By Pooyan Tabatabaei, reporting from Tehran | I’m behind the wheel, coasting through Tehran’s streets as night settles over the city. I roll the window down and let the cool wind run across my face and through my hair. It’s the first time in nearly two weeks that I’ve felt something close to calm. The kind of calm that doesn’t come from silence alone, but from a flicker of something returning—life.
Shops are slowly reopening. The streets, though far from busy, are no longer deserted. A tentative energy is returning to the city. Internet access is returning, one network at a time, reconnecting voices that had gone silent. And though everything still feels fragile, there’s a sense that life is moving forward again—cautiously, but insistently.
The last twelve days were a blur of fear, disbelief, and tension. I stayed here, in Tehran, through it all. I saw and heard every moment, not from a screen or a news update, but from my own balcony, my street, the grocery store I walked to each morning. There’s a heaviness that comes from living through war, but there’s also a strange clarity. When the ceasefire was finally announced three days ago—on the twelfth day of the war—it didn’t feel like a celebration. It felt like an exhale we had all been holding too long.
In the final hours before the truce took effect, Israeli airstrikes intensified. I saw and heard them from where I stood—loud, abrupt, and unmistakably close. They hit key points across Tehran and beyond, including military and nuclear sites. In response, Iran launched missiles toward Israel, striking areas around Be’er Sheva. Tragically, some of those strikes claimed civilian lives, raising a fresh wave of anger and sorrow. Those final attacks nearly unravelled the ceasefire entirely.
What surprised many, myself included, was how publicly and directly U.S. President Donald Trump responded. In a now widely circulated tweet, he warned Israel, “Do not drop your bombs. If you do, it will be a major breach. Bring your pilots home immediately!” Just hours after speaking with Prime Minister Netanyahu, the Israeli government agreed to halt its offensive, clearing the path for the ceasefire to begin.
Still, five days after the bombing of Iran’s three most sensitive nuclear facilities, no one can agree on how much damage was truly done. Israeli and American jets used some of the most advanced bunker-buster bombs and Tomahawk missiles in the operation, hitting Natanz, Fordow, and Isfahan’s nuclear research center. U.S. officials quickly claimed that the strikes had set Iran’s nuclear program back by several years.
But a classified report from the Defence Intelligence Agency tells a different story. Marked with “low confidence,” the assessment suggests that many of Iran’s underground facilities and enriched uranium stockpiles remain untouched. According to that report, the damage may have delayed Iran’s program by mere months, not years. Meanwhile, President Trump doubled down at a NATO summit, insisting that Iran’s nuclear capacity had been “destroyed for decades to come”—a claim that clearly contradicts his own intelligence agencies.
Even the International Atomic Energy Agency (), normally cautious in its language, confirmed that some centrifuges had been disabled. However, the agency stopped short of providing a comprehensive picture. Independent experts from the Institute for Science and International Security believe that while some damage is real, most of the country’s most protected systems remain active. The truth, as always in war, lies somewhere between headlines and silence.
At the global level, the United Nations Security Council acted swiftly during the height of the crisis. In a rare show of unity, it passed a resolution calling for an immediate and unconditional ceasefire. The resolution urged all sides to return to diplomacy quickly and without preconditions.
Support for the resolution was near unanimous. The U.S., the EU, China, Russia, and key regional powers such as Turkey and Saudi Arabia all backed it. Even humanitarian organizations, such as the Red Cross, voiced their readiness to assist on the ground. Still, the resolution—no matter how historic—can only go so far.
There’s a growing concern, and rightly so, about whether the ceasefire will last. Deep mistrust still defines relations on all sides. Armed groups that don’t answer to governments continue to operate in the shadows. And the broader geopolitical chessboard remains crowded with conflicting agendas. What happens next will depend less on signatures and more on sustained cooperation. Without credible monitoring and enforcement, peace becomes a performance rather than a process. That’s the fear many hold close, even as they hope for better.
In Iran, President Mohammad Pezeshkian and Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi have emerged as central figures in navigating this crisis. Pezeshkian, a veteran of Iranian domestic politics, has had to balance competing pressures from within. Hardliners questioned the value of any ceasefire, while the public, weary of conflict, demanded action and accountability. Somehow, Pezeshkian held the line.
Abbas Araghchi, meanwhile, approached the chaos with a calm and clarity that many observers noted. His body language—relaxed, confident, always with a steady smile—conveyed control in every room he entered. Despite ongoing threats and unsafe airspace, he travelled nonstop, meeting with world leaders and foreign ministers to advocate for Iran’s position and keep diplomatic channels open.
Together, they charted a path that combined internal stabilization with external diplomacy. They opened a quiet dialogue with civic groups at home and reached out to international institutions to reduce tensions abroad. Their message was measured, deliberate, and, above all, focused on reducing harm.
But even as governments negotiated and officials made statements, communities far from the front lines were bracing. Iranian and Israeli diasporas around the world have watched every moment of this conflict unfold, many with family still in harm’s way. Their anxiety hasn’t faded with the ceasefire. Instead, it has sharpened into activism, into grief, into long, uncertain phone calls.
In cities across Europe and North America, these communities have gathered in vigils, forums, and marches. They’ve demanded accountability. They’ve called for humanitarian support. They’ve warned the world not to look away too soon. Now, as the ceasefire enters its third day, it’s clear thatthis is not the end. It might not even be the beginning of the end. But it is a pause. A breath. A rare moment where, if we’re careful, something better might emerge. The world is watching. Many of us are hoping. That maybe—just maybe—diplomacy can take root where destruction once ruled. That peace, though late and fragile, might still find a way in.
