In Tehran’s university corridors and dormitories, a palpable fear has taken hold. What began as distant rumblings of conflict has turned into a full-blown "war footing" on campuses, prompting a wave of foreign students to flee. Indian medical students at Shahid Beheshti University, among many others, found their routines shattered—lab exams halted, communications reduced—and their lives abruptly redirected toward evacuation schemes orchestrated by embassies and authorities .
One early morning, nine students from Karnataka huddled in their hostel courtyard. They heard explosions in the night sky—a mix of suspicion and panic—before their university abruptly canceled exams and told them to stay indoors. Overcoming fear, they reached out to their embassy, which guided them to relocate to a safer city north of Tehran. Video calls with worried parents in India captured tearful farewells. Their experience underscores how conflict transforms distant geopolitics into deeply personal crises of family and identity. Even after arriving in Qom, respondents spoke of disrupted meals, irregular internet, and persistent dread .
This evacuation extends beyond one nationality. Rhythms of life across Tehran have unraveled. Israeli airstrikes—some targeting sensitive infrastructure—have triggered internet blackouts, banking disruptions, and traffic chaos as residents rush to flee . Iranian civilians confront a grim reality: crammed subway stations, empty grocery stores, and no reliable warnings for incoming airstrikes . In the capital’s once-vibrant neighborhoods, stories abound: elderly parents left behind at gas lines, families torn between fleeing and staying due to health limitations, and temporary shelters gathering strangers seeking cover.
Students like Zara, a 30-year-old designer from Hamadan, describe hope at first—"we were overjoyed seeing the leadership targeted"—only to have it morph into crushing uncertainty about their future and the fate of their nation . Similarly, Dina recounts abandoning her marketing office mid-strike as an oil depot near her home ignited and flames lit the dawn sky.
Foreign students, often restricted to metro suburbs or hostel complexes, are uniquely vulnerable. Many cannot access Tehran’s shrinking metro shelters or gas stations. Some fall ill without evacuation options. Buses dispatched by the Indian embassy and Kashmiri student associations have begun convoying groups toward the Armenia border, then onward to Yerevan, culminating in what’s been dubbed "Operation Sindhu"—a coordinated rescue that successfully brought 110 students home and initiated further flights from Armenia to New Delhi .
The magnitude of this mass exodus is striking. Reports cite more than six thousand Indian students in Iran’s universities, with hundreds from Kashmir and Karnataka alone. Across nationalities, governments from Russia to Australia have activated evacuation measures. The Russian embassy assures its citizens “around the clock” support, while Australian-Iranian families confront blocked financial channels and disrupted academic careers .
Amid the chaos, this crisis illuminates deeper realities about international study environments and the vulnerabilities of global students. The haunting sight of dorm mattresses on subway floors, of parents anxiously tracking flight plans via WhatsApp groups, and of entire campuses silencing classes mid-semester all highlight the human cost of geopolitics. Students recall rushed departures, the horror of missiles tearing into neighborhoods, and disembodied farewells over lags and static.
Yet from this fear emerges solidarity. Charities, civil society groups, diaspora networks, and student associations have mobilized to share evacuation routes, offer financial support, and speak with embassies. Kashmiri associations brokered buses to Qom; Indian authorities redirected flights via Armenia; Australian and Russian missions initiated their own corridors. While officials negotiate, it is grassroots efforts—families organizing WhatsApp groups, senior students guiding juniors, embassy volunteers manning 24‑hour hotlines—that have offered immediate lifelines.
Inside Iran, amidst the sirens and strikes, resilience pulses. Students in Tehran’s embattled dorms whisper hopes of return. Families coordinate in silence, banishing rumor through verified calls. Even those who’ve escaped speak of Tehran with longing—the university cafés, festive spring blossoms, lecture halls, and cultural vibrancy.
Insofar as universities adopt ‘war footing’ protocols, these actions reveal both the fragility and adaptability of institutions. Dormitories empty, lecturers shift to virtual engagement or disperse. Some campuses, echoing closures from 2011, seal entry points and deploy security forces—not to quell protests, but to protect students from external threats . Yet these defensive postures offer scant comfort when airspace closes, electricity cuts off, and warplanes become omnipresent.
Amid this turmoil, stories surface of hope amid desperation. A Kashmiri medical student recounts packing a single suitcase and hope as a bus pulled away from Shahid Beheshti’s gates under grey skies . An Indian parent from Bengaluru finally heard from her daughter two nights into relocation—her relief palpable despite the strain on connectivity . A Persian-Australian student reaching Iran’s border zone described it as bittersweet—escaping life-threatening fear while entering a liminal space of uncertainty.
This crisis does more than reveal dangers in conflict zones. It forces us to examine assumptions about educational migration, embassy responsibility, and global empathy. How do host nations and sending countries protect their temporary residents? What infrastructure exists for emergency departure routes, hotspot monitoring, and live communication channels for students abroad? The current situation places these questions in urgent relief.
And though war continues overhead, universities—both in Iran and globally—begin reflecting on their responsibilities. They will ask: How far must academic continuity stretch in conflict zones? What protocols can anticipate escalations? And to what extent can global academic communities safeguard every student enrolled in fragile regions?
In the coming days, attention will shift toward repatriation flights, international pressure for ceasefires, and coordinate evacuation corridors. Yet even as operation after operation evacuates embattled students, the psychological journey has only begun. Families will work to rebuild trust. Online communities will share trauma, resilience, and hope. And campuses will remain forever transformed by this moment when war intruded on the pursuit of knowledge.
The story unfolding in Tehran is one of crisis—but also one of connection. It breaks through policy discussions and becomes the experience of Zara, Dina, Amir, Hafsa, Jake, and thousands like them whose lives were upended by forces far beyond lecture halls. In dorm rooms turned shelters and embassies turned command centers, we find the human cost—and amid anguish, the strength—that defines conflict in the era of global education and shrinking borders. What lies ahead is unknown, but one thing remains clear: when education intersects with geopolitics, each student's story becomes a testament to survival, courage, and collective hope.