My Tehran: Beyond the Headlines

This piece featured in the Kindness of Strangers anthology, published by Bradt Guides.

“Why are you going to Iran?” “The Foreign Office says it isn’t safe.” “What if you get kidnapped?” All questions I was asked by family and friends before my trip. The magnetic pull to visit fought against the constant Western media warnings of hostility and danger.

The visa process didn’t ease my concerns. A bureaucratic hurdle, full of suspicion, I felt unwelcome before I even left. The lack of direct flights meant an inconvenient Istanbul layover, reinforcing the idea of a country isolated from the outside world.

I arrive at Imam Khomeini airport at 4am. The terminal is eerily quiet, fuelling my anxiety. At passport control, a stern unsmiling officer scrutinises my passport with forensic detail. My palms sweat as time stands still. With a final, heavy thud of a stamp, I am allowed into Iran - less an approval and more a warning.

I wake in my Tehran hotel after little sleep. Outside my window, the world is loud, alien, and a constant chaos of car horns. I meet my guide, Shima, at the lobby. She’s wearing a black Adidas hoodie, modified with a hijab hood to comply with the strict laws of conservative Islam.

Walking the streets of the city on a cool, grey Sunday, I feel hyper-vigilant, as if everyone is watching me. Older men shout to Shima. I ask her what they are saying. “They are questioning why I am with a Westerner,” she replies, as we quicken our pace. The large boulevards are dominated by giant billboards; in a Farsi script I cannot decipher. Iranian flags adorn every streetlamp and posters of the Ayatollahs follow me.

As it is lunchtime, Shima leads me to the southern entrance of the Grand Bazaar. “This is the real Tehran,” she tells me. I feel a wave of nerves as I step into a wall of noise and heat. Not just random shouting, but the cries of vendors, customers haggling and the rattle of donkey-driven carts. I’m hit with unfamiliar aromas: the citrusy tang of sumac, earthy cumin and sweet rosewater. I stick closely to Shima as we traverse the small back lanes and alleyways. Leaving comes as a relief.

The Maghrib call to prayer, marking the sunset, echoes from the city’s minarets. Shima takes me to the Azadi Tower, one of the key landmarks of the city, with its marble arches glowing faintly, decorated in a lattice design. Despite its beauty, the monument is dark, menacing and swarming with people. Families strolling, groups of young men lingering, children darting between them. “Are we safe here?” I ask Shima, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Follow me,” she reassures me, “I know where we can go.”

We duck into a tiny, well-lit shawarma shop. Shima takes a seat, leaving me on my own. The menu is all in Farsi. I am hungry, tired, and now I feel defeated. The owner can see my confusion. He doesn’t look irritated; instead, he smiles at me and gestures to an item on the menu. “Chicken? Good, very good,” he says. He takes charge, preparing a fresh chicken wrap with crisp lettuce, fresh tomatoes, sharp onions and that citrusy sumac. I pull out a 50,000-rial note, unsure of the cost. He holds up a hand, insisting. “No no.” He refuses my note again. He then says a line that changes everything: “Thank you for visiting Iran.” With this, a smartly dressed man in the queue taps me on the shoulder. He offers his hand, shakes mine firmly, and says one word: “Welcome.” Both gestures feel more powerful than all the media warnings combined.

After a delicious dinner, Shima guides me back to the Azadi Tower. Now, everything feels different. The tower is lit up in a rainbow of colour. The same crowds are there, but I see them differently: families enjoying the cold night air, friends laughing. A group of teenagers hear me speaking English to Shima and approach. Their reaction isn’t suspicious, but openly excited. “Hello! Where from?” “You like Tehran?” They treat me like a celebrity, jostling with beaming smiles to take selfies with me. One lad gives me a bottle of Istak, the local malt drink. “For you!” I am overflowing with happiness and relief, realising the stares I sensed weren’t aggression, just curiosity.  

We walk back to my hotel. The streets are still the same, with car horns providing the soundtrack. The Farsi billboards are still unreadable; the Iranian flags still fly. But I realise a country isn’t just its government, its media or its architecture. It’s the people: the owner of the shawarma shop, the man in the queue and the teenagers at the tower. The kindness of strangers eased my apprehensions; replacing them with encounters I’ll never forget.

Powered by Synscribe