Coronavirus diary: One day in Tehran
TEHRAN – On Thursday, the last day of the year in the Iranian calendar and a month since the coronavirus has wreaked havoc on our country, I awoke with a low fever and a cough. The Iranian government has not declared quarantine, but I have self-isolated for the last month, working from home on the advice of health officials.
Not feeling well, I decide to go to the hospital and, to be honest, I miss the bustling streets of Tehran. As the city begins to wake up, I put on a facemask, disinfect my hands, and leave for Valiasr Street where there is a hospital caring for coronavirus patients. According to the Ministry of Health, there are 21,638 coronavirus cases in Iran and 1,685 deaths.
At the corner of Tajrish Bridge, homeless men and drug addicts are gathered around a small fire pit. Shop assistants are sweeping their sidewalks and unloading deliveries, preparing for the day’s commerce. Some are wearing latex gloves, some aren’t.
Tajrish Square fills up, but there's a feeling of unease in the air. People keep their hands hidden and their heads low. I count 15 people on a sidewalk as I pass by; 11 of them are wearing facemasks. A pair of latex gloves hang in a tree, branches bright with the first buds of spring. Beside the white and green curb, the wind tosses a discarded facemask through the air.
There are few people on the bus that drops me close to Baghiatollah Hospital.
I go to the emergency room and ask to be tested for coronavirus. A doctor comes up and asks about my symptoms. "Why did you come here?" he reprimands me. "Don't you know hospitals are among the most dangerous places now? Nothing is wrong with you. Your cough and fever are because of a seasonal allergy."
Embarrassed, I walk away and pass a room with a sign saying these are patients suspected of having contracted coronavirus. I look through a large window into the room.
A doctor leans against a column in the middle of the room, staring at a little boy. He sheds a single tear and stares transfixed as the tear dries, leaving a mark on his face. Thirty-seven patients lie on beds, pain and worry etched on their faces. The doctor comes out of his reverie, looks around him and doubles over. With his head in his hands, he sobs.
I take the subway from Valiasr Square to Tehran Grand Bazaar, known as the heart of Iran’s economy. It is full of people. I walk into the noisy crowd and ask men and women about the coronavirus.
Mina, 53 years old, is from southern Tehran. She's sitting on a stool in the middle of the bazaar. Two little boys are with her. She also has two daughters. She's here to shop for the Newroz (New Year) holiday. "We didn't have anything at home and I had to come here to shop," she says. "Like most people, the high prices have limited my ability to buy things, too."
She removes the mask from her face and continues, "Corona has crippled us. We can't do anything. We're going to have to be quarantined in our house and not have any visits with our relatives. This is making me crazy, especially with my kids constantly running around. I'm worried that my kids are going to fall behind in school. The government must come up with something for this problem."
Vahid, 35, works in a shop selling nuts. "The prices of nuts have gone up like crazy this last year,” he tells me. "And these days, corona has destroyed my business. My income this Esfand [last day of the year] compared to last year is nothing. Usually Esfand is when we have the most business, but this virus has shut everything down."
Twenty-five year old Maryam is an art student at Tehran University. She's from Shiraz and lives in a women’s dormitory while at school. She's come with her boyfriend to the bazaar, to buy items for her birthday. The day before, her dormitory was given 24 hours to vacate.
“They told us we had until the night to leave and take our essential things with us. The rest was supposed to be packed and placed on our beds," she says. The male dormitory is under quarantine, with residents not allowed to leave after one student tested positive for coronavirus.
I take the subway and make my back to northern Tehran. The train is not crowded. I get off at Gholhak station, three stops before the end of the line. This is a wealthy neighbourhood. Unlike in southern Tehran, there’s hardly anyone in the streets here.
In Gheytarieh Park, everyone I see is wearing a facemask. I stop to chat with Hossein, a 58 year old ENT (ear, nose, and throat) specialist. He has put his practice on hold and is spending time with his family. He continues his exercises while we talk. "Before corona came along I was working two shifts, one at Shohadaye Tajrish Hospital and the other in my own practice," he says. "Now our hospital is taking care of corona patients. I have canceled all the appointments in my practice and now I just come to the park every afternoon to exercise."
It's getting dark. I'm supposed to meet a friend of mine, Mohsen, who recently lost his 47 year old brother to coronavirus. He has been in quarantine for 14 days after his brother’s death. I enter his house and see Mohsen sitting in a corner, his read resting on his knees. A few friends and family have come, offering their condolences from a metre away. Mohsen thanks the visitors for their words, but I sense he wishes everyone would leave. Coronavirus has destroyed his life. He couldn’t kiss his brother one last time or say goodbye. He couldn’t even have a funeral for his brother. He could do nothing.
Translated from Persian by Ruhollah Nakhaee
Not feeling well, I decide to go to the hospital and, to be honest, I miss the bustling streets of Tehran. As the city begins to wake up, I put on a facemask, disinfect my hands, and leave for Valiasr Street where there is a hospital caring for coronavirus patients. According to the Ministry of Health, there are 21,638 coronavirus cases in Iran and 1,685 deaths.
At the corner of Tajrish Bridge, homeless men and drug addicts are gathered around a small fire pit. Shop assistants are sweeping their sidewalks and unloading deliveries, preparing for the day’s commerce. Some are wearing latex gloves, some aren’t.
Tajrish Square fills up, but there's a feeling of unease in the air. People keep their hands hidden and their heads low. I count 15 people on a sidewalk as I pass by; 11 of them are wearing facemasks. A pair of latex gloves hang in a tree, branches bright with the first buds of spring. Beside the white and green curb, the wind tosses a discarded facemask through the air.
There are few people on the bus that drops me close to Baghiatollah Hospital.
I go to the emergency room and ask to be tested for coronavirus. A doctor comes up and asks about my symptoms. "Why did you come here?" he reprimands me. "Don't you know hospitals are among the most dangerous places now? Nothing is wrong with you. Your cough and fever are because of a seasonal allergy."
Embarrassed, I walk away and pass a room with a sign saying these are patients suspected of having contracted coronavirus. I look through a large window into the room.
A doctor leans against a column in the middle of the room, staring at a little boy. He sheds a single tear and stares transfixed as the tear dries, leaving a mark on his face. Thirty-seven patients lie on beds, pain and worry etched on their faces. The doctor comes out of his reverie, looks around him and doubles over. With his head in his hands, he sobs.
I take the subway from Valiasr Square to Tehran Grand Bazaar, known as the heart of Iran’s economy. It is full of people. I walk into the noisy crowd and ask men and women about the coronavirus.
Mina, 53 years old, is from southern Tehran. She's sitting on a stool in the middle of the bazaar. Two little boys are with her. She also has two daughters. She's here to shop for the Newroz (New Year) holiday. "We didn't have anything at home and I had to come here to shop," she says. "Like most people, the high prices have limited my ability to buy things, too."
She removes the mask from her face and continues, "Corona has crippled us. We can't do anything. We're going to have to be quarantined in our house and not have any visits with our relatives. This is making me crazy, especially with my kids constantly running around. I'm worried that my kids are going to fall behind in school. The government must come up with something for this problem."
Vahid, 35, works in a shop selling nuts. "The prices of nuts have gone up like crazy this last year,” he tells me. "And these days, corona has destroyed my business. My income this Esfand [last day of the year] compared to last year is nothing. Usually Esfand is when we have the most business, but this virus has shut everything down."
Twenty-five year old Maryam is an art student at Tehran University. She's from Shiraz and lives in a women’s dormitory while at school. She's come with her boyfriend to the bazaar, to buy items for her birthday. The day before, her dormitory was given 24 hours to vacate.
“They told us we had until the night to leave and take our essential things with us. The rest was supposed to be packed and placed on our beds," she says. The male dormitory is under quarantine, with residents not allowed to leave after one student tested positive for coronavirus.
I take the subway and make my back to northern Tehran. The train is not crowded. I get off at Gholhak station, three stops before the end of the line. This is a wealthy neighbourhood. Unlike in southern Tehran, there’s hardly anyone in the streets here.
In Gheytarieh Park, everyone I see is wearing a facemask. I stop to chat with Hossein, a 58 year old ENT (ear, nose, and throat) specialist. He has put his practice on hold and is spending time with his family. He continues his exercises while we talk. "Before corona came along I was working two shifts, one at Shohadaye Tajrish Hospital and the other in my own practice," he says. "Now our hospital is taking care of corona patients. I have canceled all the appointments in my practice and now I just come to the park every afternoon to exercise."
It's getting dark. I'm supposed to meet a friend of mine, Mohsen, who recently lost his 47 year old brother to coronavirus. He has been in quarantine for 14 days after his brother’s death. I enter his house and see Mohsen sitting in a corner, his read resting on his knees. A few friends and family have come, offering their condolences from a metre away. Mohsen thanks the visitors for their words, but I sense he wishes everyone would leave. Coronavirus has destroyed his life. He couldn’t kiss his brother one last time or say goodbye. He couldn’t even have a funeral for his brother. He could do nothing.
Translated from Persian by Ruhollah Nakhaee