Firsthand reports from contributors inside Iran
It starts with a text message on social media by an established cafe. A few million rials deposit, and a promise of a night unlike any other in Tehran.
In a city where theocratic authorities dictate dress codes and public behavior, a parallel universe comes alive after dark—one where music pounds, glasses clink, and young Iranians carve out their own kind of freedom.
“You have to pay some money in advance and reserve your place,” the organizer of a cafe tells us.
“How much?”
“Fifteen million rials ($17). It will be deducted from your table invoice at the end. We also charge each person seven million rials ($8) for the special service.”
Special service. A vague but enticing phrase that means DJ performances, fireworks, and, most importantly, a space where the Islamic government's restrictions on dancing, drinking and mixed-gender gatherings don’t apply.
A city of two faces
By day, Tehran echoes with debates in parliament, where bearded and grey-haired hardliners push for tougher hijab enforcement laws. Police cameras scan the streets, automatically fining women who dare to drive without a headscarf. But by night, in certain corners of the city, a different reality takes shape.
Our night begins with a purchase. Alcohol is banned in Iran, but an underground network ensures that everything from Chivas scotch to homemade Aragh Sagi (Iranian vodka) is readily available—for a price.
Farid, our contact, offers original whiskey bottled abroad for up to 150 million rials ($170) and vodka smuggled into Iran for half that price. "Or you could take my own homemade Aragh Sagi,” he suggests, referring to a type of Iranian moonshine.
Laughing, I ask, “Are you sure we won’t go blind?”
“Bro, I’m not a con. Buy an ethanol test kit online and check it yourself,” he says.
A bottle in a plastic bag is tossed into our car from a passing motorcycle. No words, no exchange. The deal is done for 500,000 rials ($6).
The club behind closed doors
The location is in Saadatabad, one of Tehran’s affluent northern districts. We arrive to find a nondescript door with no sign of activity. No doorbell, just the entrance bears the name of the café-restaurant. Then, from behind a tree, a guard emerges, unlocking the way into a hidden world.
Inside, 300 to 400 people sit shoulder to shoulder. The air is thick with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. Nearly every table has bottles—of what appears to be mineral water—being discreetly poured into soft drinks.
The DJ takes the mic: “I do hope the day you’re waiting for arrives very soon.” The space erupts in cheers, everyone knowing exactly what he means.
A song dedicated to those killed in the Woman, Life, Freedom protests plays, and the energy shifts—defiant, unbreakable.
Security is tight. Two well-built bodyguards patrol the large saloon with lasers, flashing them on anyone who dares to stand up. “No dancing until 1 AM,” a second DJ announces.
At our table, we order salads, side dishes, and soft drinks. I add a splash of Aragh Sagi. A couple at the next table raises their glasses to us, smiling.
The hours pass in a blur of music, hushed toasts, and fleeting moments of stolen joy. Then, at 1 AM, the lights go out.
The dance begins
A deep bass vibrates through the floor. Strobe lights flash. And suddenly, everyone is on their feet. Girls in tight dresses, men in designer shirts—moving, shaking, celebrating a night that shouldn’t exist.
“No filming,” the DJ warns. “If you want us to host you again, keep your phones down. One video can shut this place down.”
A man beside me leans in, raising his voice over the music. “I just got back from Italy. Even there, you don’t find clubs running this late.”
Another guest scrolls through Instagram, showing us pages of similar cafes holding parties in Fereshteh, Andarzgoo, and Aghdasieh—each promising luxury, secrecy, and freedom.
By 3:30 AM, we are stumbling out, buzzed on more than just alcohol. The bill? Sixty-five million rials (around $75) for a chicken salad, soft drinks mixed with Farid's vodka, and two beef sandwiches. But the cost is irrelevant.
“Let’s do this again next week,” my girlfriend says as we drive home. “It’s expensive, but still cheaper than a weekend in Dubai or Istanbul.”
She’s right. And as I reflect on the years we lost in fear, in silence, I regret not stepping into this world sooner.
This is Tehran. A city where, by day, women are harassed for loose headscarves, but by night, they dance in hidden saloons, reclaiming the freedom they refuse to surrender.
