From ultimatum to pause: confusion and fear rise over Trump’s Iran signals

The short answer is that Iran’s power system is large, heavily dependent on thermal generation, and widely dispersed – making it difficult to disable through limited military strikes.

A system built on thermal power

According to Iran’s Ministry of Energy, the country has around 40.6 million electricity subscribers, including 32.3 million residential users.

Although official figures put hydroelectric power at 13.4% of capacity, the actual share is less than 5%, largely due to reservoir conditions.

Instead, Iran relies overwhelmingly on thermal power plants, which generate more than 95% of its electricity.

There are about 130 thermal plants across the country, with a combined capacity of 78,000 megawatts. Among them, around 20 plants exceed 1,000 megawatts, and three exceed 2,000 megawatts.

Where the power is generated

The largest facility is the Damavand power plant, with a capacity of about 2,900 megawatts.

Also known as the Pakdasht plant, it covers roughly 200 hectares and is located 50 kilometers southeast of Tehran on the Khavaran road. Its construction cost was close to 2 billion euros.

The Neka (Behshahr) power plant, also around 200 hectares, is located along the Caspian Sea in Mazandaran province and has a capacity of about 2,200 megawatts.

The Rajaei power plant, along the Karaj-Qazvin road, produces around 2,000 megawatts and spans about 350 hectares.

Around Tehran, five major plants – Damavand, Rajaei, Montazer Ghaem, Roudshour (Rudshur), and Mofatteh – play a central role in supplying electricity.

Within the capital itself, smaller plants – Besat, Rey, Tarasht, and Parand – operate at much lower capacity. The largest among them, Parand, produces about 950 megawatts, while Besat generates around 250 megawatts and Tarasht only 50 megawatts.

Hard targets, limited impact

Large power plants are not easy targets.

A facility like Damavand, with multiple cooling towers and units spread across 200 hectares – roughly 30 times the size of Tehran’s Azadi Square – would require a wide-scale attack to fully disable.

Even then, the impact on the national grid would be limited.

The complete destruction of Damavand would remove only 3.7% of Iran’s total electricity generation capacity. Part of that loss could be offset by halting about 400 megawatts of electricity exports.

A decentralized grid

Iran’s electricity system is not concentrated in a few locations. Its transmission and sub-transmission network extends about 133,000 kilometers, and when urban and rural lines are included, the total exceeds 1.3 million kilometers.

The system is supported by 857,000 transformers and an estimated 2,000 to 5,000 large and medium substations across the country.

Strikes on substations could cause temporary, localized outages, but they can be replaced relatively quickly.

For example, after blue flashes were seen in the skies over western Tehran and Karaj – likely caused by explosions at power substations – electricity in western Tehran was cut temporarily before being restored.

Can Iran be plunged into darkness?

Given this scale and dispersion, targeting one or several power plants is unlikely to cause a nationwide blackout.

Even significant damage would be absorbed by the broader network, limiting the impact to specific areas and short timeframes.

For many Iranians, the holiday is more than a celebration—it is an assertion of life in the face of uncertainty, a reminder that renewal is always possible, even in the darkest of years.

Iranians celebrate Nowruz at the exact moment of the spring equinox, which fell on the afternoon of March 20 this year. In Tehran, the atmosphere on Friday was described as surreal.

As people waited for the official announcement on television, a brief rain gave way to sunlight, and a double rainbow stretched across the sky. Images quickly circulated online, with many calling it a good omen for the country.

But the moment of celebration was short-lived. Just after the New Year was announced and greetings began, air defenses roared to life and explosions echoed across the capital. This marked the first time since the 1980s that Iranians were observing Nowruz during wartime.

For many, the outgoing year was defined by loss and upheaval. Social media has been filled with accounts describing it as a period of “pain and calamities,” marked by two wars, widespread displacement, and the bloodiest crackdown in history. Hundreds of thousands have reportedly fled their homes—twice in a single year—seeking safety elsewhere.

Davoud Heshmati, an Iranian journalist, captured the sentiment in a short post: “In these final hours of the year, it seems to me that what we can all agree on is that the year 1404 was a year of darkness.”

Grief remains fresh. Many mourn those killed in January, victims of the recent strikes and those of the 12-day war in June, and at least five young men executed in the final days of the year for political reasons.

Yet amid the trauma, the rhythms of Nowruz persist, albeit with far less energy and enthusiasm than in the past. In markets and homes, people continue to prepare for the holiday, clinging to rituals that symbolize renewal.

One user wrote: “The city is truly buzzing with the vibrancy of the holiday—shopping for sprouted grains, flowers, and sweets. How fortunate we are that, amid the war and its endless fear, Nowruz still keeps us standing tall.” Another added: “As long as Nowruz is alive we are too.”

Images from Tehran’s Tajrish Bazaar—once packed with shoppers buying new clothes, sweets, and traditional items for the Haft-Seen table—have circulated widely in recent days. The display typically includes symbolic objects such as sabzeh (grain sprouts), wheat pudding, flowers, candles and goldfish. This year, however, the crowds appear thinner.

“Street vendors say in all these years, even during COVID, the place was never this quiet,” one Tehran resident noted online.

For those who did venture out, the experience was shaped by the realities of war. Faezeh, a Tehran resident, described using a brief period of calm to prepare for the holiday. “While laying the Haft-Seen I was thinking about how to place things so they won’t fall by tremors from the strikes. How resilient are humans?” she wrote.

In another post, she recounted how the sound of explosions and air-defense systems has become part of everyday life, along with the unsettling sight of destroyed buildings that had stood only hours earlier.

Yet even amid such scenes, many emphasize the symbolic power of Nowruz. “Above our heads is the roar of fighter jets and the sound of explosions, but here in the heart of the city, the pulse of life beats for Nowruz. Amid such darkness, we buy flowers and lay the Haft-Seen; because this ritual is our fortress. What has remained proud and eternal through the tempests of history... is Iran, Iran, Iran,” another user wrote.

Economic pressures have compounded the sense of crisis. Prices have surged, jobs have been lost, and some businesses—already weakened by the June conflict and the January crackdown—have shut down or failed to pay New Year bonuses. Reports from both media and social platforms suggest layoffs are becoming widespread.

At the same time, a prolonged internet shutdown—now stretching into its third week—has deepened the isolation felt by many Iranians. For families split between Iran and the diaspora, the inability to communicate during the New Year has been especially painful.

In a reflection of this frustration, Vahid Online played on the traditional greeting “May your every day be Nowruz!” by writing: “May your every day be ‘online’!”

For more than a decade, the anonymous operator behind Vahid Online built a vast following by aggregating videos, images and reports from inside Iran—often capturing events that state-controlled media ignore or suppress.

During the January protests, he was among the first to publish images from inside a Tehran morgue showing people searching for missing loved ones among rows of body bags.

During the 2022 Woman, Life, Freedom movement, many of the most iconic images—of both defiance and repression—first appeared on his channels.

Now, as the current conflict drives demand for real-time, uncensored information, his channels have once again surged in prominence.

Videos of strikes, damaged buildings and their aftermath are sent directly to him, along with a steady flow of messages from across Iran reporting explosions, air defense activity or fighter jets passing overhead—often with timestamps and locations attached.

The messages Vahid shares not only serve as a lifeline during the information blackout, but can also literally save lives, as evidenced by a recent case in which a user said two lives were saved thanks to a warning he had shared.

What sets the platform apart is not just speed, but trust. Over years of steady, often relentless posting, Vahid Online has built a reputation that prompts people inside Iran to send material directly—text messages, photos, audio and video.

“I rely on direct, independent material sent to me,” he wrote during the January protests. “If I were just reposting what’s already out there, there would be no point—many accounts are already doing that.”

That relationship often carries a distinctly personal tone. Messages frequently begin simply: “Vahid, this happened,” or “Vahid, please publish this.” The exchange resembles less a tip line than a direct appeal to a trusted intermediary—someone anonymous, yet familiar.

That approach—prioritizing original submissions over viral content—has shaped both his influence and its limits. It means he is sometimes slower in the early stages of unrest, when little verified material is available, and more visible once footage begins to flow from the ground.

The volume and intensity of that material come at a cost. He has written at times about the strain of constant monitoring, sleepless nights and exposure to graphic or distressing images—an emotional and physical toll that has, on occasion, affected his health.

The figure behind the account had long remained elusive. Describing himself only as a “curious netizen” based in the US state of Maryland, he has consistently avoided interviews or public exposure.

Iranian state media recently claimed—without independent verification—to have uncovered his identity, publishing what they said were personal details alongside an AI-generated image. In response, he said some details were accurate but dismissed the image as not resembling him.

"The Islamic Republic has known my official identity for years. The day just finally came when they decided to reveal it and pretend they had obtained it in some special way," Vahid said in a post on his Telegram channel on March 17.

"The information they cited from my identity documents appears to be correct," he said.

Three days later, he officially signed off his Nowruz message on X with the name released by Iranian state media: Mir-Vahid Hassantabar.

For many Iranians—inside the country and across the diaspora—Vahid Online functions as a kind of real-time window onto events that might otherwise go unseen. Admirers sometimes describe him as a “one-man army.”

Vahid operates primarily on Telegram—where he has 1.2 million subscribers—and to a lesser extent on X, where he has about 700,000 followers.

His rise dates back to the aftermath of Iran’s disputed 2009 presidential election, when protests erupted following the reelection of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

Then a blogger, he gained attention by publishing mobile phone footage of a raid on the campaign headquarters of opposition leader Mir-Hossein Mousavi. As repression intensified, he left Iran—reportedly via Turkey—and later sought asylum in the United States.

Since then, Vahid Online has become a central node in the circulation of information about Iran, particularly during waves of unrest. Major international outlets have at times drawn on such material.

Supporters credit the platform with helping bridge an information gap created by censorship, pointing to practices such as blurring faces, withholding identifying details and selectively posting material to protect sources. The operator himself has described his role more modestly—as an “audience member” highlighting what others might miss or suppress.

Iranian state media accuse the platform of foreign backing or links to intelligence services—claims made without publicly verifiable evidence. Vahid has dismissed such allegations as routine smear tactics, writing recently: “I am an ordinary citizen with no links to anyone.”

As conflict deepens and information becomes another battleground, Vahid Online is far more than an ordinary citizen. His platform is no longer peripheral, but part of the story—one that may, in time, be written with material he helped bring to light.

In his March 17 statement, he said now that the Islamic Republic has exposed his identity and "this barrier had been removed," he has been pushed into "a new phase of life."

"Now I’m not sure what new things I might want to do that I couldn’t before because of these limitations."

Among Iranians, Nowruz has long been tied to renewal and to the idea of the “triumph of good over evil.” Yet Iran’s turbulent history has often cast a shadow over the holiday, turning it into a moment marked by loss, war and unresolved grief.

This year carries all three.

Since 2022, a continuous national mourning has taken hold. The dead of the Woman, Life, Freedom movement—some known, many unnamed—have left their mark on the country’s rituals.

At Nowruz tables across Iran, mothers sit with clenched throats and tearful eyes, or stand beside the graves of their children.

Iran has seen such Nowruzes before. During the war with Iraq, the new year arrived under the sound of missiles falling on cities, as young men were sent to the front in waves. Celebration persisted, but it did so alongside fear and loss—often shaped by what many would later call the “ignorance and irresponsibility” that drove a generation to war.

The death of the young has long been among the deepest sorrows in Iranian culture.

The story of Siyâvash, the innocent prince killed unjustly, still carries the grief of mourning mothers. In the Shahnameh, his death comes on the eve of Nowruz. The holiday marks renewal, yet in Ferdowsi’s telling it is shadowed by war and sacrifice.

That grief echoes in one of the epic’s most enduring lines: “If death is justice, then what is injustice?”

Over time, mourning became ritual. The death of Siyâvash gave rise to Suvâshun ceremonies, observed for centuries in parts of greater Iran. The convergence of death and renewal came to symbolize a belief that justice, however delayed, would prevail.

Today, the Siyâvashes are many. Their images appear on walls, in homes and in the hands of protesters, carried like the banner of Kaveh the Blacksmith.

One custom, known as now‘id, marks the first Nowruz after a loss, when families visit the bereaved. Last year, at one such table, a young woman sat silently, her hair turned white by grief for her slain son. Then she broke the silence: “Was it not enough to kill him? What did you do to my child’s head?”

Her question lingers. So do many others like it.

Nowruz has long been intertwined with remembrance. In ancient belief, the days before the new year—Farvardegân—were a time when the spirits of the dead returned. Homes were cleaned and tables set not only for the living but for those who had passed. The bond between the two was renewed.

In recent years, many of the dead have been buried in unmarked graves, or in cemeteries where tombstones are repeatedly destroyed and rebuilt by grieving families. Flowers return, even when they are torn away.

And yet Nowruz endures.

Neither war nor repression, nor the hostility of those who reject Iran’s pre-Islamic traditions, has erased it. Each year, after the fires of Chaharshanbeh Suri are lit and the dead are honored, the new year arrives again.

As one line often recited at gravesides has it: “If we feared the sword, we would not dance in the gathering of lovers.”

Iranians celebrate Nowruz as they always have: with hope that the coming year may bring a more just life—one in which rights are equal, dignity is preserved and the state serves its people rather than stands above them.

With a career spanning both the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) and the political establishment, including a decade as parliament speaker, Larijani functioned as a bridge between Iran’s military and civilian centers of power.

That position—part coordinator, part mediator—made him one of the system’s most important internal stabilizers. His removal further narrows the circle of actors capable of managing competing interests within the system.

Supreme Leader Mojtaba Khamenei praised him in a brief statement Wednesday, vowing to avenge his blood.

Senior officials sought to project continuity. President Masoud Pezeshkian said Larijani’s “path of resistance combined with rationality” would continue, while Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi insisted that the absence of any individual cannot destabilize the Islamic Republic’s “powerful political structure.”

Even with continuity, however, the system Larijani helped manage now faces a more immediate test: succession.

Formally, the secretary of the SNSC is appointed by the president, but the role only acquires real authority when the Supreme Leader designates the holder as his representative, granting voting power within the council.

Early indications suggest that Mojtaba Khamenei is overseeing key appointments. Whether he does so here will shape both the balance of power and the direction of decision-making.

Two names dominate early speculation.

Mohammad-Bagher Ghalibaf, the current speaker of parliament, is already a member of the council and holds voting rights, making his elevation procedurally straightforward.

A former IRGC Air Force commander and national police chief, he brings operational experience and political stature. But his appointment carries risks. His high profile and role in recent military operations could place him near the top of potential Israeli target lists, raising questions about durability and continuity.

Ali-Akbar Ahmadian, a senior IRGC naval commander, represents a more technocratic option. He previously served as both secretary of the council and the Supreme Leader’s representative before being reassigned in 2025.

His return would provide institutional familiarity, but he would require reappointment by the new leadership to regain full authority. Compared to Ghalibaf, he offers less political reach but fewer immediate security liabilities.

Other figures—including former IRGC commander Mohsen Rezaei and former SNSC secretary Saeed Jalili—have been mentioned but appear less likely contenders, either because they would require additional endorsement or because of political frictions within the current leadership.

Larijani’s influence rested less on formal authority than on his ability to navigate between institutions that do not always align: the IRGC, the presidency, parliament, and the clerical establishment. Replacing that function may prove harder than filling the office.

His absence therefore raises a broader question about the system’s internal cohesion. Without a figure capable of managing competing centers of power, the risk of renewed factionalism increases—particularly at a time when external pressure is intensifying.

Iran’s leadership insists the system remains stable. The coming appointment will test that claim.