How Iranians coped in the lead-up to war

On a snowy winter evening, almost two weeks into a nationwide internet shutdown that had cut millions of Iranians off from one another, I made my way through heavy traffic in Tehran, feeling worn down and quietly dispirited, to attend a dinner gathering organised through an app called Hamneshin, Persian for “companion”.

During the unrest, which erupted in late December 2025 and was subsequently suppressed, access to the platform was patchy, and events were often cancelled or delayed, making any plan feel uncertain.

When limited connectivity returned, the app resumed its activities. Its social media pages, which had been steadily gaining followers before a violent January crackdown, began listing new events again.

As tensions simmered at home and more than a year after Iran endured a brutal 12-day war with Israel, the United States has for weeks threatened air strikes over Tehran’s nuclear programme. In the past two months, Iranians have braced for a possible attack, sealing windows and stockpiling food and water.

Living under constant anxiety and uncertainty on multiple fronts, social gatherings have come to represent far more than casual outings.

To an outside observer, Hamneshin resembles western-style meetups or supper clubs. Participants register through the app, indicate general interests, are grouped roughly by age and pay a fee before attending events. Most gatherings take place in cafes or restaurants and sometimes extend to activities such as game nights, bowling or hiking.

Yet, in today’s Iran, these meetings carry significance beyond leisure. They reflect a broader search for connection in a society where social isolation has been deepening.

Loneliness is not merely an individual condition; it increasingly has structural roots. Economic strain, migration, rising divorce rates, delayed marriage and shrinking spaces for informal mixed-gender interaction have reshaped daily life.

Traditional social anchors - extended family networks, university friendships, workplace communities - have weakened. Periodic unrest, security crackdowns, internet disruptions and the shadow of regional conflict have added layers of instability. Official rhetoric emphasises continuity and normalcy, but uncertainty remains part of the social atmosphere.

Small circles

I first came across the social platform by chance and I registered out of curiosity.

Before that cold mid-January evening, I had attended several gatherings, including two dinners and a breakfast downtown. The first felt awkward, drifting into candid discussions about failed relationships and divorces. Horrible. The second was more relaxed. The breakfast, by contrast, felt intimate and warm.

Among the participants was Javad, a self-described entrepreneur, confident, athletic and outwardly composed. Yet as conversation unfolded, it became clear that he, too, was seeking companionship. Professional success had not shielded him from isolation.

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Roya, a language teacher and translator, spoke openly about struggling with depression. Music, she said, had been her refuge. During the gathering, she stepped outside frequently to smoke, returning quieter each time. Most attendees were educated and professionally established. They were not seeking spectacle. They were seeking conversation.

Yet the dinner after the shutdown revealed something more subtle.

The cafe’s polished setting, in an upscale part of the capital, stood in stark contrast to the everyday economic reality of Tehran, where prices on shop shelves can change from one day to the next.

At one table, a mother and daughter lingered for hours, dressed in carefully styled outfits. Across the room, a young couple finished their meal quickly. When they left, they stepped into a luxury car waiting outside. Such socioeconomic disparities have become increasingly part of the urban landscape. 

At our table sat Vahid, in his mid-40s, with an easy manner. He described leaving a stable position in the energy sector to work independently in financial consulting and cryptocurrency trading.

Across from him was Aida, also in her 40s, attending for the first time. Divorced and raising a teenage daughter, she described friendships that had thinned over time.

“People disappear into work or leave the country,” she said. “You realise your circle has become very small.”

Forming bonds

Midway through dinner, Vahid briefly referred to the recent violence that had shaken the country. Suddenly, the table fell quiet, not in disagreement, but in visible fatigue. Eyes shifted. The subject quickly changed.

The silence did not reflect indifference. It reflected exhaustion. The gathering had not been intended as a political discussion. For a few hours, participants seemed intent on creating distance from events outside the cafe walls.

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In these gatherings, what stands out is not drama but ordinariness. Participants are engineers, managers, office employees and small business owners - many with modest or inactive social media profiles. Their daily routines revolve around work, responsibility, and, increasingly, solitude.

One 43-year-old attendee, employed in a private company with a predominantly male workforce, said he joined simply to meet new people.

“It sounds simple”, he said afterwards, “but you leave feeling lighter. You remember that you can still connect”.

Moments of affirmation, however small, carried noticeable weight.

At another table, where a separate group from the same platform was gathered, a birthday cake was brought out for one of the participants. The gesture was brief, but she appeared genuinely moved.

Not every event results in lasting relationships. WhatsApp groups formed after gatherings often become inactive. Some participants describe mismatched groups or evenings that feel forced.

“Sometimes it’s just one night,” one attendee said. “You talk, and then everyone returns to their own life.”

And yet, occasionally, stronger bonds do form.

At a bowling night, I met several participants who had first encountered one another at earlier events and gradually developed close friendships. During the internet blackout, some maintained contact offline. One later said those friendships had helped stabilise her mood during a period of heightened uncertainty.

A less visible Iran

Hamneshin is only one example of a broader pattern. Across social media platforms, smaller initiatives have appeared, such as pottery workshops, discussion circles and informal hobby groups. They vary in scale and organisation, but reflect similar needs: structured environments where strangers can interact with a sense of relative safety.

These spaces do not represent all of Iranian society. Participation often requires disposable income. For some, this type of event is simply beyond their means.

'It sounds simple but you leave feeling lighter. You remember that you can still connect'

- Event attendee

Nor do such gatherings address the structural pressures shaping social life. They do not resolve economic hardship, political uncertainty or demographic shifts. At most, they offer temporary reprieve.

Iran is often portrayed abroad through political and security headlines. Less visible are the everyday changes beneath them: friendships that fade, social circles that shrink and a growing hesitation around public interaction.

Within that context, even modest social initiatives acquire symbolic weight. For some, these meetings represent the possibility of romance. For others, they provide simple conversation. For many, they offer an opportunity to step outside routine and engage, however briefly, with unfamiliar faces.

As the snow eased that evening and I stepped back into the cold street, I noticed a subtle shift in my own mood. The broader conditions remained unchanged. But for a few hours, conversation had interrupted isolation.

In a period marked by instability, such interruptions, however temporary, appear to matter.