The things Iranians can no longer afford: Surviving the US war, sanctions and soaring inflation

"If you sit in my car right now, you would think it sounds like an old tractor," says Mohsen, a 40-year-old father of a three-year-old girl in Tehran. He knows his car is breaking down, but taking it to a mechanic is a luxury he can no longer afford.

"When I prioritise my family's expenses, repair costs never make the cut."

Mohsen earns a fixed monthly salary of 50 million tomans as an office employee. At the start of the Iranian calendar year, that amount was worth roughly $300.

Today, as Iran's currency continues its freefall amid tightening US sanctions and regional geopolitical turmoil, his wages translate to less than $200.

His predicament has become the new normal for Iran's middle and working classes.

While sanctions, and US sanctions in particular, are said to target the government, the reality on the ground tells a different story.

The intersection of international isolation, recent escalations, and domestic economic vulnerability has placed an unprecedented squeeze on ordinary citizens, reshaping their dietary habits, access to healthcare, and basic social lives.

According to the Statistical Centre of Iran, annual inflation reached 69 percent in August. The macroeconomic horizon offers little optimism: the International Monetary Fund (IMF) projects a stark reality for 2026, forecasting a 5.4 percent contraction in real GDP alongside consumer price inflation hovering at 68.9 percent.

For salaried employees like Mohsen, the gap between a fixed income and skyrocketing prices means constantly recalibrating how to survive.

"Being an employee in Iran means you agree on a fixed salary at the start of the year, and no matter what happens in the country, whether there is a war, intensified sanctions, or a blockade, your income stays the same," he explains.

He used to buy meat for his family every week; now it's a once-a-month purchase. Fresh fruit has seen a similar reduction.

Hoping to supplement his income, Mohsen recently registered with a ride-hailing app to work evening shifts, but the embarrassing mechanical noises of his deteriorating car forced him to stop.

Still, he considers himself one of the lucky ones. Because of an inherited property, he doesn't pay rent. "Looking at the terrifying housing market right now, almost all my colleagues are tenants who give up a massive chunk of their salaries just to keep a roof over their heads."

His primary anxiety is no longer his own comfort, but whether he can secure a baseline of welfare for his young daughter.

The rising cost of survival

The Iranian government is acutely aware of this mounting pressure. Economy Minister Ali Madanizadeh recently acknowledged the severe impact of inflation on daily life during a televised interview, announcing plans to increase the value of electronic coupons (Kala-barg) for lower-income brackets.

Currently, the state allocates a one-million-toman monthly credit to each citizen, restricted to basic goods such as meat, chicken, and milk. But the sheer speed of price hikes is rapidly eroding the effectiveness of this safety net.

The crisis extends far beyond the dinner table, altering family dynamics and fraying the social fabric.

Nasrin, a 39-year-old single mother and teacher in southern Tehran, can no longer afford private kindergarten for her five-year-old daughter, and public options in her area are virtually nonexistent.

When schools reopen for in-person classes this autumn, she will have no choice but to bring her child to the girls' elementary school where she works.

"Instead of playing with kids her age, she will have to sit in my classroom or the school office from early morning until noon," Nasrin says.

She admits that without her own parents' help providing basic groceries, surviving on a teacher's salary would be nearly impossible.

Beyond food and childcare, the cost of basic healthcare has surged, turning routine illnesses into financial emergencies.

Despite theoretical humanitarian exemptions in US sanctions, the medical supply chain has been choked by a combination of factors: pervasive "de-risking" and over-compliance by international banks, the Iranian government's severe shortage of foreign currency, and an ongoing maritime blockade.

A recent market analysis by Ham-Mihan highlighted staggering year-on-year price hikes for domestically produced and imported essential medications between September 2025 and September 2026.

The price of a standard package of Amoxicillin jumped from 320,000 to 1.23 million tomans. Acetaminophen with codeine surged from 137,000 to 650,000 tomans, and Clarithromycin more than tripled to 1.58 million tomans. Gabapentin, used for nerve pain, rose from 300,000 to 960,000 tomans.

These figures represent just a fraction of a broader, systemic pharmaceutical crisis that leaves patients with chronic or rare conditions highly vulnerable.

Feeling the squeeze

The physical and technological infrastructure ordinary Iranians rely on is also buckling under the weight of the geopolitical standoff.

Recent US strikes targeting Iran's petrochemical facilities have disrupted gasoline supplies, sparking widespread anxiety over potential fuel price hikes.

The economic daily Donya-e-Eqtesad recently warned that given Iran's structural dependence on energy subsidies, any sharp increase in petrol prices could trigger catastrophic disruptions across production chains and urban life.

At the same time, digital connectivity, a lifeline for education, business, and youth culture, is becoming prohibitively expensive.

Following the recent 40-day war, basic technological goods have seen massive markups. The Samsung Galaxy A07, considered an entry-level economy smartphone, now costs at least 50 million tomans on the local market, more than double a standard worker's monthly wage, up from under 20 million tomans just weeks earlier.

For the younger generation, this economic siege means the systematic stripping away of small, daily joys and personal milestones.

Fatima, a 27-year-old social media expert in the private sector, recently had to take out a new bank loan just to pay off the overdue instalments on previous debts.

"Every day, it gets harder to make my money last until the end of the month," she says. Her daily cafe routine was replaced by home-brewed coffee, which has now disappeared entirely, too. She's downgraded to the cheapest available brand of cigarettes. Cosmetics, like sunscreen, are being phased out of her budget, and dining out with friends is a relic of the past.

Yet Fatima's frustration is directed as much at the international actors shaping her reality as at the domestic situation.

Walking through Tehran in a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, without a headscarf, a direct defiance of the country's mandatory hijab laws that carries heavy risks of arrest, the severing of mobile networks, and loss of basic state services, she reflects on the geopolitical messaging directed at Iranians.

"The US President tweets asking why the Iranian people don't pour into the streets," Fatima says. "It's ridiculous. They torture us, so we protest? We are in a daily struggle. Just the way we look when we step outside is a struggle in itself."

Ariya Farahmand is an Iranian journalist 

The writer has used a pseudonym for security reasons

This article was published in collaboration with Egab