Iran International
Departures from Iran are on the rise since a 12-day war with Israel in June as heightened surveillance and moribund prospects at home push some households to liquidate assets and leave.
“Before the war, most trips we handled were touristic," an immigration police officer at Tehran’s Khomeini airport told Iran International on condition of anonymity.
Since the 12-day war in June, "departures have multiplied, and many who left have not returned after a month or two — a clear sign they have decided not to come back."
The officer said it is no longer just the young. Middle-aged and even elderly people are also leaving to shield themselves from the war’s direct and indirect threats.
Pejman, 46, a freelance remote designer, said he had recently rebuilt a life in Tehran after two years in Tbilisi, Georgia, earning $3,000 a month, renting a large apartment and buying nice furniture and a car before the Israeli war.
“This war forced me to leave Tehran and ask my in-laws to sell everything and send me the proceeds,” he said. “I cannot return because the authorities may arrest me for working with companies abroad.”
He cited a widening dragnet involving arrests and executions for his fears.
Iran has arrested over 20,000 people after the war with Israel, mostly on charges of cooperating with hostile countries or spying for Israel, according to judiciary officials.
“They don't care if you are a lawful freelancer with no political ties. One of my friends was arrested and accused of espionage. They told him, ‘You are not allowed to work with US-based companies.’”
Pejman’s wife recounted a hurried liquidation of life as they knew it and flight.
“We sold our car, we sold our household goods, we sold everything. There was no way out,” she said. “With every ring of the doorbell we trembled, thinking agents had come to arrest my husband.”
The family now waits in Turkey, seeking passage to Germany.
Work strangled by outages and a broken internet
Behrouz, 51, an online interpreter in Tehran, said daily electricity blackouts and patchy internet have gutted his income for UK- and US-based language firms.
“Six months ago I could interpret five to six hours a day for migrants and patients in hospitals, courts and social services abroad,” he said. “Daily power cuts reduced that to three or four hours. Since the war, internet restrictions have piled on the outages, and I barely manage one or two hours in long sittings.”
He and his family are preparing to sell their apartment to fund an exit. “I have to go somewhere safe with stable internet,” he said. “Most of the companies I work for are US-based, and I could be accused of cooperating with what they call hostile states.”
His wife outlined a reluctant plan. “We will go to a visa-free country like Turkey, Armenia, or even Qatar, and then file a case to move somewhere safe,” she said. “This is not the migration we wanted. This government forced us.”
She contrasted local wages with the risk of remote work. “They pay $200 to $300 a month here, and when my husband finally secured a remote job that pays ten times more, the clerics would not let us live,” she said.
“They restrict the internet because they fear being overthrown. They fear everyone and everything, and they sacrifice people to stay in power.”
From airport counters to flats cleared out under duress, interviewees described a decisive break rather than seasonal travel. For Pejman’s family, the fear is arrest; for Behrouz’s, a livelihood stifled by outages and a failing network.
The shock of the 12-day war has rippled far beyond the front, turning departures into open-ended exits — homes sold, schools missed, savings converted into tickets — and leaving behind a grim future that many no longer dare to reclaim.
