A tiny stage, barely two by three meters. Two amateur actors lounging on comfortable armchairs with a small round table between them, performing before a few dozen spectators seated at café tables, sipping different kinds of coffee with brownies or cheesecake. And just like that, you have a theatrical event.
It is theater created with minimal expense, without having to wrestle with the lengthy process of obtaining permits from the Ministry of Culture or renting a formal performance venue.
Even amid the uproar of bombs and war, the city is still full of cafés that, day and night, serve as gathering places for young people and café regulars—people exhausted by the anxieties of tomorrow, by Trump’s saber-rattling, and by the crushing inflation of life in Tehran. For a brief moment, they find refuge in a peaceful, cultural atmosphere.
The city’s cultural centers remain havens for film lovers who expect more from cinema than simple entertainment. They welcome the opportunity to stay after a screening and listen to the filmmakers, or perhaps to a guest critic who dissects formulaic comedies or, when the film is more challenging, reveals its hidden layers and underlying meanings. Often, the audience itself is invited to join the conversation.
These are warm, intimate gatherings, far removed from the noise and spectacle of film festivals and official showcases, which are often more concerned with media attention than genuine dialogue.
Then there are the book cafés—old houses in the heart of the city, built fifty or sixty years ago, places that some of us still remember, if only faintly. Rather than being demolished and replaced with luxury high-rises, many have preserved their original architecture, inside and out, and have been transformed into cafés or literary spaces where lovers of literature gather. Weekly meetings continue, sometimes joined by authors, publishers, or translators discussing a newly published book. An ordinary afternoon becomes an opportunity for cultural enrichment.
The cafés downtown evoke the spirit of the French and Italian cafés of the 1950s. Their walls are regularly adorned with the paintings or photographs of different artists, allowing patrons to enjoy an evening coffee while quietly contemplating a new exhibition in the café’s subdued light, giving their time there a richer artistic meaning.
The city’s galleries are thriving as well, and cultural halls have become remarkably lively. Traditional cultural centers serve tea, herbal infusions, and aromatic distillates in open-air courtyards while the sounds of classical Persian music fill the air. During spring and summer, they offer visitors the rare pleasure of spending time in the surviving historic gardens of Tehran.
Our gray city is filled with these small, seemingly insignificant events. Yet they bring color to the city. They give it breath. They help us forget, if only for a while, the hardships of war, and they give us the strength to endure.
“…And indeed, how does a polluted, perpetually complaining city become a city that is alive and young?”
