The Tehran Dispatch

Few places are harder to report from than Iran—especially in the days following U.S. airstrikes on its nuclear sites. Yet CBS News’ Imtiaz Tyab managed to enter Tehran by driving 14 hours overland from Turkey, arriving in a city stunned by Israeli strikes and bracing under a fragile ceasefire announced by Donald Trump.

In a conversation with Status, Tyab explained the hurdles of entering a country largely closed to the outside world, what daily life in Tehran looks like under these conditions, and what Iranians wish Americans understood about their country.

Tyab also discussed the reality of working under government monitoring and movement restrictions, and how patience and small gestures can open conversations with Iranians who might otherwise hesitate to speak with a U.S. outlet.

Below is our Q&A, lightly edited for style.

How did you and your team gain access and entry into Iran?

For us, all roads to Iran first require a stop at the Iranian consulate in London. It's housed in an ornate, red-bricked mansion block in the upscale Kensington neighborhood. The staff there are always unfailingly polite, but whether we get approved for a journalist's visa from the authorities in Tehran—or not—can often feel like a lottery. When we applied this time—Israeli jets were striking inside Iran and Iranian ballistic missiles were landing in Tel Aviv—the processing time was accelerated. A week after we submitted our request, we secured a five-day visa.

Getting to Iran was the next obstacle. With international air traffic over the country suspended as the war with Israel intensified—and following subsequent U.S. airstrikes on Iranian nuclear facilities—we had to find a way to Tehran by road. One of the few routes still open to us was the overland border crossing from eastern Turkey.

From London, we boarded a 5 a.m. flight to Istanbul. Upon landing, we had just over an hour to clear Turkish immigration, get our many bags of TV equipment through customs, and then race to the domestic terminal to check-in for a regional flight to the border town of Iğdır. By some miracle, CBS News field producer Agnes Reau, camera operator Federico Pucci, and me—as well as all of our kit—made it in one piece.

From there, we waited until the stroke of midnight—the moment our visas became valid—to begin the long journey into Iran. The border itself was quiet and heavily surveilled, but the staff there were extremely helpful and cooperative. After around two hours of document checks and negotiation, our visas were stamped, and we were granted entry. We then drove more than 14 hours through Iran's mountainous northwest and central plateau to reach Tehran—passing through military checkpoints.

When you crossed the Iranian border, did you have any sense of worry, knowing you were entering a country at war with the U.S. and Israel? And since, have there been any moments that you have feared for your safety?

There was definitely a sense we were entering the unknown. A fragile ceasefire had just been announced by President Trump, and there were no guarantees it would hold after 12 days of devastating war with Israel that had left the Iranian people and their leadership reeling.

When we arrived in Tehran, it felt eerily quiet. The capital city has roughly the same population as New York City, so to see so few people out in the streets or on the roads was jarring. That said, Tehran doesn't feel like a war zone in the conventional sense. Yes, you can see where some areas have been hit by Israeli strikes, but it's something more disorienting: a city still in shock, absorbing trauma in real time, yet somehow still functioning.

Were you and your crew monitored once inside Iran? How much access to the country have you had?

We've been monitored—yes. But that’s expected. And we could only visit locations that the authorities permitted us to. That said, we were given generous access to the everyday: the Grand Bazaar, Friday prayers, a hospital treating the wounded, and visits to popular outdoor gathering spots.

When reporting on Iran, what seems to open doors here more than a valid press card is behavior. If you're respectful, patient, and aware of the worries people may have about speaking with you, they respond. And they often respond with something Iran is famous for: hospitality. There’s a Persian phrase for it: mehmaan navaazi—the art of treating guests with overwhelming kindness. Even now, in the middle of deep uncertainty, Iranians still insist on serving you tea, offering food, and welcoming you in. It’s not performative. It’s cultural.

How would you describe the flow of information inside the country? What types of media are reaching the public there, whether via traditional distribution mechanisms or the internet?

State media controls the official narrative, which emphasises victory, defiance, and religious obligation. When you watch, you’ll see endless footage of parades, martyrdom posters, and carefully framed speeches. But most Iranians, especially younger ones, look elsewhere. VPN usage is widespread. People rely on Telegram, Instagram, and other online platforms—when connections allow. During the height of the war, access to outside sources was shut. But the demand for external information ran deep. Still, without it, it feels to us that Iranians have learned to read between the lines as well. Sometimes, what’s not said on state TV is as telling as what is.

I’m sure you’ve been talking to people in Tehran. What do Iranians you meet say they want Americans to understand about the war and their country?

Like all countries, Iran is not a monolith. There are those who have enormous support for the country's leadership and are very clear about it. Then there are those who want to see major reforms. That camp wants Americans to know they are not their government. That's the most consistent message. Whatever the case, all people here live under crippling sanctions, international isolation, and face serious economic struggles—as well as a sense they are being misrepresented abroad.

Still, when it came to Israel's strikes—which killed over 600 people, including military commanders, academics, and civilians, including women and children—the people we've spoken to said it triggered in them a deep need to defend Iran as a nation, not the ideology of its leaders, against foreign aggression. It's awakened an Iranian nationalism among a people who are so deeply divided in other ways. Still, all people here live in fear of escalation and what might come next.

How do you build trust with locals who might fear speaking to a foreign crew in a place like Tehran?

Very slowly, and with great care. We also rely heavily on the expertise of our longtime Iran-based producer. For 16-years he has been CBS News’ direct conduit not only to the Iranian leadership but also to its people. He’s taught us, when you’re offered tea, you accept it. Before you ask about politics, you ask how someone’s family is. He, better than anyone, knows people are hesitant to speak to foreign journalists. Trust here is earned—not through persuasion, but through patience and understanding. And you have to be prepared not to use what you're told if it could put someone at risk. That, too, is part of the job.

Lastly, given your experience being on the ground there, is there anything you think the broader press corps could do to improve coverage?

Iran is not just mullahs, missiles, and centrifuges. It is also thousands of years of remarkable history, an incredibly refined sense of culture, as well as deep resilience against the odds. Too often, media coverage flattens this country and its people into a single narrative: hostile, anti-American, nuclear-obsessed, and unknowable. But Iran is knowable. It just resists being simplified.

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