Iranians find solace and strength in Nowruz and Eid al-Fitr celebrations amid war and inflation

In the narrow alleys of western Tehran, small bonfires light up the night sky, casting long shadows against the brick walls of apartment buildings. Neighbours gather in the streets to jump over the flames, taking part in Chaharshanbe Suri, the ancient Persian fire festival celebrated on the eve of the last Wednesday before Nowruz, the Iranian New Year.

The ritual is meant to cast away bad luck and sickness before the new year arrives, and it is rooted in Zoroastrian tradition. Teenagers and elders alike leap over the fire, quietly murmuring the traditional chant to give the flames their yellow pallor and take back the fire’s red vitality.

But beneath the crackling of burning wood, a heavy, rhythmic thud echoes through the neighbourhood. It is the unmistakable sound of distant bombs.

US-Israeli strikes on Iran have targeted leadership, including the Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei and Ali Larijani, Iran’s head of the National Security Council, as well as military sites and a major gas field. To date, 1,300 have been killed and 10,000 injured across the country, shattering an economy already broken by decades of US-imposed sanctions.

“I can’t control the war. I am not a politician or a soldier,” Nazila Ghorbani tells TNA, standing near the flames with her coat pulled tight, watching her teenage son jump over the fire.

“The only thing I can do is pray for it to end,” she adds. “Taking part in these traditions helps us forget the war for a few hours, even if we still hear explosions shaking the windows.”

The cost of celebration

For the first time in decades, the solar Persian New Year on 21 March lands almost exactly with the lunar end of Ramadan on 20 March.

Normally, the arrival of Nowruz and Eid al-Fitr in the same week would spark massive public celebrations. Families would flood the parks, children would collect fresh banknotes known as Eidi from their elders, and the streets would be gridlocked with people travelling between family homes.

Instead, the dual holidays arrived in a country under fire, turning what should be a season of joy into a test of physical and mental endurance.

Across the capital, the mood has shifted dramatically. Fearing more strikes on infrastructure and government buildings, many residents packed whatever they could fit into their cars and left Tehran, heading towards the Caspian Sea or smaller, rural villages where the threat of bombardment feels less immediate.

Because of this sudden exodus, usually crowded highways like the Hemmat Expressway are noticeably bare. Similar caution grips harder-hit cities in the west and south of the country, such as Kermanshah, Shiraz, Bushehr, and Bandar Abbas, where the destruction has been far more severe.

Those who remain in the capital stay highly alert. They are choosing to share their final Ramadan meals indoors with close family, behind drawn curtains, rather than gathering in public squares or busy restaurants.

“We usually spend much more time outside during Nowruz, taking walks and visiting neighbours,” says Marziyeh Jafari, walking back to her apartment with a small bag of groceries. “People are still trying to celebrate, but they are doing it much more cautiously. Nobody wants to be caught in the open if the sirens start.”

Where public gatherings do happen, they are often heavily politicised. At a large state-organised rally in the centre of the city, crowds blended religious practice with national support for the Iranian armed forces. Men and women stood together, holding banners and chanting slogans that tied the spiritual fasting of Ramadan to the sacrifices of the ongoing conflict.

Reza Alizadeh attended the gathering and framed the holidays in strict military terms.

“The United States and Israel targeted us during Ramadan,” Reza tells TNA, holding a small flag. “We will continue to resist. I hope the new year brings victory for Islam and Iran. Then we can truly celebrate. Until then, our presence here is our celebration.”

Holiday essentials under strain

Away from the rallies, the true toll of the war shows up in the shrinking size of the holiday table. In the city’s historic bazaars, the cultural tradition of Nowruz hospitality is colliding with diminishing buying power.

Inflation had already passed 48% in late 2025 before the war started, eroding the savings of the middle class. Now, with supply chains disrupted and the future uncertain, non-essential sales have dropped sharply.

Inside his sweets shop near Tajrish Square in the northern part of the capital, Mehdi Vaezi watches customers hover nervously around his colourful display of pistachios, roasted almonds, dried apricots, and traditional pastries baked with rosewater and cardamom.

During a normal spring, purchasing these items in bulk is considered essential for hosting holiday guests. Now, they sit mostly untouched under the bright lights of the shop.

“People still come in, but they are buying much less and choosing very carefully,” Mehdi says, adjusting a scale on his counter. “They ask for a hundred grams instead of a kilogram. The demand for the holiday exists in their hearts, but they don’t have the money to buy. Prices change by the day, sometimes by the hour.”

Yet, even as families cut back their budgets, they refuse to skip the core rituals of the season. Kitchens across the city still smell of fresh herbs. Families prepare Sabzi Polo ba Mahi, a traditional dish of dill and coriander rice served with white fish, symbolising wealth and prosperity for the coming months.

They also spend hours slowly cooking Samanu, the sweet, thick wheat pudding that marks the new year on Haft Sin tables – a Nowruz tradition featuring seven food items to bring fortune, health, and renewal for centuries.

“These foods are essential to the holiday; they are who we are,” says Tehran resident Alireza Zand, carrying a small, wrapped fish home from the market. “Even if we have to cut back on everything else, even if we cannot buy new clothes, we try to keep these specific traditions alive on the table.”

Not everyone can manage even that bare minimum.

“Some families gave up this year,” says a mother of two in a working-class southern Tehran district, who asked to remain anonymous. “We don’t have the money or the heart for this year. Fish is too expensive. The children ask me why there are no new clothes for Eid, and I have no answer to give them. I just tell them we have to wait for the war to stop.”

“They become even more important at times of instability because they reinforce a shared identity and a collective experience,” she adds. “Jumping over a fire or eating a special dish reminds people that they survived hard times before.”

Mohammad Khatibi is a political analyst, journalist, and Middle East affairs specialist with extensive experience in Iran’s foreign policy, international relations, and geopolitical strategy. He provides expert analysis through television appearances, published articles, and opinion pieces, offering deep insights into the evolving landscape of regional diplomacy, global power dynamics, and economic alliances

This piece is published in collaboration with Egab