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Chief International Correspondent
In the heart of the Iran’s capital on the hot summer day, the cafes serve refreshing cold drinks.
They should be the most distinctive ice American coefficient in this city cafe sits in the leaf corner of the long-twisted US embassy.
Its high cement walls have been pressed against anti-American murals since Washington breaks relations with Tehran after the 1979 Iranian Revolution and the hostage crisis still threw a long shadow over these winding relations.
Inside the Boof magic cafe, Barist Amir says he would like a relationship to improve between America and Iran.
“US sanctions harm our business and make it difficult for us to travel around the world,” he muses, pouring another ice coffee behind a wooden sign – “keep peace and drink coffee.”
Only two tables are busy – one woman closed by a long black curtain, the other woman in blue jeans with long flowing hair, sounding the rules that women should wear when she cuddles with her guy.
This is a small picture of this capital because it is facing its deeply uncertain future.

Within a short drive, in the complex of Iran’s state television company, the Supreme leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei was recorded on Thursday.
“The Americans have opposed the Islamic Republic from the very beginning,” he said.
“In fact, it has always been about one thing: they want us to give up,” said the 86-year-old Ayatollah, saying that he was leaning in a bunker, which had resolved his unprecedented wave of strikes aimed at Iranian nuclear and an attempt on senior commanders.
We watched his performance, his first since President Donald Trump suddenly announced the ceasefire on Tuesday, on a small TV in a single office, still intact in the wide section of the IRIB connection. All that le is a burnt frame.
When an Israeli bomb crashed into this complex on June 16, raging the fire swept through the main studio that would be aired by the supreme leader. Now it’s just ash.
You can still try his congress; All television equipment – cameras, lights, states – are twisted twisted metals. The crunchy glass carpet closes the ground.
Israel said he was aimed at the propaganda hand of the Islamic Republic, accusing her of hiding a military operation within – the accusation of his journalists was dismissed.
It seems that its proclaimed shell symbolizes this dark time for Iran.
You can also see this in urban hospitals that are still related to Iranians who have suffered in the 12-day Israel war.
“I am afraid they can attack again,” Ashraf Bargi tells me when we meet at the Taleghani general hospital where she works as the main nurse.
“We do not believe that this war is over,” she says, in a note that reflects the sensitive care we have heard from so many people in this city.
If June 23 Israel bombed the threshold of the neighboring prison EvinVictims, both soldiers and civilians, were sent to the Emergency House of Nurse Bargi.
“The injuries were the worst with which I treated in my 32 years as a nurse, worse than what I saw in the Iran-Iraq war in the 80’s,” she still has survived.
The strike in the notorious prison, where Iran detains most of its political prisoners, was described by Israel as “symbolic”.
It seemed to strengthen the repeated message of the Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu Iranians “defend their freedom”.
“Israel says he only went to a military and nuclear prison, but it is all a lie,” the Mortaris from his hospital bed insists. When the rocket crashed into the building, it worked in the prison department. It shows us his injuries in both hands and behind.
In the nearby ward, soldiers are looked after, but we are not allowed to enter there.

In this spreading metropolis, Iranians calculate the cost of this confrontation. In its latest counting, the Ministry of Health has recorded 627 people and almost 5,000 were injured.
Tehran slowly returns to life and restoring its old rhythms, at least on the surface. His shameful track begins to fill his high highway and beautiful side streets.
Stores on his beautiful bazaars open again when people return to the city to which they escaped to avoid bombs. Israeli 12-day military operation combined with US attacks on the main nuclear monuments of Iran has so much shocked.
“They weren’t good days,” says mine, a young woman who immediately collapses when she tries to explain her sadness. “It’s so breaking my heart,” she tells me through tears. “We tried so much to have a better life, but these days we don’t see the future.”
We met on the territory of the stunning white marble tower Azadi, one of Tehran’s most iconic attractions. A large crowd, which melted on a warm summer evening, stood up to the tension of very favorite patriotic songs at an open -air concert of the Tehran symphony orchestra. It was to bring peace to the city, which is still on the border.
Proponents and critics of Iran’s officials mingled, united, sharing the care of their country’s future.
“They have to hear what people say,” Ali Reza insists when I ask him what advice he will give to his government. “We want great freedoms, that’s all I will say.”
Despite the rules and restrictions that have long ruled their lives, the Iranians talk about their minds as they wait for the next steps of their leaders, and the executives in Washington and beyond, which endure such consequences for their lives.
Lyse Doucet is allowed to report in Iran, provided that none of its reports are used in the BBC Persian Service. This law by the Iranian authorities extend to all international media -operating agencies.