Tehran’s streets are revolving around suitcases that are dragged across pavements, a single mother balancing her young son with one hand, and a woman entering a subway station to spend yet another night underground. Young Iranians are turning to the internet and WhatsApp for their only safe haven as a result of Israel’s attacks, leaving them without shelters, alerts, or public evacuation plans.
Momo, a 24-year-old IT engineering student in Tehran, says, “We don’t know where to go.”
“We never know whether the Ministry of Intelligence or the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps are located in the building next door. I’m not sure if my upstairs neighbor is a regular person or a government official. He made reference to Israel’s alleged attacks on residential buildings, which are allegedly targeted at people connected to Iran’s military or its nuclear program, and said the facility nearby might be a part of a secret military operation.
Momo has chosen to remain in Tehran out of principle, not just for his two-year-old rescue cat. What would I actually do? Here is where I live. I’ve lived here all my life. We will not resist Israeli aggression or repressive regimes. Many of us are still here. Although we’re not sure how long this will last, I’d rather my house be my grave than a place of displacement.
The internet provides no shelter.
Generation Z from Iran, who was born between the mid-1990s and the mid-2010s, are establishing new safe havens in the digital world with conventional safe havens out of reach and communication networks under heavy surveillance or complete blockade. Forums have turned into lifelines, providing impromptu shelters, therapy rooms, and organizing hubs.
Momo has used Discord for seven years. Momo claims that it is Momo’s only place where I can breathe. When playing games with friends, I only voice chatted on Discord. It now feels like home. More frequently than not, we communicate with our families there. We watched movies and TV shows together in the middle of the bombings. We doze off online occasionally.
In the midst of sanctions, political unrest, and censorship, this generation of Iranians grew up. Many were also key players in the anti-government demonstrations against 2022 that began after Mahsa Amini was detained for wearing an “improper hijab,” a movement that is renowned worldwide for the slogan “Woman, Life, Freedom.” Online resources were a crucial part in those days, and they are still very useful today.
Nearly 14 million Iranians, or roughly 15% of the population, are Gen Z gamers and frequent Discord users, according to Iranian daily Shargh. They use VPNs and encrypted apps to stay connected digitally despite the official restrictions.
We were in the middle of a game when the attacks started, Samin, a 23-year-old from northern Iran, claims. “It was surreal, not knowing whether the explosions were occurring in the game or in real life.” This bitter irony was created by these video games, which included numerous gunshots and bombs, whether I was playing Call of Duty or not. Unfortunately, the sounds were actually bombings rather than the sounds of the video game.
In Iran in April 2024, there was no peaceful discussion, with some people believing the government had stopped it because of its use as a platform for protests, despite Iran’s judiciary’s official citing concerns over inappropriate content. Gen Z still can’t escape being re-connected to the app despite the ban.
“Sometimes, we go to great lengths to locate a reliable VPN, log into Discord, and sign up for our channels. We call someone if they don’t log in. Our hearts race because we worry that they might have been killed in a bombing, Samin says. More than ever, we’re constantly checking in on one another online. We’ve all experienced grieving, including losing loved ones, birthdays, and the sound of overhead missiles. In that space, we discuss our worries and daily struggles. Although it’s a painful environment, there is also hope, compassion, and love.
Pregnancy, anxiety, and perseverance
In Tehran, a WhatsApp group that was started as a prenatal yoga class has grown into an unanticipated hub of resilience. Pregnant women who were unable to flee the capital now exchange voicemails, emergency advice, and breathing techniques.
For months, Ameneh and her friend Zohreh, both PhD holders and recipients of US green cards, had been awaiting their parents’ visa approval from the US. Both women were expecting children, but they had different decisions: Zohreh went to Iran to have her family support her labor, and Ameneh chose to remain in San Francisco to give birth alone in the US.
Both women are devastated but still connected via a group chat on the encrypted messaging app “Yoga for Pregnancy” four days after Israel bombarded Iran.
We practice yoga together online and offer each other self-care and breathing tips to prevent panic attacks. When things turn quiet again, Zohreh, who is eight months pregnant in Tehran, lights candles and sends voice notes.
“I was awakened by the explosion’s sound. To stop my contractions, a friend advised me to concentrate on breathing and heart rate. They also advised me to practice yoga once more after my baby stopped moving for hours.
Tehran grew out of fear as a result of US President Donald Trump’s threat that Tehran be “evacuated.” Due to their physical condition and limited access to medical care, Zohreh and many other pregnant women found themselves unable to leave the city. She claims that although we had intended to leave Tehran, I made the decision to stay so I could access a hospital after seeing the traffic and the possibility of giving birth early.
Iranians’ defiance lives in quiet, steadfast, and deeply human spaces as the bombs fall and uncertainty grows. They continue to find each other and refuse to face the darkness alone despite the regime’s warnings and the sky’s regime.
Names have been changed to better represent the people involved because of the sensitive nature of this story.
Source: Aljazeera
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