TEHRAN- I had missed books in a way that felt almost physical, like the absence of a familiar scent. That feeling drew me back to Enghelab Street in Tehran, the city’s long-standing artery of print, where ideas have circulated for decades between students, writers, and quiet, attentive readers.

It was late spring. In the central districts of the capital, heat hovered above the pavement, and sunlight pressed down with a steady force, as if rehearsing for summer. The smell of street food and sweets moved slowly through the crowd. Young people drifted between bookshops in the old street, pausing to compare titles and turning books over in their hands. At first glance, the scene appeared unchanged. The same dense shop windows, the same stacked displays, the same restless circulation of visitors. But the impression of continuity did not last.

A short distance away, traces of recent conflict were still visible. Some buildings remained under repair. Walls carried layers of liberal art and public notices, fading unevenly with time. These signs were part of the everyday landscape. People passed them without comment, or with only a brief glance. The presence of war was not always explicit, but it shaped the rhythm of the street, the pace of movement, and the hesitation behind everyday choices.

Inside the bookshops, the changes were quieter but more structural. Prices had risen; sometimes twice, up to thrice and more. The range of available titles had limited. And the behavior of readers had shifted.

Between two narrow corridors, a man in his early fifties sat on a small wooden stool, reading a book. His books were arranged beside him, all marked at half price. He told me he had once worked in publishing, including editing.

“I used to argue over small details in manuscripts,” he said, with a brief smile. “Now I sell them, over thirty years with books in total.”

The book in his hands was an imperfect edition of Viktor E. Frankl’s “Man’s Search for Meaning.” When this was mentioned, he nodded without surprise.

“Better editions are expensive now,” he said. “If you already know how a text should sound, you can reconstruct it in your mind. I prefer to buy more than one book.” Reading, in his case, had become an act of internal completion.

When asked for recommendations, he first suggested a widely circulated title from South America, then paused and selected another book instead, “Saadi’s selected works”, recently purchased by another customer.

“Take this,” he said. “Gratitude has become a practical skill. People think too much these days.” His tone remained measured, observational rather than judgmental, shaped by long familiarity with change.

Further along the street, a university student in her early twenties stood in front of a display, comparing prices on her phone before picking up a printed copy.
“As a Potterhead I used to read novels,” she said. “Now I want something that helps me pass my tests with better results.”

The shift was not presented as loss, but as adjustment. The decision to buy a book carried more weight than before, shaped by cost and necessity rather than preference alone.

A shop owner who had worked on the street for over two decades described the change in simpler pattern. He explained that foot traffic had not disappeared, but it had become less decisive. Customers browsed longer, asked more questions, and often left without purchasing. Many now prefer to order online or by phone, avoiding cost, danger and uncertainty.

The shift from physical to online book exhibition had deepened that evidences. Several people mentioned it without prompting. The event still existed, but something essential had been lost.

“It is not only about buying a book,” one visitor said, holding a copy of “Da” (Mother). “It is about being there with your beloved ones or enjoy yourself.”

There are some people every weekend who had travelled from other cities just to walk along Enghelab Street. For these people, the experience itself could not be replaced by a screen, it is a place to return.

Later, on the metro station, a single word appeared on a sign: “Free.” Public transport, at least for now, cost noting. Movement across the city had become easier. At the same time, a book in your hands had become more expensive. That contrast stayed with me.

Over time, a broader pattern emerged from repeated conversations and observation. Readers had not disappeared. They had recalibrated. Those who once preferred literary fiction increasingly turned to narratives with clearer resolution. 

Younger readers showed greater interest in darker and more violent forms of storylines, perhaps because they already had more experiences in reality.

Readers of philosophy shifted toward religion, psychology, and self-help, searching for something immediate and usable. Those once focused on political analysis were moved toward history and geography, looking for longer context rather than constant updates. Interest in art and education gave way to economics. Readers of science increasingly turned to sociology, attempting to understand the human structures underlying broader systems.

These shifts, reflected a society adjusting under sustained pressure, with reading habits. 

As the train moved through the city, Enghelab Street appeared less as a book market for me, it is a symbol of adaptation now. Each and every detail reflected a small adjustment within a larger transformation. None of those readers had stopped reading. That persistence is what stays with me, the refusal to let reading disappear.

On my way home, broken window’s glass crunched softly under my feet; a reminder of what have the late bomb had done and the materials shaping the city. I found myself wondering whether suffering ever ends, or continues beneath. I am no longer where I had been, but I am not sure where I was going. Even if not fully, at least slightly hopeful after this experience, maybe. Whether we return to who we were before, or become something else entirely. Here is clear: I’ll keep turning the pages, many things are waiting to be read.