TEHRAN - “We thought the Leader lived in a very large house with a courtyard, somewhere exclusive and luxurious.” This is what Barar Izadi, 56, says. He has come with his family from the town of Pishva County to “Keshvardoost” Street in the heart of Tehran to see the place where Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Khamenei lived and worked.

Keshvardoost Street is lined with old houses, homes with worn walls and trees that lean out from their courtyards into the alley, still carrying a sense of life within them. It is a street with a long memory. It was named after martyr Fariborz Keshvardoost, a member of the Iranian military who was killed in the early years of the Islamic Revolution. But in Persian literature, “Keshvardoost” means “one who loves their country,” a meaning that, for many people now, has become intertwined with the martyred Leader of Iran.

This street is one of the roads leading to the office of the Leader of Iran, busy, crowded, and, in terms of its urban fabric, entirely ordinary. There is no sign of luxury here, no distance from everyday life. That very simplicity has now become, for many, a revelation.

A section of Keshvardoost Street that has been arranged these days to resemble Imam Khomeini’s Hussainia

From the beginning of his leadership, the Leader had lived in this neighborhood with his family. Although another place had been designated for his residence and work, he chose to remain here. And so, for 37 years, Keshvardoost Street became both the home and workplace of the country’s highest authority, a constant presence among the people of Tehran.

Throughout those years, mainstream and especially Western media circulated countless rumors about how the Leader lived: multiple palaces, vast estates, private airplanes, and helicopters. It was said that during the 12-day war, he had been moved to a bunker, and even before his martyrdom, some claimed he had left the country for Russia.

But the crime of February 28, 2026, swept all of those narratives aside and exposed reality without a veil. In an attack on the Leader’s residence, the United States and Israel martyred him, several military commanders, and members of his family. Among them was his 14-month-old granddaughter, little Zahra. The blast wave from the attack even reached nearby streets, killing a street sweeper.
Let’s return to Keshvardoost: a passage that begins at Republic Street and ends at Imam Khomeini's Hussainia, a hall that for years hosted various events, from official meetings with dignitaries and foreign ambassadors to gatherings with ordinary people from all walks of life.

Regular programs were held every year: once with families of martyrs and veterans of the eight-year war; with women, workers, military personnel, students and researchers, economic activists, cultural figures, officials from different sectors, athletes, and many others. And among them all, the celebration of religious coming-of-age for nine-year-old girls stood out as one of the most intimate and memorable events.

The Keshvardoost Street sign — once a place where people waited to meet the Leader, now a refuge for a nation in mourning

Now, for about 60 days, the geography of Keshvardoost Street has changed. It is no longer simply a place to pass through or to wait for a meeting. These days, at all hours, it hosts restless people, people who have come from every corner of Iran, carrying the grief of their martyred Leader.

One night, in this memory-filled passage, a celebration of religious duty is held again for nine-year-old girls, in remembrance of those past gatherings. Another day, recalling the years when workers came here during Labor Week to see their Leader, those same workers return, but this time not for a meeting, only to weep in his absence.

And people from every walk of life now come here, seeking refuge, a place for heavy hearts. Some raise their hands in prayer and whisper; others sit in silence, their tears speaking for them. Each person faces this loss in their own way.

I went to Keshvardoost, remembering the days we would stand here waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of that familiar face. The entrance to the martyred Leader’s residence has now been arranged like Imam Khomeini's Hussainia: blue woven mats, a simple chair, and images of the martyred father of the nation.

People come and sit on the blue mats. Some read the Qur’an; others listen to elegies and quietly cry. Mothers speak to their children about him, about memories, about kindness, about days when meeting him was possible. And the children, just as they once played freely in the Hussainia, now run and laugh here too, unaware of the weight this place carries.

Amid all this, a heavy silence flows through the space, a silence that blends with whispered prayers and the sound of weeping. Every corner of this street holds an unwritten story of longing and loss. People come, sit, stare at the empty chair, at the photographs, at memories that are still alive.

It feels as though time has stopped here, caught between a past full of encounters and a present overflowing with longing. Between moments once filled with anticipation and now recalled through tears.
Keshvardoost is no longer just a street; it has become a living story of loss, of love, and of people whose hearts are still waiting.

My attention is drawn to a two-year-old child. He has come with his mother and runs around in this space that has been made to resemble the Hussainia, occasionally going up to the Leader’s picture, pausing to look at it, then returning with a smile.

Children who these days play on Keshvardoost Street under the symbolic shadow of the father of the nation

Fatemeh, 38, is the mother of little Masiha. She says she first saw the Leader in Mashhad in 2004. Back then, she was a teenager, unsure of what field of study to choose. She tells me about seeing the martyred Leader in a dream, how she had asked him for help in tears, and in the dream, he told her: “Trust in God; the path is clear.”

Fatemeh now has a religious education. She also speaks about her father, a war veteran with 75% disability and severe psychological trauma. “When we were children, we could never really be children in front of him. He couldn’t tolerate noise or mischief.”

She says, “The Leader was like a father to us. It comforted us to know that even if our father didn’t have the patience or the nerves, he was there. We would go to the Leader’s residence just to see him. But now what do we do when that father is gone?”

At this point, her tears interrupt her. I wait for her to calm down so she can continue.

She says she made a vow to come here every Monday with her little Masiha, taking the metro from Karaj, so they can still be with him. “We count the days until Monday so we can come here.”

“As a mother,” she says, “my greatest wish is for my child to have a good fate. I want Masiha to become like him. We need to come here so he learns not to turn his back on his homeland. Every night we go to squares and mosques so he understands he must stand firm.”

At the end, she adds that these days, all disbelief has gathered to destroy all faith, all of Iran, and that it is up to them to protect Iran and Islam, even with their children. “If we don’t come here—this place that is like our paternal home—and bring our children here to grow up, then where should we go?”

Mr. Ebadollah, the street sweeper of Keshvardoost Street

I say goodbye to smiling little Masiha and approach a man who is staring at the Leader’s photograph with tears in his eyes.

Abbas Yousefi says he had seen the Leader many times. “I love him,” he says. “These days, when I come here, I think more about him, and it hurts that I can’t do anything but cry.”

“How can I bear the grief of this empty chair?”

In another corner of the Hussainia, a woman sits writing about the atmosphere for her daughters, attaching a photo to send to them.

Azadeh Ghafouri, 45, says, “I wished I could have seen him while he was alive, but since we live outside Tehran, it didn’t happen.”

She says the only time she came was for the Friday prayers after the martyrdom of Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah, to pray behind him. “We came to Tehran to visit Keshvardoost.”

At this point, she begins to cry. She points to the empty chair and says, “I know martyrs are alive, I know he is alive and sees us, but what am I supposed to do with the grief of this empty chair?” Her sobs grow louder.

I leave her to grieve in peace.

I see a man praying and wait until he finishes.

I ask Mr. Barar Izadi, the same man from the beginning, why he came. He breaks down in tears before he can answer. When he regains composure, he says, “We thought the Leader lived in a huge estate, in a villa in a very special area. Now that we’ve come and seen this neighborhood and these houses, we can’t believe the highest authority in the country lived here, in these old homes.”

“If only we had come sooner and seen him, seen how he lived.”

“Every night, in memory of the martyred Leader and the martyrs of the war, we take to the streets so the homeland endures.”

During the conversation, his young daughter, who has just learned to speak, repeats several times: “Death to America” and “Death to Israel.” I say goodbye to them with those words echoing.

From Ahvaz to Keshvardoost, in memory of the martyred Leader

I sit watching the people who have come to see the man of Keshvardoost Street. A mourning chant catches my attention.

I follow the sound. A woman leans her head against the empty chair, crying loudly. When she calms slightly, she says, “I’m Ghazaleh, 33, from Ahvaz. I came to Keshvardoost.”

I asked if she had come before. She breaks down again, unable to speak, only saying: “If only he were here… if only we could have seen him… we feel abandoned, we miss him…”

She says the night before traveling, they were performing a prayer of supplication in Ahvaz when a video of him from Jamkaran Mosque was played. “My heart was drawn here, that’s why I came.”

I ask how she feels now that she’s here. She cries even more and refers me to the mourning stories of Imam Ali’s martyrdom.

“It’s like orphans standing at the door of Amir al-Mu'minin, waiting to see their father. We are those orphans…”

I leave her in her solitude and sit on the blue mats.

“Forgive me” — the most common message written by people on the concrete blocks along Keshvardoost Street

A woman approaches me, asking me to take her photo beside the Leader’s picture. That begins a conversation.

“I used to serve at the Leader’s residence,” she says. “I volunteered at some gatherings, helping guests in the Hussainia.”

Zahra, 56, says she now comes here after work, prays, and serves people.

“Those days can’t be described,” she says. “People came with longing, waited for hours. And when he arrived, the atmosphere was something else.”

“It’s the same now,” she adds. “Wherever there’s his image, he is there too.”

“Everything has changed for me now.”

As I’m about to leave, I notice a mother with two children. They are not wearing a chador. They sit as close as possible, directly facing the Leader’s picture as if sitting beside him.

Fatemeh Tahmasbi, 35, says, “I never attended rallies or visits to the Leader’s residence. I didn’t care much for these things.”

She says everything changed after that message he delivered, standing before the people. “I wish I had come sooner. Now that I’m here, I hope he forgives me.”

“I believe being here is his grace,” she says, then begins to cry again.

Now, tears have become the common language of everyone who comes to Keshvardoost.

As I leave, I see large concrete blocks placed along the street, now turned into a kind of collective diary of grief.

A child has scribbled: “I will miss you, Dad.”

Another writes: “The joy of waiting at the end of Keshvardoost is over.”

Someone else thanks him for choosing their name.

Most messages ask for forgiveness from the martyred father of the nation.

I think about one sentence written closest to the site of his martyrdom: “Peace be upon the one who was martyred not in a shelter, but while fasting, with his family, in the heart of Tehran, at the end of Keshvardoost Street…”

Suddenly, a voice brings me back. “Hello.”

I turn. It’s a street sweeper, cleaning the road. I ask if he’s always here. He says he has worked here for years and that on the day of the attack, he was just a few streets away and was caught in the blast wave.

He begins to cry.

“These nights, this place has become like Karbala,” he says. “People come to visit him. They come, they cry, they lighten their hearts, and they leave.”

This was the account of Mr. Ebadollah from these days and nights on Keshvardoost Street, in the absence of the most devoted lover of Iran.