For a growing number of writers, translators, publishers and journalists in Iran, cultural work alone no longer covers the cost of living. Some spend their days writing and translating and their nights driving passengers; some get behind the wheel to keep their publishing houses afloat; others have been forced to put their cameras aside. As one press photographer tells Zamaneh: “Sometimes you put the camera down and head out into the streets — not to take photographs, but to find passengers.”
In Iran today, for some cultural workers, writing is no longer a job in itself. It is something that has to be done between two rides, after a shift ends, late at night, or at home alongside another job. A publisher who has spent more than two decades publishing books, a writer and translator with dozens of titles to his name, and a press photographer who has spent years documenting Iran’s streets and its political and social events now spend part of each day or night behind the wheel. Not because they have lost their commitment to books, translation, journalism or photography, but because these professions no longer bring in enough to cover ordinary living expenses. Some have abandoned cultural work altogether and now drive full-time. We spoke with three of them about this forced transformation in their lives.
The crisis in the cultural sector did not begin with the war. For years, declining purchasing power, rising production costs, the shrinking print-media market, censorship, social and political restrictions, and economic instability have steadily eroded cultural work. The protests of December 2017–January 2018, the November 2019 uprising, the Woman, Life, Freedom movement, and the political and economic crises that followed — particularly the protests of January 2026 — each further shrank this market. The 12-day war and, later, the 40-day war were not the beginning of the crisis for many working in this sector. They were fresh blows to a body already worn down.
Publishing figures offer a stark picture of this erosion. According to data from Iran’s Book House, between March 2024 and March 2025 book print runs fell to their lowest level in two decades. Publishers that once routinely printed 1,000 or 2,000 copies now produce only a few hundred, and there have even been reports of print runs below 100 copies. In spring 2025, the average print run was around 1,000 copies, but by June–July that year it had fallen to 714. In literature, the average print run during the same period was just 585 copies. In other words, in a market where printing thousands of copies of a book was once routine, an author may now wait months, sometimes years, for a work to appear, only to see it published in a run of no more than a few hundred copies.
Iraj — not his real name — is a publisher who has worked in the book industry for more than two decades. His publishing house has released more than 300 titles over the years, including books on cinema and photography, some of which sold well and even became university course texts. But since the 12-day war, he has been driving for Snapp, Iran’s equivalent of Uber, to cover his living expenses. He drives a Peugeot 206 from the 2011–12 model year. He is married and rents his home.
“The issue isn’t just that books are selling less,” he says. “The real problem is that the gap between income from publishing and the cost of living has become enormous. You need cash flow. At least with Snapp, you get the money the same day.”
He continues:
“When you’re a publisher, it isn’t only your own living expenses. You have to pay the printer, buy paper, cover office costs and, most importantly, pay authors’ royalties and translators’ fees. When books don’t sell, the whole cycle grinds to a halt.”
For Iraj, getting behind the wheel does not mean abandoning publishing. He says he will continue publishing books whenever he can, but he can no longer devote all his time to it:
“I’ve given two decades of my life to publishing. I can’t suddenly say it’s over. But life doesn’t wait either. The rent doesn’t care that you’re a publisher.”
At another point in the same chain is Amin, a writer and translator with more than 30 books to his name who has won or been shortlisted for several literary awards. Since the 12-day war, he too has been driving for Snapp in his old Peugeot 206. He writes and translates during the day and drives at night.
“The publisher can’t pay royalties or translation fees,” he says. “He says the books aren’t selling. Maybe he’s telling the truth. But I have to live too.”
For Amin, shrinking print runs are one of the clearest signs of the crisis:
“When a book is printed in a run of 200 copies, even if every single copy sells, the author’s or translator’s share isn’t enough to cover several months of living expenses. And even those 200 copies might take months to sell.”
Amin says the rising cost of paper and printing has made publishers more cautious as well:
“The publisher asks: if I print this book, how many people are actually going to buy it? Book prices have gone up, and people don’t have the purchasing power. So the publisher would rather not take the risk. The result is that my book either doesn’t get published at all or comes out in an extremely small print run — sometimes after I’ve waited two years.”
His life is now divided between two worlds: the world of writing and the world of making ends meet.
“I drive for Snapp at night and work during the day. If it weren’t for Snapp, I wouldn’t be able to write, because my mind would be consumed by money. When you don’t know where the rent and living expenses are going to come from, writing itself becomes difficult. Sometimes you ask yourself: why are you even writing? Who are you writing for? They’re worried about putting food on the table too.
“And the saddest part is when the parent of a child you once wrote a story for — or who used to be your student — gets into your car and recognises you. Damn this life!”
Despite all these problems, official publishing statistics still show thousands of new titles being released. More than 106,000 book titles were published between March 2025 and March 2026, although that represented a decline of roughly 10 per cent compared with the previous year. Books are still being published. The more important question is whether anyone can make a living from publishing them.
Iraj says:
“Books are being published, but that’s not the same thing as a thriving publishing industry. You print a book, but then the distributor gives you a post-dated cheque for nine or twelve months later. For smaller publishers, at least, that basically means death.
“I know a woman publisher who started out before the war by publishing her first book. But with this economic siege, she gave up publishing altogether and left Tehran as well.”
Amin similarly says that the mere fact that a book appears in print does not mean its author earns money from it. Authors may receive their royalties six months to a year later, and even then the payment depends on how many copies have actually sold.
But the crisis is not confined to books. Journalism has also been struggling for years with falling circulation, shrinking newsrooms, declining advertising revenues and rising living costs. After the 12-day war, the scale of this crisis became even more visible.
In July–August 2025, Akbar Montajabi, head of the Tehran Province Journalists’ Association, said that around 150 journalists had lost their jobs after the war — a figure that, according to Morteza Kardar, a member of the association’s board, was probably lower than the true number of job losses. Some media outlets reportedly laid off as much as two-thirds of their editorial staff.
Newspapers that once circulated in the tens of thousands now often print only a few thousand copies. In some cases, a circulation of around 2,000 barely reaches even a small pool of regular readers. In such a market, cutting staff has become one of the first measures many media organisations take to reduce costs.
Saeed, a press photographer, is one of those who has experienced this transformation at close range. He is married and has one child. He now drives for Snapp in a Peugeot RD from the 2011–12 model year, borrowed from his brother. Saeed owns his home and does not pay rent, but he says even that no longer guarantees financial security:
“It’s true that I don’t pay rent. But when you have a child in fifth grade, that’s when you realise just how expensive life is. School, transport, clothes, stationery, healthcare, internet and a thousand other things.”
For years, he photographed the streets and Iran’s political and social events. The camera that was once his main tool of work now sits unused for much of the day.
“Media outlets have limited budgets. Very often they can’t afford to buy photographs or pay proper fees. Press photography just doesn’t bring in the income it used to.”
Then he says something that perhaps sums up his entire professional situation:
“Sometimes you put the camera down and head out into the streets — not to take photographs, but to find passengers.”
Saeed now spends a significant part of every day in Tehran traffic, on the same streets that were once the subjects of his photographs. The difference is that he is no longer looking through the car window for an image. He is waiting for a ride request.
For these three people — and for many others whose main professions no longer provide sufficient income — Snapp is not necessarily a destination. It is a stopgap that allows them to keep going.
The platform economy has itself become a major part of Iran’s labour market in recent years. Mohammad Khalaj, chief executive of Snapp’s ride-hailing service, said in the company’s annual report for March 2025–March 2026 that Snapp held 89.9 per cent of the country’s ride-hailing market. The total number of registered drivers since the platform began operating had exceeded 8.5 million by the end of that period, with 3.919 million active during the year.
This does not mean that all of them are full-time drivers. Some work part-time, while others return to driving only during certain periods of the year. But the sheer scale of the figure shows that app-based driving is no longer a marginal occupation. It has become part of how millions of people make ends meet.
Among those millions are people whose primary work has been in publishing, writing, translation, journalism or photography.
Iraj drives passengers day and night in order to keep his publishing house alive. Amin sits behind the wheel at night so that he can write and translate during the day. Saeed picks up passengers and, with each passing day, grows a little more distant from the camera and the profession he spent years training for and building his life around.
Yet none of them considers driving their profession.
“I’m still a publisher,” Iraj says.
“I still write,” Amin says.
“I’m still a photographer,” Saeed says.
They still publish books, write, translate and take photographs. But part of the time and energy that should be spent creating work, conducting research and telling the stories of people’s lives is now spent paying the rent, covering a child’s schooling and healthcare, buying groceries and meeting the most basic costs of everyday life.
Perhaps the issue is not simply that a writer or publisher has taken on a second job. The deeper problem is that, for many of those who practise them, cultural professions can no longer provide the material conditions necessary to live.
And when a writer has to drive passengers in order to keep writing, when a publisher has to drive at night in order to keep publishing books, and when a photographer has to put down the camera to pay the bills, the issue is no longer merely the livelihood of a handful of individuals.
It is the future of cultural production in a society where some of the people who produce its culture are being forced, simply to survive, to move away from professions for which they trained and to which they devoted years of their lives — and, in some cases, to walk away from them altogether.