Lyse Doucet: Under fragile ceasefire, Iranians wonder if US deal can be done
Iranians Reflect on Ceasefire’s Fragility as US Talks Loom
On the outskirts of Tabriz, a flattened barracks of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps stands as a stark reminder of the recent conflict. The ruins are framed by a tattered flag, its fabric fluttering over concrete remnants that hint at the devastation wrought by missile strikes. Amid the rubble, the ceasefire that has allowed some movement along roads and a return of Iranians to their homeland feels precarious, like a breath held too long.
As we traverse the icy Turkish border, a grey-haired banker shares his experience. “I spent a month with my son in Turkey,” he says, his voice tinged with relief. “In my city, the attacks primarily targeted military sites, not homes or civilian areas.” This personal account contrasts with the worries of others. An elderly woman in a headscarf, her face etched with concern, laments the suffering of younger Iranians. “The shells have rained down on residential neighborhoods, and the Basij forces patrol the streets,” she adds, her words carrying the weight of loss.
“It’s all in God’s hands,” she murmurs, glancing upward as if seeking reassurance.
A short distance from the border, the journey to Tehran takes a detour. The main bridge connecting Tabriz to the capital via Zanjan collapsed under fire last week, forcing vehicles onto winding rural roads. This disruption echoes the broader uncertainty of the ceasefire, which has held for two weeks but faces an imminent end. Yet, the sight of the bridge’s remnants also symbolizes resilience amid destruction.
On Wednesday, Trump’s rhetoric took a sharper turn. Addressing Fox Business News, he warned of the capability to obliterate every bridge in Iran within an hour, alongside power plants, while expressing reluctance to escalate further. This threat resurfaces as we pass a centuries-old caravanserai, its stone arches and stained-glass windows a testament to Iran’s enduring cultural heritage. The structure’s quiet dignity contrasts with the turbulence of the current political climate.
Back in the heart of the Islamic Republic, the focus shifts to more immediate concerns. A young woman in a red puffer jacket and knitted hat declares, “Iran will never hand over the Strait of Hormuz.” Her words reflect the nation’s determination to protect strategic interests. Meanwhile, the theocracy grapples with internal challenges, as new banners line highways, showcasing the three Supreme Leaders since the 1979 revolution: Khomeini, Khamenei, and his son Mojtaba, who remains in the shadows since the attack on February 28 that left him seriously wounded.
The war’s impact extends beyond physical destruction. Legal scholars have raised alarms about the targeting of civilian infrastructure, questioning whether the strikes violate international humanitarian law. Despite the US and Israel’s insistence that their actions focus on military targets, the ruins of Tabriz’s barracks and the scars on the land tell a different story. The ceasefire’s survival now hinges on the fragile hope that diplomacy can bridge decades of tension, particularly over the nuclear programme and control of the vital shipping lane.
As the 12-hour drive to Tehran unfolds, the landscape reveals both the past and present. Some women wear veils, others walk bare-headed—a legacy of the 2022-2023 Woman Life Freedom protests. Yet, the priority remains the war’s aftermath, with efforts to redefine Iran’s political and security framework in the wake of this historic crisis. The question lingers: can a deal be reached before the ceasefire crumbles?
