they have to go back home,” she added.

Searching for rhythm in the dark

As night falls over Tehran, Mehran does not head home. Instead, he makes his way to Enghelab (Revolution) Square near Tehran University. Here, hundreds of men and women gather nightly to chant nationalistic slogans and sing in support of the state and its armed forces.

“These gatherings make us feel like we are all in the same trench,” he said. “We might not have stealth bombers or aircraft carriers, but we have our voices and our physical presence. The war may have stolen our comfort, but it gave us back our social solidarity.”

What started as a political statement has evolved into a psychological anchor.

“Up until the 10th night, I came here out of duty,” Mehran confessed, picking up a pebble and rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers. “By the 30th night, I came looking for familiar faces. By the 100th night, I realised this isn’t just politics anymore. It’s the daily fabric that gives us a steady rhythm in a time when every other rhythm has collapsed.”

He noted that professors, labourers, engineers, and homemakers flock to the square to find warmth in the community during the cold nights.

“We ask ourselves: what if these gatherings just stopped? Where would we put our energy, our anger, and our hope?” Mehran wondered. “Would the silence be heavier than the sounds of the bombing?”