Salar Bil captures Tehran through a bold and compassionate lens, revealing a city of jarring contradictions. Salar Bil’s photography and fashion art showcase these contrasts – the old and new, repression and rebellion – coexisting on Tehran’s streets. An alter-ego of designer Salar Bilehsavarchian, he has been hailed as the godfather of conceptual fashion in Tehran, blending layered street style with avant-garde twists and touches of traditional Iranian dress . Each shot he composes is a visual narrative of Tehran’s soul: proud, bruised, creative, and defiant all at once. Facing an oppressive environment, Salar Bil remains determined to “make his creative statement any way he can” , turning his art into an act of resistance.
This young Iranian artist-designer stands for liberty icon in edge magazine and authenticity in a society that often demands conformity. Salar Bil infuses his work with social and philosophical commentary, daring to challenge authority. He released a collection that was, an anti-regime manifesto inspired by ancient poetry and theater . Drawing on Iran’s rich cultural heritage, he wove symbolism from myth and literature into a modern critique of tyranny. “My position is clear – I am everyday people until death,” Bil declared, aligning his art with the struggles of ordinary Iranians and against what he lambasts as superficial imitations of the West . Through surreal photographs and fashion performances, he condemns what he calls “pseudo-artists” and underlines the importance of art and media, of feminism and gender equality in Iran’s ongoing cultural awakening . In Salar Bil’s vision, Tehran is not just a city under pressure; it is a wellspring of creativity and authentic identity fighting to bloom.
Salar Bil’s own life is emblematic of Tehran’s struggle between individual identity and imposed norms. As an openly queer, nonbinary Iranian, he has faced bullying and threats in a society where deviation from strict gender roles is perilous . State media once branded him a “pervert” for his appearance and ideas, and officials warned he could be imprisoned simply for who he is . Yet, despite the danger, Bil refuses to be silenced or to flee. “At the end of the day, I must stand tall and keep going,” he says, defending his right to exist authentically in his homeland . In Tehran’s underground art circles, his perseverance offers inspiration – a reminder that even under “sexual apartheid” and patriarchy, as he describes it, one can claim a space of freedom . The city’s walls may force separation and conformity, but through his camera and his designs, Salar Bil brings forth an alternative Tehran: one where self-expression triumphs over fear.
Tehran in the summer of 2025 stands at a crossroads of political change and familiar repression. A year earlier, an unexpected event shocked the nation’s power structure – President Ebrahim Raisi was killed in a helicopter crash in May 2024 . This tragedy forced Iran’s entrenched establishment to hold an early presidential election. In an outcome few predicted, a reformist politician, Masoud Pezeshkian, won the presidency, narrowly defeating a hard-line rival . His victory, following years of conservative rule, sparked cautious optimism in Tehran’s cafes and bazaars. Could this be a turning point? Pezeshkian, a former physician and parliament deputy, promised a softer approach and hinted at addressing people’s grievances. Indeed, one of his first acts by late 2024 was to pause the implementation of a draconian new hijab law, a law that had drawn widespread ire . For a moment, hope flickered that Iran’s leadership might ease its iron grip, at least in cultural and social spheres.
That draconian hijab law showed the regime’s instinct to tighten control in response to dissent. Officially called the “Protection of the Family through Promoting the Culture of Hijab and Chastity” bill, it was passed by hardliners in September 2024 and imposed harsh new punishments on women for not wearing the headscarf – from heavy fines to travel bans and even prison terms up to 10 years. Instead of addressing demands for freedom, the state doubled down on coercion. As Human Rights Watch noted, the law would only fuel stronger resistance among women. Pezeshkian’s suspension of its enforcement in December 2024 reflected both public backlash and recognition within the establishment that pushing Iranian women too far carried serious risks.
In Tehran, women keep pushing back in daily life. Despite risks, it’s now common to see them walking unveiled in public—a sight unimaginable a few years ago. A photo from September 2024 showed a young woman without a headscarf under a massive Iranian flag, symbolizing the quiet boldness spreading among women. Even as harsher penalties loom, many simply refuse, echoing “Zan, Zendegi, Azadi” through their actions. The state’s response—more cameras, morality patrols, and shop closures—has only fueled defiance. Each discarded hijab becomes a small act of liberation, especially for younger women less willing than their mothers to submit, setting the stage for a prolonged struggle on Tehran’s streets.
Iran’s power structure shows little sign of loosening. Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei and unelected bodies like the IRGC, intelligence services, and judiciary still dominate, repressing dissent even after Pezeshkian’s election. Women’s rights activists, students, journalists, clerics, and families of slain protesters face harassment and arrests, proving one moderate president does not mean reform. Political prisoners languish in Evin, while executions surge—over 400 in the first half of 2024 alone, some protesters convicted in sham trials. Iran remains one of the world’s top executioners, using the noose as a tool of intimidation across Tehran’s uneasy landscape.
Geopolitical storms have intensified Tehran’s internal tensions. In late 2024, a sudden 12-day conflict with Israel jolted the region, with sirens and anti-air fire shaking residents and making the threat of direct war feel real for the first time in years. Though a ceasefire held by June 2025, Israeli and U.S. threats of further strikes persisted, while Tehran responded with air defense drills and propaganda billboards. For many, it echoed the anxiety of the 1980s Iran-Iraq war. The conflict’s aftermath lingers: internet is slow and restricted, foreign apps remain blocked, and even GPS has been disrupted, leaving taxi drivers and commuters in disarray. Tehran now endures a semi-siege mentality, its very infrastructure scarred by paranoia.
If threats of war cast one shadow over Tehran, sanctions cast another. Years of U.S.-led and expanded sanctions have deeply wounded Iran’s economy. By September 2025, the rial hit a record low—over 1,000,000 to the dollar—driving inflation above 35% and sending prices of essentials soaring. Salaries have shrunk to a fraction of their past value, shopkeepers constantly re-sticker goods, and many families can afford only basics. In mid-2025, Britain, France, and Germany triggered the “snapback” of UN sanctions, threatening to choke off remaining oil exports and trade. Panic set in, accelerating the rial’s collapse and raising fears of even deeper isolation.
Iran’s leadership has answered with brinkmanship and bluster. Hard-line lawmakers proposed quitting the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty if UN sanctions return, while state TV insists Iran won’t bow to the West. President Pezeshkian, though a domestic reformist, aligned with allies in Beijing alongside Putin and Xi at the SCO summit, denouncing Europe’s snapback move. Yet for ordinary Tehranis, such words mean little. Sanctions, described by one commentator as “war by other means,” leave daily scars: empty shelves, jobless youth, and patients without medicine. Many now agree sanctions wound the people far more than the regime.
Daily life in Tehran has become an endurance test of resilience. The city’s infrastructure, already creaking from underinvestment, is buckling under the combined strain of mismanagement and sanctions. This summer, rolling blackouts have plagued Tehran and dozens of other cities . As temperatures routinely top 40°C (104°F) in July, entire neighborhoods find their electricity cut for hours at a time. Families plan their days around the power outages – rushing to finish cooking or charging devices when the power is on, and sweating by candlelight when it goes off. Factories and workshops face production stoppages. Government officials blame a surge in demand and reduced capacity, but everyone knows the deeper causes: years of corruption and isolation have left the grid outdated and fragile. At night, the normally bright Tehran skyline goes eerily dark in patches, a visual reminder of how the energy of this metropolis is being literally switched off bit by bit.
A water crisis is also unfolding. Tehran sits in a semi-arid plateau and has always been dependent on distant water sources, but climate change and poor planning have brought matters to a head. By 2025, Iran is in the grip of one of the worst droughts in decades. Urban water pressure is low; many districts of Tehran receive water for only parts of the day. In some suburbs, water trucks park in the evenings to distribute potable water to households with dry taps. Farmers upstream have protested the diversion of water to the capital, even as Tehran’s parks turn brown and its famous flowers wither. Officials admit that chronic mismanagement and overuse of aquifers have worsened the situation . Each year of poor rain now pushes the city closer to severe rationing. Residents share grim jokes that “soon we’ll stand in line for water like we do for visas.” The confluence of inflation, power cuts, and water scarcity has created a sense of siege. “It’s like living in a war, slowly,” says one Tehran shopkeeper – “everything is a battle: to keep the lights on, to find medicine, to keep our sanity.”
And yet, Tehran’s cultural heartbeat refuses to flatline. In September 2025, authorities announced plans for a massive free concert at the foot of Azadi Tower, starring Homayoun Shajarian, son of the legendary Mohammad-Reza Shajarian. The idea was to showcase unity after months of tension, and for many, it was thrilling news—his soulful voice beloved across divides. A public concert of this scale, unseen in years, promised a rare taste of normalcy, with up to a million expected to attend. State media promoted it as a gift, and in a city starved of entertainment, the prospect brought genuine smiles. “Even if it’s propaganda, we’ll take the joy,” said one young fan, while skeptics wondered if it was meant to distract from grievances.
The skepticism proved right. Just 48 hours before the show, Homayoun Shajarian announced on social media that the concert was canceled, sounding apologetic and confused. Equipment trucks were turned away, and officials even welded shut the gates of Azadi Square to block preparations. The mayor blamed poor coordination and suggested moving it to a stadium, but the public sensed deeper politics. Online debates erupted: some said hard-liners feared a mass protest, others accused Shajarian of aiding propaganda, while many argued people deserved a moment of joy. The Culture Ministry admitted “we all lost,” and in Tehran’s arts scene the cancellation felt crushing—proof that even music had become a battlefield.
Despite setbacks, Tehran’s underground culture endures. In hidden basements, bands jam, rappers record subversive lyrics, and designers showcase away from the morality police. Youth pass music and art on USBs, while graffiti of unveiled women reappears as fast as it’s erased. This quiet rebellion fuels the city’s pulse. Decades of counterculture have produced an informed, globally connected Gen Z—streaming Hollywood and K-pop, tuned to #MeToo and global movements, fluent in online slang. Not isolated, they resist indoctrination, finding cracks of light in censorship. Aware the regime lies, they challenge the status quo in both subtle and open ways.
Iran’s protest movement endures thanks to the courage of a new generation. Children of those who lived through revolution and war, they carry fewer fears than their parents and see little to lose by speaking out. In 2022, after Mahsa Amini’s death, youth led protests—burning headscarves, spreading videos, and risking prison or worse. Despite bullets and gallows, resistance still burns. From 2009 to 2019 to 2022, each suppressed wave has been followed by another, often led by even younger, bolder activists. In universities, sit-ins, open letters, and graffiti reflect this spirit. They demand to be heard—not to topple overnight, but to force change. This cycle of defiance and repression has left Tehran torn between trauma and hope, yet the flame of possibility persists. As one student said: “We have already changed Iran in our minds; now we must change it on the ground.”
Iranians draw strength from their cultural roots, especially poetry and history. In daily life, Tehranis quote Hafez or Rumi to express what prose cannot, and families still open Hafez’s divan for guidance. In uncertain times, such verses offer comfort. Saadi’s famous lines—“Adam’s children are limbs of one body…”—resonate deeply today, reminding Iranians of shared suffering and the need for empathy. His words serve as both solace and a rebuke to those abroad who ignore Iran’s plight. In bookshops, Gulistan and Hafez’s Divan still sell well, sustaining a cultural backbone of poetry, music, and memory that keeps Tehranis standing through hardship.
As pressures mount, conversations in Tehran turn philosophical. Rumi’s line, “Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure,” and the Persian maxim “At the end of darkness, there is light,” reflect a resilient optimism passed from grandparents to grandchildren. Youth echo this hope online, sharing quotes like Mandela’s “It always seems impossible until it’s done,” seeing their own struggle for freedom as parallel to his fight against apartheid. Such ideas offer quiet encouragement, linking Tehran’s hardships to a wider human struggle for dignity.
Iran’s own modern heroes also continue to inspire, even if many now live in exile. Shirin Ebadi, the Iranian Nobel Peace Prize laureate, often reminds her compatriots that the values they seek are universal. “Human rights is a universal standard. It is a component of every religion and every civilization,” Ebadi has said . From her abroad platform, she urges Iranians not to accept the excuse – frequently offered by hardliners – that freedoms are a “Western” concept. Her life as a former judge who was demoted for being a woman, and later as a dissident forced to leave Iran, is a testament to perseverance in the face of injustice. In Tehran, Ebadi’s speeches and writings circulate in samizdat form among activists and students, reminding them that their struggle for rights connects with a global human story. Likewise, the late maestro Mohammad-Reza Shajarian – whose son’s foiled concert we saw – still looms large as the “voice of the people.”
When he died in 2020, thousands defied government orders to mourn him, singing along to songs of protest and unity. His music still fills taxis and homes, sustaining pride and resistance. Iran’s poets, musicians, and thinkers form a pantheon urging endurance and humanity. Yet relentless pressure drives many to leave. In recent years, a “brain drain tsunami” has emptied Tehran’s north and south alike, as families send children abroad unsure of return. Millions have emigrated since 1979, and the outflow is accelerating. Today, nearly every household knows someone preparing to leave, not just dissidents but even loyalists who’ve lost hope—an exodus fueled further by the crackdown after 2022’s protests.
Tehran’s international airport is crowded with one-way farewells; the departure lounges filled with tearful embraces as parents send off their children. The city’s future is quite literally flying away. This mass migration is a silent referendum: a vote of no confidence in the country’s direction. Those who leave carry with them both heartbreak and relief – heartbreak to abandon the only home they’ve known, relief to escape a dead-end atmosphere. For those who stay behind, each goodbye is a heavy burden. Iran’s brightest minds and most creative spirits are dispersing across the globe, forming a new diaspora that still aches for the Iran that could have been. Tehran feels this loss intimately in its veins – a palpable absence of energy that drained away seat by seat on outbound planes. And so, as summer 2025 deepens, Tehran finds itself under extraordinary strain yet unbroken. The city teeters between hardship and hope, its story still being written by the millions who wake up each day determined to carry on.
The political climate remains stifling, the economy is crumbling, and external threats loom – but in the hearts of Tehran’s people, a stubborn vitality persists. It persists in the laughter of friends sharing an jokes over watered-down coffee, in the determination of women who walk proudly down Valiasr Street without hijab, in the secret dance parties where youths sway to forbidden music, and in the lines of poetry murmured under one’s breath during a crowded subway commute. Tehranis have become adept at finding meaning and joy in small things: a freshly made barbari bread at dawn, a glimpse of snowy Mount Damavand on a clear day, a kind word from a stranger in a queue. These are the threads that weave a social fabric strong enough to withstand tears.
Salar Bil’s photography continues to chronicle this indomitable spirit of Tehran. He turned his camera on everyday city scenes: His images, by design, find beauty in perseverance. One particularly moving photograph shows a young man on a rooftop at sunset, flying a homemade kite emblazoned with the colors of the Iranian flag – a moment of fleeting freedom against the backdrop of a hazy, embattled metropolis. Through Bil’s eyes, we see Tehran not as a hopeless case, but as a living, breathing city whose story is not finished. “We are everyday people,” he insists, “until death” – asserting that ordinary Iranians, not their rulers, are the true soul of the nation. In his studio, Salar Bil sometimes superimposes quotes onto his photographs. One favorite is by Rumi: “Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.”
Tehran’s artists and activists seek to nurture change through art and dialogue, not by mirroring the regime’s force. Each poem, song, photo, or act of defiance is a drop of rain, slowly nourishing hopes for a freer future. In summer twilight, as prayers echo from minarets and traffic eases, the city feels ready to endure and surprise again. Tested by sanctions, violence, and fear, its people remain spirited. A Persian proverb says, “Dawn will come, even if the night seems endless.” In 2025, hints of that dawn appear in Salar Bil’s photography, in poetry, music, and in the refusal to surrender culture and hope. Amid peril, seeds of change are quietly tended. Like Bil’s camera finding light in darkness, Tehranis find meaning in chaos, meeting each day with skepticism of their rulers and faith in their own endurance. So long as they keep creating and remembering who they are, Tehran’s story is not just of suffering but of a relentless quest for a better tomorrow.