A substantial monthly payment in the name of Mojtaba Khamenei has recently been added to the stipends received by Iranian seminary students. The new disbursement comes on top of the seminary remittances that continue to be paid in the name of Mojtaba’s father, the late Ali Khamenei, as well as others, including the influential Iraq-based Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani. The stipend, whose funding source is entirely unclear, could help set the stage for Mojtaba Khamenei to be declared a supreme Shia legal authority—a “source of emulation,” or marja.

One cleric tells Resanegar, Tehran Bureau’s economic unit, that the payment appears to be calculated at one million tomans per month for each member of a student’s household. Like many in the field, the cleric—speaking on condition of anonymity—has continued his studies deep into adulthood; in his case, he has been at his seminary for nearly 20 years. For his family of five, of which he is the sole wage earner, the new remittance amounts to five million tomans, increasing the monthly income he can rely on by almost 50 percent. He says:

“Previously, as a level-four seminary student, which qualifies for the highest stipend bracket, I received six million tomans a month from Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, four million from Ayatollah Sistani, and around two million from other marjas. Recently, I have also received five million tomans from Ayatollah Mojtaba Khamenei, described as a ‘cost-of-living allowance.’”

The resulting total of 17 million tomans in stipends is still well below the minimum monthly compensation package (base wage plus mandatory benefits) for a private-sector worker with the same family size and seniority, which comes to around 25 million tomans.

An official seminary stipend, or shahriyeh, is money paid by a recognized source of emulation. Mojtaba Khamenei, whose 57th birthday was observed on September 8, does not currently hold the rank of marja, so payments made in his name cannot formally be referred to as shahriyeh. The remittances associated with the new Supreme Leader will continue to be described in cost-of-living terms unless and until he attains marja status. That, of course, assumes he is alive. Since the February 28 killing of his father at the Tehran leadership compound where Mojtaba was also present, apart from several written messages attributed to him, there has barely been a sign that Iran’s new paramount figure actually survived the US missile strike—no new video or audio recording, not even a photograph.

Traditionally, a Shia scholar seeking to attain the status of marja would first obtain attestations of their faculty for ijtihad (independent legal reasoning) from several prominent authorities. They would then write a resaleh, a treatise of religious rulings, and announce their marjaʿiyya upon its publication. Following the 1989 death of the Islamic Republic’s founder and first Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the Society of Seminary Teachers of Qom began to assert control over the marjaʿiyya process, in part to elevate Khomeini’s successor, Ali Khamenei.

The campaign to declare Ali Khamenei, who had little scholarly reputation, a marja initially met with widespread opposition. His supporters, however, brought the question of his religious authority into the streets. In December 1993, during the funeral of Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Reza Golpayegani, then regarded as the most learned source of emulation in the Shia world, they chanted, “Both leader and marja: Khamenei.” One year later, just three days after the death of Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Ali Araki, the Society of Seminary Teachers formally announced Ali Khamenei as a marja.

A scholar of religious studies familiar with the workings of the Qom seminary, observing that the sum added to clerics’ stipends in Mojtaba Khamenei’s name is considerable relative to their regular shahriyeh, argues that it could serve two purposes at once: silencing critical seminarians, and helping pave the way for him to be presented as a marja. Recalling the process by which Ali Khamenei’s marja‘iyya was declared, the scholar says: 

“History is repeating itself. The same current and ideological faction that elevated Ali Khamenei to the rank of marja virtually overnight [Editor’s note: five years] after he became leader is now preparing the ground for Mojtaba Khamenei’s marja‘iyya.

“This process will accelerate after the death of Ayatollah [Mousa] Shobeiri Zanjani, because he was the only marja who might have opposed such a decision. The remaining Qom marjas who enjoy the backing of the Society of Seminary Teachers would, in all likelihood, remain silent.”

As of the beginning of the year, seven ayatollahs, including Ali Khamenei, were recognized as marjas by the Society of Seminary Teachers. Of them, Ayatollah Shobeiri Zanjani alone was regarded as independent rather than aligned with the regime. Following his death on September 20 at the age of 98, it is expected that the five remaining sources of emulation would offer no resistance to the naming of Mojtaba as a marja.

The late Ayatollah Hussein Ali Montazeri, once designated as Khomeini’s successor until their falling out over the mass execution of political prisoners in 1988, was among the most serious opponents of Ali Khamenei’s marja‘iyya and never accepted that he was qualified for the status. In a historic speech in November 1997 that led to his house arrest, Montazeri described Khamenei’s elevation as “the degradation of Shia marja‘iyya.” A similar process appears to be unfolding again.

A modest income

Following the announcement of Mojtaba Khamenei as leader and the subsiding of the war, one million tomans a month began to be paid for every member of a seminary student’s household, and the allowance is expected to continue. In other words, a clerical family with two children would see its monthly income rise by four million tomans.

Seminary stipends are funded through contributions made to marjas. In the past, each marja’s office paid students directly in cash, with the amount based on the student’s level of study. During the first three days of every lunar month, seminary students could visit the offices of the marjas in person and collect their stipends.

In recent years, at the direction of the Supreme Leader’s office, that system has changed. Payments from the various marjas are now consolidated and deposited onto students’ stipend cards, eliminating the need for them to pay a visit to each marja’s office.

According to information gathered for this report, the maximum monthly seminarian payout had reached roughly 14 million tomans in the Persian calendar year 1405 (March 2026–March 2027). With the addition of Mojtaba Khamenei’s cost-of-living allowance, for a cleric paid by stipend heading a relatively large but not uncommon household of six, the figure has risen to approximately 20 million tomans a month (currently worth about $80 USD at free market exchanges, per Bonbast.com). That remains below the minimum monthly compensation package even for an unmarried entry-level worker in the private sector, currently 21.8 million tomans.

Some seminary students rely entirely on their monthly stipends and have no other source of income. Most clerics, however, also earn money from giving sermons, leading prayers, and similar activities.

Leaving aside prominent preachers, some of whom earn very large sums, dependence on seminary income generally places clerics in the lower-middle-income bracket. For that reason, some choose to leave their seminary positions and secure permanent government or state-affiliated employment.

Under Qom seminary regulations, students who hold permanent jobs and receive insurance through other institutions are removed from the list of those eligible for seminary stipends and services.

A most exceptional student

Although clerics and seminary students do not, on paper, receive a direct share of the national budget and the government does not transfer money directly into their personal accounts, both the seminaries and the Seminary Services Center have dedicated lines in the annual state budget.

The budget allocated to the seminaries is intended for administration, executive bodies, and academic and educational expenses. Funds allocated to the Seminary Services Center, however, are used to cover students’ housing, household goods, health insurance, and welfare services. Seminary students therefore benefit indirectly from public funds, even though not all of the Seminary Services Center’s budget comes from the government. Part of it is provided by the Supreme Leader’s office.

The budget of the Seminary Services Center, listed under line 114084 in the current annual national budget, is 16 trillion tomans. Based on 220,000 seminary students receiving cost-of-living assistance, this amounts to roughly six million tomans per student per month, paid into the center’s accounts.

It is not clear how much the Seminary Services Center receives each year from the Supreme Leader’s office, because the government allocation is not its only source of funding. According to one seminary expert, the leadership also transfers money into the center’s accounts. If the Supreme Leader’s office were contributing an amount equal to the government’s allocation, the per-student figure would rise to around 12 million tomans a month.

The seminary’s housing cooperatives, consumer cooperatives, and healthcare institutions all rely on the Seminary Services Center’s budget to provide students with basic needs.

From this perspective, the sums being paid into seminary students’ accounts in Mojtaba Khamenei’s name can be significant in the lives of many recipients, approaching the per-student amount allocated through the Seminary Services Center.

One reported recipient of shahriyeh, at least until recently, would not have been among those who relied on the stipends for his family’s livelihood: Mojtaba himself.

Earlier this year, an extensive Bloomberg account described how Mojtaba Khamenei had become fabulously wealthy during his father’s nearly 37 years as Supreme Leader. In Great Britain alone, Bloomberg found that his portfolio of luxury property holdings is valued at over £100 million. A March 10 Tehran Bureau report detailed the vast network of businesses and “charitable organizations” through which Mojtaba has acquired assets around the globe worth in excess of $450 million, with some estimates as high as $3 billion. 

On July 27, Expediency Discernment Council member and former Majles speaker Gholam Ali Haddad Adel dismissed claims that Mojtaba Khamenei had massively enriched himself during the past three and a half decades as “lies” in an interview with the Iranian Labor News Agency (ILNA). Haddad Adel, the father of Mojtaba’s late wife, among those killed in the February 28 missile strike, said of his son-in-law: “He was a seminary student and received the same stipend as other seminary students.”

Now that the “seminary student” is Supreme Leader, the favor is being returned in his name. How that happened remains an open question, as does the source of the money, which would amount to several trillion tomans a year, and how long it will flow.

The post Mojtaba Bucks and a Prospective Marja‘iyya appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

When the Iranian owner of an auto-parts factory traveled to Germany to negotiate a new production line over ten years ago, he found suppliers unwilling to absorb even minor costs associated with doing business with Iran. Eventually, sanctions pushed him toward China instead. There, he says, the reception was warmer and the willingness to trade far greater.

But that experience also crystallized what he sees as the central failure of Iran’s relationship with China. Beijing has become Iran’s most dependable oil customer and one of its most important commodity suppliers, yet the relationship has produced little meaningful investment or technology transfer. “Imports from China have helped ensure that the market does not suffer from shortages, but this volume of imports has devastated domestic production,” the factory owner told Resanegar, Tehran Bureau’s economic unit. Without investment, he said, the relationship has remained little more than an exchange of Iranian oil for Chinese goods, a model that keeps shelves stocked but weakens Iranian industry.

The industrialist’s perspective illustrates where Iran stands in its relationship to China, which has come under scrutiny ahead of a planned September 24 meeting between the US and Chinese heads of state. 

Throughout the country’s current conflict with the United States and Israel, Iranian officials have described China as a strategic partner capable of helping the Islamic Republic withstand Western economic and political strain. But a closer look at Iran’s energy exports to China and foreign direct investment figures reveals a relationship that looks less like an alliance than an economic dependency that has been developing for over 20 years. 

Abandoned by sanctions-wary European partners and crippled by internal economic problems, Iran has spent the last two decades turning to China as a strategic partner in both security and economic development. But war and the regime’s continued blockade of global shipping lines, alongside long-term corruption issues and obstructions to foreign investment, have dampened the strength of that relationship. “The problem is not on the Chinese side that the relationship has remained limited to selling oil and buying low-quality Chinese goods,” said the industrialist. “The problem is on the Iranian side. Instead of encouraging investment and dismantling the complicated bureaucracy that prevents investment, Iran is focused only on getting through its immediate day-to-day problems.” 

As Iran looks to China for support in its ongoing conflict with the United States and Israel, Iran’s historic failure to advance its relationship with China beyond oil-for-goods deals and on-paper cooperation agreements shows that this much touted “strategic partnership” has its limits. 

Iran’s foreign minister, Seyed Abbas Araghchi, traveled to Beijing on September 16 to confer with his Chinese counterpart, Wang Yi. The meeting took place days ahead of Chinese president Xi Jinping’s anticipated visit to Washington, DC, where talks over longstanding issues—trade, tariffs, Taiwan, and technology (now including the emergence of powerful artificial intelligence)—will doubtless be accompanied by discussions of Iran and insecurity in the Strait of Hormuz. While Washington is hopeful of winning Beijing’s help in influencing Tehran, China is unlikely to hand Trump its most important source of leverage in this crisis without extracting concessions in return.

“I don’t think China will go very far in stepping in, but I do expect Xi’s foreign policy team to try to ease tensions between the US and Iran,” Vivian Wu, founder of the Sinophone news platform Dasheng Media and a former BBC World News China editor, told Resanegar. “There may also be some mediation behind the scenes, but I wouldn’t expect major commitments to Iran. I think Beijing cares more about managing its relationship with Washington and is unlikely to put that at serious risk for Tehran’s sake. Of course, it will still defend what it considers China’s sovereignty and national interests.”

One big partner

China remains the largest buyer of Iranian oil, an important source of manufactured goods, technology, and infrastructure, and one of the few major economies still willing to maintain extensive commercial relations with Tehran under US sanctions. But that dependence has never been reciprocal. 

In 2025, China was purchasing about 90 percent of Iran’s exported oil—roughly 43 million barrels each month—making Beijing vastly more important to Tehran than it had been when the earlier sanctions regime first began reshaping the relationship. Yet Chinese investment in Iran has remained surprisingly modest. Despite years of announcements and various oil field development schemes, total Chinese investment in Iran has been estimated at less than $5 billion, far below Chinese investment in Saudi Arabia or the United Arab Emirates. Official Chinese figures put bilateral trade in 2024 at $13.37 billion, with China exporting $8.93 billion worth in goods to Iran while importing $4.44 billion.

In 2021, the two countries signed an expansive pact, the 25-Year Comprehensive Cooperation Plan. At the time, the sweeping strategic framework for economic and security cooperation was criticized by Iranian businessmen and members of the public, who argued the agreement turned Iran into a Chinese economic vassal without providing much in return. Regime officials, meanwhile, presented the 25-year plan as a major geopolitical victory obligating China to protect Iran’s interests on the international stage.

Beijing has consistently supported Iran where doing so serves Chinese interests while avoiding commitments that would require it to absorb Iran’s political, military, or sanctions risk. The 25-year plan between Iran and China does not, by itself, appear to create specific enforceable obligations for either party.

“With or without this signed agreement, China would have supported, and continues to support, stability in energy markets, reduced tensions in the Strait of Hormuz, and maritime security,” an economic analyst in Iran, who works with Iranian research institutions and media organizations and asked not to be named for security reasons, told Resanegar. “This has little to do with the 25-year cooperation agreement.” 

There was never, he noted, a security provision in that agreement obligating China to defend Iran militarily. “Rather, the document primarily established a framework for cooperation,” he added. “I do, however, have reliable information that the Chinese side was unhappy about the widespread criticism within Iran surrounding the signing of the agreement and has accused Iran of failing to do enough to advance it.”

Hossein Marashi, secretary-general of Iran’s Executives of Construction Party, recently claimed that China had made a meeting with Majles speaker Mohammad Bagher Ghalibaf, Iran’s special representative for implementing the 25-year agreement, conditional on four demands: “reopening the Strait of Hormuz, refraining from charging ships tolls, resolving the issue with Saudi Arabia, and resolving the issue with the United States.” The economic analyst observed:

“Ghalibaf’s office denied the claim, and China has issued no document or official position confirming it. Nevertheless, the substance of the alleged conditions overlaps significantly with China’s publicly stated interests in reopening Hormuz and reducing regional tensions. China does not necessarily mind watching the United States become bogged down in the Strait of Hormuz, but it does not want a global economic recession or Chinese companies exposed to the risk of US secondary sanctions.”

He continued:

“China supports Iran politically and economically. If supplies cannot be delivered by sea, it will meet some of Iran’s basic needs through overland routes. But implementing the provisions of the 25-year cooperation agreement requires greater effort by Iran, the normalization of Iran’s foreign relations, and an end to Iran’s complete isolation. China will not invest in a country facing this degree of international and regional crisis, because the risks are too high, Chinese companies would be exposed to US sanctions, and it would further intensify tensions between China and the United States.”

The analyst sees Chinese companies’ dependence on and commercial ties with the United States, Iran’s complex bureaucracy, internal divisions within Iran, and the lack of investment security as the principal reasons the 25-year agreement has failed to produce significant results.

For Iranian officials accustomed to describing China as a strategic counterweight to the United States, the limits of the partnership have become increasingly difficult to ignore. Beijing has called for a ceasefire and a return to negotiations and has supported regional diplomatic efforts. But it has not formally assumed the role of Tehran’s protector or direct mediator with Washington. Even the diplomatic choreography has been restrained: President Masoud Pezeshkian failed to secure a formal bilateral meeting with Xi Jinping at either of the two most recent Shanghai Cooperation Organization and BRICS summits, with their interaction at the former confined to a brief conversation on the sidelines.

Maritime blockades

Regime officials have indicated the ongoing maritime blockade in the Strait of Hormuz as a reason for China to step into a more active role as a mediator between Iran and the United States. For Iran, the blockade and disruption to Iranian oil exports threaten one of Tehran’s principal remaining sources of foreign revenue. For China, however, losing Iranian supply is costly and inconvenient, but not existential.

“What worries China is a prolonged shipping crisis and a deepening global economic recession, which could reduce Chinese exports,” the Iranian analyst said.

China remains heavily dependent on imported crude, but it has considerable buffers. Its onshore oil stocks stood at about 1.23 billion barrels in early September, according to Reuters, while domestic production was running at roughly 4.3 million barrels a day. Beijing has also been replacing disrupted Middle Eastern supplies with crude from Russia, Africa, Canada, and South America.

That makes the blockade far more dangerous for Iran than for China. Beijing can draw down inventories, cut refinery runs, and switch suppliers; Tehran, by contrast, risks losing its principal oil customer and source of foreign revenue. The analyst argued that this imbalance helps explain Iran’s efforts to raise the regional costs of the conflict, including through pressure around the Bab el-Mandeb, the chokepoint between the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean. While the Iran-allied Houthis have recently asserted control over the strait, it is difficult for the Islamic Republic to maintain any direct coordination with them.

Meanwhile, the US counterblockade of Iranian ports has disrupted both sides of the oil-for-goods relationship, but not equally. Iranian oil exports to China have fallen sharply, from an average of about 1.4 million barrels a day in 2025 to roughly 534,000 barrels a day in August, according to Kpler data cited by Reuters. Chinese goods have continued to reach Iran through a barter-like system that converts oil revenues into credits for Chinese imports, insulating trade from the international banking system, according to Reuters. However, the arrangement ultimately depends on Iran continuing to sell oil. As the blockade cuts those exports, it also constrains Tehran’s ability to finance future imports from China. 

Leveraging the crisis

Some Iranian media have interpreted China’s changing oil purchases as evidence that Beijing is using the crisis to increase its leverage over Washington. The reformist-aligned Etemad newspaper, for example, argued that China first sharply reduced crude imports and then began raising them again, giving Beijing the ability to influence oil prices as the Trump administration sought to contain the economic fallout from the war.

The underlying trend is real, though the interpretation is harder to prove. Chinese crude imports fell to a near-decade low of 7.12 million barrels a day in June before recovering to 8.41 million in July and 8.93 million in August, according to Chinese customs data cited by Reuters. The decline reflected disrupted Middle Eastern supplies, high prices, weak Chinese demand, and reduced refinery activity; it was not established as a deliberate attempt to pressure Washington.

Still, the theory is revealing of how Beijing’s behavior is being read in Tehran. One Iranian economic analyst interviewed by Resanegar said China had little reason to deploy its influence without “extracting concessions from the United States” and gaining “international prestige” in return. He argued that Beijing is in position to press both sides, able to “use America’s weakened position” to push Washington for concessions while also persuading Iran to reduce instability in the Strait of Hormuz.

Beijing has clear interests in restoring normal shipping conditions, containing energy prices, and preventing a wider regional crisis, but those interests do not necessarily align with Tehran’s. Wu, of Dasheng Media, acknowledged that “oil plays a role” in China’s policy calculations, but it would be wrong to overemphasize its importance to Beijing. “China won’t be happy to find the Strait of Hormuz blocked forever, as it will lead to more chaos,” she said. “China always states that it hates chaos, which is true.”

“No long-term perspective”

Back in Tehran, there is growing concern that regime insiders will simply exploit the relationship with China for personal gain. Despite signing contracts worth more than $80 billion, China has failed to begin work on many of the Iranian oil fields it pledged to develop since 2004. At the same time, Chinese individuals have registered dozens of oil and gas companies and more than 45 patents in Iran, often with the involvement of local business partners, previous reporting by Tehran Bureau has shown. 

The industrialist argues that the deeper problem lies on the Iranian side, where traders and politically connected intermediaries often prioritize short-term profit over technology transfer or industrial development. “They have no long-term perspective,” he said.

He recalled one Chinese manufacturer telling him that, while European and American buyers tended to seek higher-quality Chinese products, Iranian traders routinely pushed for the cheapest goods available. In some cases, these products were intended for China’s own lower-income domestic market rather than export. 

“The Chinese know that, because of our political and international problems, we face many restrictions, and even so they are still willing to work with us,” he said. “But Iran’s economy has fallen into the hands of profiteers, and they think only about their own personal interests. As long as this situation continues, neither China nor any other country will invest in Iran.”

The post Crucial But Shallow: The Iran-China Relationship appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

The people of Iran have almost no direct knowledge of Mojtaba Khamenei, the man the Islamic Republic has proclaimed as its third Supreme Leader. September 8 marked his 57th birthday, yet Iranians have never heard a meaningful speech from him, they know nothing of his political agenda, and they are not even certain he survived the February 28 bombing of the Tehran compound of Ali Khamenei, his father and predecessor.

Under his father’s broad shadow, Mojtaba was widely understood to have wielded considerable power for years without ever holding an official position within the IRI’s sprawling regime. There are virtually no statements on the public record that spell out his intellectual, political, economic, cultural, or social views.

The remarkable absence of information about the Islamic Republic’s paramount figure lends new significance to one of the few firsthand accounts of Mojtaba: that given in 2022 by Mohammad Sarafraz, the former head of state broadcaster IRIB and a long-time player in the circle of power elites within which Mojtaba operated.

Most of what is known about the Supreme Leader has come not even from associates of his but from a yet greater remove. For example, former parliament speaker Mehdi Karroubi, a candidate for the presidency in 2005, described in an open letter to Ali Khamenei how his son had interfered in the election:

“Reports emerged that your respected son, Aqa Seyyed Mojtaba, was supporting one of the candidates. As these reports became more widespread, I became concerned that this might reflect Your Excellency’s position. But my past experiences and my knowledge of you reassured me that this was his [Mojtaba’s] personal view. Later, I heard that a prominent figure had told you, ‘Your Aghazadeh [son] is supporting so-and-so,’ and you replied, ‘He is an Aqa [sir, influential figure], not an Aghazadeh [son of privilege].’”

Such accounts, while hardly illuminating about Mojtaba the man, helped fuel the perception that he was his father’s hand-picked successor, to the point that in 2009, protesters began chanting the slogan, “Mojtaba, may you die before becoming Supreme Leader.”

If Mojtaba Khamenei is indeed wounded but alive—as US president Donald Trump claimed in late August—then there is a major gap between the power he is in a position to exert as the Islamic Republic’s Supreme Leader and the public’s understanding of him. A few recent interviews, with people who are close to him, or claim to be, have been more propagandistic than informative in nature and done little to close that gap. Sarafraz’s 2022 account, by contrast, offers rare and valuable insights.

Sarafraz’s access to power and singular interview

Born around 1961, Mohammad Sarafraz grew up in a working-class neighborhood in southern Tehran. He was a regular at Dakhmeh, a local hosseiniyeh (Shia gathering place) that after the 1979 revolution became a hangout for “pressure groups,” club-wielding enforcers employed by Ruhollah Khomeini’s regime to intimidate ordinary citizens and silence dissent.

In 1992, after earning an MA and PhD in political science, he joined Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB), where he became one of its longest-serving executives. He was chosen by Ali Khamenei to head the network between 2014 and 2016, after spending 22 years as director of its international broadcasting division, IRIB World Services. The division sought to burnish the Islamic Republic’s image through international TV programming and to expand the global network of support for the doctrine of velayat-e faqih (guardianship of the Islamic jurist), under which the Supreme Leader rules.

After stepping down as IRIB chief, Sarafraz was appointed by Ali Khamenei to the Supreme Council of Cyberspace, a position he still holds—despite having become a critic of the Islamic Republic and making statements in interviews that would seem difficult for the regime to tolerate.

In a lengthy 2022 interview, Sarafraz speaks of his close professional relationship with Mojtaba Khamenei over many years. The interview was conducted in Oman by Shahrzad Mirqoli-Khan, an Iranian émigré who had previously worked under Sarafraz, and posted to her YouTube channel.

Mirqoli-Khan, then married to an IRGC intelligence officer, was imprisoned from 2007 to 2012 in the United States after being convicted of forgery and abetting the sale of military materials to Iran. She is believed to have been swapped for an American hiker, Sarah Shourd, detained in Iran in 2009. Upon Mirqoli-Khan’s return to Iran, she was appointed director of the International Relations Department of IRIB subsidiary Press TV. After Sarafraz became head of the network, he appointed her its “special inspector” as part of a broad anti-corruption campaign. In 2016 she left the Islamic Republic permanently for Oman.

Mirqoli-Khan explicitly states that her goal in conducting the interview is to take even the smallest of steps toward preventing Mojtaba Khamenei from becoming Supreme Leader. She describes having personally spoken with Mojtaba and asking him whether he supported Sarafraz’s anti-corruption agenda, to which Mojtaba replied, “Yes. He has been our friend for 20 years, and we will definitely support him.”

Much of the information Sarafraz shares was not publicly known before the interview, and no one at his level has before or since painted such a detailed picture of the figure who now wears the mantle of Supreme Leader. Sarafraz’s motivation for giving the interview remains unclear, and the security officials and others he mentions have never publicly commented on it.

A portrait of Mojtaba, unretouched

Sarafraz emphasizes that he has no familial relationship with Mojtaba Khamenei and says he first encountered him at one of a series of meetings in 1997 of nearly two dozen regime insiders held at the Beyt-e Rahbari compound, the Supreme Leader’s Office. The sessions were convened to decide how to deal with Mohammad Khatami and the 20 million Iranians who had voted him into office as the country’s chief executive. He says:

“After the 1997 presidential election, when Mr. Khatami became president, it was the first time that someone who was not the establishment’s preferred candidate had been elected president. At that time, it was proposed that meetings be held to decide how to deal with this new phenomenon: a president who had been elected with a large number of votes.”

He continues:

“From then on, extensive meetings were held. Various people from the IRGC and other institutions attended, and at those meetings it was proposed that I participate as well. Mr. Mojtaba Khamenei himself also attended some of these meetings. After the meetings, he would take a summary of the discussions and recommendations to the Leader and brief him, or relay points from the Leader to us.”

The meetings did not continue in this format indefinitely. Instead, they became more focused and, according to Sarafraz, more important. He claims that once Khatami left office, the meetings were narrowed down to a small group that included both him and Mojtaba.

“After Mr. Khatami’s presidency, these meetings continued in a different form. The number of participants was reduced, and the meetings were limited to around five people. This continued until I became head of IRIB. After that, circumstances changed and the lines of communication gradually broke down.”

According to Sarafraz, the new five-person group met almost every week. Aside from Sarafraz himself and Mojtaba Khamenei, the two other regular participants were Hossein Taeb, then commander of the Basij and IRGC Intelligence Organization chief, and Hossein Fadaei, a member of the Headquarters for Combating Economic Corruption and later head of the Inspection Division of the Supreme Leader’s Office. The identity of the fifth participant changed depending on the main topic of the meeting.

“The subjects discussed at these meetings were mainly the country’s political affairs. For example, parliamentary elections, presidential elections, assessing different [political] figures, deciding whom to support, who should or should not receive votes, and how the political environment should be managed.”

These remarks are consistent with Karroubi’s letter to Ali Khamenei, in which he protested Mojtaba Khamenei’s election interference.

Sarafraz adds, “Alongside these discussions, Mr. Taeb would also provide reports on security matters, including the situation of political groups, their activities, and how to deal with these matters. However, security details were generally not discussed directly in the meetings. Mr. Taeb would meet privately with Agha Mojtaba to convey certain matters, and they would coordinate with each other.”

From rejecting arbitration to unleashing the crackdown

Mohammad Sarafraz describes the decision to crack down on the nationwide protests after the June 2009 presidential election and the harsh approach to dealing with protesters as resulting from the five-person meetings at the Beyt:

“In 2009, I was head of IRIB’s international broadcasting division. From a media standpoint, we believed that the more spirited and competitive the election was, the better it would be both for the country and for Iran’s image abroad. That’s why we tried to give equal coverage to the campaigns of all four candidates. The main contenders were Mr. [Mahmoud] Ahmadinejad and Mr. [Mir Hossein] Mousavi. In Tehran, the majority of the votes went to Mr. Mousavi, but in many provinces, smaller cities, and rural areas, according to the results announced, Mr. Ahmadinejad had received more votes. This led to allegations of election fraud. Immediately after the results were announced, large numbers of people took to the streets in Tehran, and a massive demonstration took place. We covered that demonstration as well, even broadcasting it live using a mobile broadcasting unit. But later, the head of IRIB at the time and the security agencies prevented us from continuing this coverage and removed the vehicle and live-broadcasting equipment from the streets. After that, the protests continued, and events unfolded that more or less everyone knows about.

“When the disagreements deepened, I suggested, at those very meetings, establishing some kind of arbitration or mediation mechanism so that the issue could be resolved peacefully and those who believed their votes had been disregarded could pursue their demands through a reasonable process. This proposal was also presented to the Leader of the Islamic Republic, but he did not agree. That arbitration and mediation model was never implemented. Then came the Ashura events, the clashes, and the deaths of a number of people.”

Speaking of Taeb’s pivotal role in conveying and implementing security decisions, Sarafraz says:

“Mr. Taeb had a direct line of communication with Mr. Mojtaba Khamenei, and decisions that were made would then become actionable through him. As far as I remember, after the Ashura events, claims emerged that unidentified individuals had burned a Quran or insulted Ayatollah Khomeini’s image and other religious sanctities. I cannot say with certainty whether these claims were true, but in any case, they became a pretext for initiating the widespread crackdown on protesters.”

Detailing Taeb’s relationship with Mojtaba, Sarafraz describes their frequent meetings:

”Mr. Taeb always had stacks of reports with him: reports about the meetings of political groups, various individuals, and some concerning people’s private and personal lives. Of course, we did not see these reports and were not directly privy to their details. Mr. Taeb also had numerous, more extensive meetings with Mr. Mojtaba Khamenei, separate from the meetings we attended. Those reports were certainly very influential. Mr. Mojtaba himself was also very interested in reports of this kind: reports compiled through wiretapping, infiltration, and various methods of gathering intelligence on political and social groups and even specific individuals.

“I was not directly aware of the details of these reports, but we witnessed them being presented regularly. If there had been any opposition to them, naturally, they would have stopped presenting them, but that never happened. These reports were continuously delivered, cited, and even used in decision-making.”

A question of competence

Sarafraz describes Taeb’s modus operandi in internal power struggles, noting:

“Over the years, I witnessed that whenever they wanted to eliminate someone, they would label that person as an ‘infiltrator’ or a ‘spy,’ or even accuse them of being affiliated with ISIS and the like. First, they would make such serious accusations against people, and then they would deal with them accordingly. In my view, this approach was really not honorable.”

Sarafraz argues that the Islamic Republic’s security apparatus in fact became increasingly vulnerable to foreign penetration under Taeb’s stewardship:

“During the period when Mr. Taeb had near-total control over the IRGC Intelligence Organization, the country’s security situation and the problem of infiltration had, in real terms, become much worse. A clear example of this is the increase in Israel’s infiltration of the country. Key figures in the nuclear sector and emerging technologies, as well as influential figures in the Quds Force, were assassinated. Israel targeted various facilities, including the Natanz nuclear facility and centers related to drones. All of this shows that infiltration within the country’s security structures was extremely extensive. Classified nuclear documents were easily taken out of some of the country’s most important facilities without any of these incidents being detected. These are indications of deep security gaps and extensive infiltration within the country’s security structures.”

He adds, “By contrast, many people who were not compromised and innocent were labeled spies and infiltrators. In a way, this became a cover for genuine infiltration to take place in the country, allowing key figures in the security sector to become compromised by foreign powers and the enemy. These are issues whose consequences we are grappling with today.” 

In his opinion, both Taeb and Mojtaba Khamenei must be held accountable for these failings as well as for the repeated mass killings over the past two decades of ordinary Iranians peacefully protesting against the regime.

Mirqoli-Khan asks Sarafraz about claims she had heard regarding Mojtaba Khamenei’s belief in fortune-telling and similar practices. Sarafraz confirms the stories:

“During the period when I was in contact with him, Mr. Mojtaba Khamenei would also sometimes meet with people of this kind [fortune-tellers and soothsayers]. This suggested that such people, who claimed to possess occult knowledge or the ability to predict the future, would offer certain insights, and that some decisions, at least at certain times, were influenced by their advice. As far as I observed, this was the case.”

Sarafraz, however, offers no specific examples of such meetings or decisions influenced by occultists’ advice, and the claims cannot be independently verified.

No evidence of leadership capacity

Sarafraz goes on to assess Mojtaba’s qualifications to lead the Islamic Republic:

“It appears that he had been preparing to succeed his father for many years. I took part in various meetings with him and other friends who were present at the time. He gradually became involved in the country’s security and political affairs, familiarized himself with these areas, and little by little moved into a decision-making role.”

Yet he sees a fundamental difference between father and son:

“Before becoming Supreme Leader, Mr. [Ali] Khamenei served as president. He held important positions in the country, served on the Supreme Council of the Cultural Revolution, and held various military and security positions. Ultimately, he became president, meaning he held the country’s most important executive office. People also knew him. They were familiar with his speeches, his positions, and his record.

“Mr. Mojtaba Khamenei is someone who appears to prefer operating behind the scenes. To this day, he has never addressed the public, taken a public stance, or explained his views to the public. 

“By contrast, someone who is going to occupy the position of Supreme Leader of Iran is, in effect, the country’s most powerful official, because under the current constitution, the Supreme Leader has absolute authority as a jurist. In other words, in addition to the broad powers granted to him by the constitution, he can intervene in other affairs of the country, halt existing processes, or set a new course. The military and security forces are directly overseen by the Supreme Leader, and he also has the power to intervene and make decisions in other matters of state.

“Therefore, someone who is going to occupy such an important position should have previously held important responsibilities, so that there is a basis for determining whether he is capable of handling such a responsibility.”

Referring to Iran’s complex domestic, international, cultural, political, social, and economic challenges, Sarafraz says:

“Running a country like this is not easy, and whoever holds this position must have exceptional managerial abilities. He must be known to the public and have a successful executive track record. Mojtaba Khamenei meets none of these criteria. I have to say, no, he does not meet the requirements to lead the Islamic Republic.”

Repression and resignation—the dismal balance

Drawing on more than two decades of personal association, Sarafraz describes Mojtaba Khamenei’s views on major areas of governance, saying:

“Regarding the numerous social problems, including addiction, theft, informal settlements (shanty towns), divorce, suicide, and other social ills, at least for as long as I was in contact with him, there was no proper solution, not just from him but essentially from the ruling establishment as a whole. The unproductive meetings that were held never produced the desired result.

“In cultural, ideological, and religious issues, he believed only in banning things, imposing restrictions, and preventing access. For example, when the issue of the internet came up, or earlier when satellite [television] was an issue, he believed in banning it. He believed people should not have access to satellite [television], opposed the expansion of the internet, and believed the internet should be completely blocked. He tended to favor prohibitive and restrictive measures, even though experience has shown that these approaches do not work and that one cannot solve a problem simply by banning [things].

“In the economic sphere, I think neither he nor any government has a clear solution to the country’s problems or a proper understanding of economics. I never saw any clear or definite position from Agha Mojtaba on economic issues. In practice, what I witnessed both during my time at IRIB and in the years that followed was that he showed no serious concern about economic corruption, particularly large-scale corruption at the country’s highest levels.”

Sarafraz states that Mojtaba was aware of the systematic corruption in the country but never confronted it, adding:

“We saw numerous examples of corruption at IRIB. We uncovered and pursued various cases, but later, the very person who was in some way involved in those cases became head of IRIB.” Mirqoli-Khan names Abdulali Ali-Asgari, and Sarafraz confirms that is who he was talking about.

Sarafraz agrees with the interviewer’s assertion that Mojtaba supported corrupt currents within the Islamic Republic, saying:

“In the Yas Holding case, which we at IRIB also became involved in through the organization’s tenders, we gradually became aware of the extent of the corruption and the role that very important people played in it. But this case was never properly investigated. Only a small part of it was examined, merely because of pressure from public opinion. Even that was done confidentially and behind closed doors. Sentences were handed down, but later we heard that those convicted spent only a very short time in prison, and there was never any serious or genuine investigation.

“The same pattern was visible in many other economic corruption cases. Whenever a corruption case became prominent in the public eye, they would bring forward parts of the case in an incomplete or staged manner, and even then, not transparently or publicly. They would broadcast a few statements from a well-known judge, who in my view did not have a good record either, along with a few statements from other people. But in the end, it was never clear what became of those sentences or where the cases ultimately ended up.

“In many cases, they would present people who did not have a central role as the primary defendants, for example in cases involving gold coins or foreign currency. But it would later become clear that the corruption was continuing and that the real problem lay elsewhere.

“In my view, there has never been any real investigation at the highest levels into those who control major rent-seeking companies, banks, and the country’s main economic institutions. The main source of corruption, in my view, is the country’s banking system and major rent-seeking companies. Whether in the banks, the so-called revolutionary institutions, the Mostazafin Foundation, the IRGC, pension funds, or other major economic entities, none of them has ever been seriously and genuinely investigated.”

Wealth and concealment—the Mojtaba succession project

Emphasizing that Ali Khamenei never publicly endorsed Mojtaba, the second of his four sons, as his successor, Sarafraz says:

“If we accept that Mojtaba is Ali Khamenei’s choice in the succession issue, there are two likely factors [at play]. The first is wealth and financial resources. A large portion of the country’s wealth is controlled by the Supreme Leader, and over time, that control has only expanded. There are enormous financial resources held by the Execution of Imam Khomeini’s Order, the Mostazafin Foundation, Astan Quds Razavi, religious endowments, and numerous other entities, over which the Leader ultimately has authority.

“Naturally, an important question arises: Who will control this wealth in the future, and how will it be managed? In my view, this is one of the important motivators for maintaining this structure within the same circle.”

The second factor that might have driven Ali Khamenei to choose Mojtaba as his successor, he argues, is preventing the truth behind crimes committed during the father’s tenure from coming to light:

“Important events have taken place in the country over the past several years, but the truth about them has never been fully established. For example, in the events of 2009, the number of people killed and the reason for their deaths; or the [2020] downing of the Ukrainian passenger plane and the many questions surrounding it; and many other incidents. If, following a leadership change, things unfold in a way that allows these cases to be reinvestigated, naturally, many facts will come to light.

“As is common when governments change, every new president criticizes the performance of the previous government and explains its mistakes. Now imagine a similar situation arising with the leadership. In that case, many of the issues of the past could come under scrutiny. Therefore, one could analyze it this way: there is a desire to continue along the same path and maintain the same system of running the country, and the issue of succession to the leadership, although ostensibly carried out by the Assembly of Experts, would in practice remain within the same framework.”

Power out of bounds

One of the glaring attributes of the doctrine of velayat-e faqih is the possession of power without responsibility or accountability—the complete absence of what is known elsewhere as a system of checks and balances. Neither Ali Khamenei, as Supreme Leader, nor Mojtaba, who has held no official position, has ever been required to answer for their decisions and actions. 

This is evident in Mojtaba’s selection as the Islamic Republic’s third Supreme Leader. An individual has taken the seat of sovereignty without presenting a political program, without undergoing any vetting process, and without the most basic information about his views being known to the public. His public appearance as Supreme Leader has been put off for so long that the question of whether he is alive has become a central topic in domestic and international circles.

Proof of life can only be inferred from circumstantial evidence such as the return of Hossein Taeb to one of the country’s most sensitive security positions, through his appointment as commander of the Basij, the militia at the heart of the Islamic Republic’s apparatus of internal repression, despite Ali Khamenei having previously removed him from the position.

Sarafraz’s account shows that Mojtaba was involved in a significant amount of behind-the-scenes decision-making. But influence within the office of one’s father is hardly proof of one’s ability to govern a country under grave duress. It remains unclear what plan he has to pull Iran out of its ongoing military crisis; what he will do about the compounding economic crisis; how will he justify hereditary succession; how independent is he of the IRGC; and, ultimately, how he aims to rehabilitate the government’s shattered legitimacy and create a popular base for his rule.

What we have is the account of a former government official who once had access to Mojtaba Khamenei’s decision-making circle, of which he later became a critic. In the absence of speeches, a political program, an executive track record, or even conclusive evidence of the declared Supreme Leader’s presence at the helm of government, this account offers one of the few windows into his closed world. 

What can be seen through that window is the face not of a tested leader, but of someone accustomed to making decisions and exercising power without having to offer any justifications or face the slightest accountability. It remains unclear whether such a man can step out from the shadows and effectively represent a regime deeply at odds with much of the society it governs.

The post Mojtaba Khamenei: Shedding Light on a Shadowy Leader appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

As late as the mid-1980s, residents of the southernmost shores of the Caspian, watching the sun set over this beautiful body of water, the largest on Earth not connected to the world ocean, could hardly have imagined the setting of another kind: the collapse of a neighboring superpower. Iranians looking north across the Caspian knew that beyond the horizon lay the Soviet Union, which in past eras had repeatedly encroached upon Iranian territory and had once, in an agreement with Britain, occupied northern Iran. By then, however, it had for decades maintained ostensibly friendly relations with Iran and refrained from violating its borders.

Few at the time foresaw that this majestic sea would soon turn into a foreign-policy problem for the Islamic Republic with the USSR’s demise, forcing Tehran into lengthy negotiations with multiple sovereign states over its rights in the Caspian. Those negotiations culminated in the Convention on the Legal Status of the Caspian Sea, which Iran signed in 2018. Eight years later, the government has submitted a bill to the Majles authorizing its ratification.

The treaty would become binding on Iran if approved by parliament, yet it neither determines Iran’s share of the Caspian seabed nor resolves Tehran’s disputes with Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan over maritime boundaries. While ratifying the convention would provide Iran with arguably vital security assurances, it would also eliminate Tehran’s best source of leverage before the borders are determined.

For most of the 20th century, Iran dealt with the USSR as its sole counterpart in the Caspian. The Soviet breakup in 1991 yielded three new Caspian partners, the now independent republics of Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan, and formal discussions among the five littoral states over a new legal regime for the Caspian—encompassing definitions of ownership, the countries’ respective shares, and the boundaries of the seabed and subsoil—began in early 1992. Twenty-six years of multilateral negotiations culminated in the Caspian Convention’s signing by Iran, Russia, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, and Azerbaijan on August 12, 2018, at the Fifth Caspian Summit, held in Aktau, Kazakhstan. 

Then president Hassan Rouhani signed the convention on Iran’s behalf. However, a bill to authorize its ratification was never brought to a vote in the Majles during the remaining three years of his administration, nor during the tenure of his successor, Ebrahim Raisi. The ongoing military conflict with the United States appears to be the primary factor behind the current drive by President Mahmoud Pezeshkian’s administration to finally have the treaty ratified—perhaps facilitated by his friendly relationship with Azerbaijani president Ilham Aliyev. 

It remains unclear whether the legislature, which is holding sessions remotely because of wartime conditions, will take up the bill, which was submitted on August 1 with expedited status. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is the principal public advocate for ratifying the convention, backed by some lawmakers with close ties to the ministry, including Hassan Qashqavi, spokesperson for the Majles’s National Security and Foreign Policy Committee. Behind the scenes, the military establishment is almost certainly supporting the movement to ratify, as its security guarantees appear to matter more to its proponents than its potential economic benefits.

The myth of Iran’s 50 percent share

In 1921, the newly established Soviet government annulled many treaties and concessions dating from the tsarist era and recognized Iran’s equal right to navigation in the Caspian. In return, Iran pledged not to allow its territory to serve as a base for anti-Soviet forces or foreign powers seeking to attack Russia. This became known as the Treaty of Friendship between the two countries.

Article 11 of the 1921 treaty recognized the equal right of Iran and Russia to sail under their own flags. The restriction of Caspian navigation to Iranian and Soviet vessels was reinforced more explicitly in supplementary agreements signed in 1935 and 1940.

Although Iran obtained equal navigation rights in the Caspian under the 1921 treaty, the rules governing trade, fishing, the scope of activity permitted to ships and their crews, and the use of ports remained unclear. After lengthy negotiations, the two countries therefore reached a new agreement, commonly referred to as the 1940 treaty.

Under that treaty, both sides received fishing rights, with a ten-mile coastal zone reserved exclusively for each country’s fishermen. In effect, the agreement restricted use of the Caspian to Iran and the Soviet Union, but it did not establish a maritime boundary, divide the seabed or subsoil, or allocate oil and gas resources.

Because Iran and the Soviet Union were the Caspian’s only two littoral states at the time, many Iranian legal scholars and academics have interpreted the references to “equal rights” and descriptions of the Caspian as an Iranian-Soviet sea as meaning that each country owned 50 percent.

But neither treaty drew a boundary, divided the sea in half, nor assigned Iran a 50 percent share of the seabed or its resources.

The 1954 and 1957 frontier agreements between Iran and Russia confirmed the two coastal endpoints between the countries—the Soviet border towns of Astara in the west and Hosseingholi (Esenguly) in the east. The pacts and the countries’ subsequent practice arguably consolidated the Astara-Hosseingholi line as a de facto boundary between their maritime areas of jurisdiction, leaving approximately 12 to 14 percent of the Caspian on the Iranian side. Nevertheless, the agreements did not expressly establish a maritime boundary or assign Iran a specific percentage of the Caspian, and their legal application to control of the sea has never been openly tested.

Debate over Iran’s share of the Caspian revived in Iranian political and academic circles in 1992. Iran’s negotiating team initially argued that the Caspian should remain jointly owned by the littoral states rather than divided. After the other countries rejected that position, beginning in December 1998 Iran consistently demanded an equal 20 percent share for each of the five littoral states. Heshmatollah Falahatpisheh, former chairman of parliament’s National Security and Foreign Policy Commission, has said the demand for a one-fifth share was based on a decision by Iran’s Supreme National Security Council. The 20 percent proposal was also rejected by the other four parties. 

Whether and how to divide the Caspian according to the length and configuration of each country’s coastline has been one of the principal sources of dispute among the littoral states, particularly for Iran, whose southern Caspian coast is concave. A straightforward application of the median-line principle could therefore place Iran at a geographic disadvantage.

Iran wants the shape of its concave coastline to be treated as a “special geographic circumstance” when the methodology for establishing baselines is determined. Some experts have proposed repurposing the old line between Astara (now in Azerbaijan) and Hosseingholi (now in Turkmenistan) as a baseline from which to draw more favorable median lines in determining Iran’s 15 nautical miles of territorial water.

Clashing interests

In an interview with Entekhab News Agency published on August 22, former Iranian diplomat to the United Nations and international-relations expert Kourosh Ahmadi described the convention as merely a framework for bilateral and multilateral cooperation around the Caspian, without addressing the details of the disputes among the littoral states.

Ahmadi explained that if Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan accepted a straight baseline running from Astara to Hosseingholi, Iran could obtain something close to the share approved by the Supreme National Security Council. Under the convention, this is an issue that Iran must resolve with its two neighbors.

Article 1 of the convention, without naming Iran specifically, states that where the configuration of a coastal state’s shoreline “places that state at a clear disadvantage in determining its internal waters,” that circumstance should be taken into account in establishing the relevant methodology so as to achieve agreement among all parties.

Ahmadi says this provision was inserted into the convention at Iran’s insistence and that a similar point appears in an interpretive statement issued by then foreign minister Javad Zarif concerning Iran’s unfavorable coastal configuration.

Heshmatollah Falahatpisheh has also argued that the current faceoff with the US make this an inappropriate moment to bring the pact before parliament and that, in any event, it offers Iran no benefit while it “will render ineffective the two treaties signed between Iran and the Soviet Union in 1921 and 1940.”

That claim is seemingly belied by Article 20 of the convention, which preserves rights and obligations arising from other treaties. Nevertheless, in areas where the new five-party regime replaces the previous bilateral arrangements, it would become more difficult in practice for Iran to rely on interpretations such as exclusive Iranian-Soviet administration of the Caspian or bilateral joint ownership.

Some critics argue that the Islamic Republic has failed to defend Iran’s rights in the Caspian and that acceptance of the convention would constitute a betrayal of the Iranian people’s rights. According to Falahatpisheh, Russia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, and Turkmenistan have divided the Caspian among themselves via side agreements without taking Iran’s interests into account, and if Iran’s parliament ratifies the convention, it will effectively be accepting that division.

It is still impossible to state definitively what percentage of the Caspian belongs to each state. But if the seabed were divided according to a “modified median line,” as the other four littoral states have agreed among themselves through a series of bilateral negotiations, Kazakhstan would secure approximately 27–30 percent, Turkmenistan 19–23 percent, Azerbaijan 18–21 percent, Russia 16–19 percent, and Iran 11–14 percent.

Kourosh Ahmadi rejects treating these figures as conclusive. He says that until Iran resolves its disputes with Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan over the seabed and subsoil and the parties agree on the method of delimitation, the share belonging to each country cannot be settled. At the same time, he notes that Iran has the shortest coastline on the Caspian. If the other parties accept Iran’s proposed straight baseline, however, Iran’s share could approach the 20 percent it seeks.

A circumscribed convention

While the other four Caspian states have formally ratified the convention, it has not entered into force for Iran. Rouhani’s presidential signature, however, is not entirely without legal consequence. Under Article 18 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties—widely understood as reflecting customary international law—a signatory state is obliged to refrain from acts that would defeat the object and purpose of a treaty, unless and until it makes clear that it does not intend to become a party. This does not require Iran to implement all provisions of the 2018 convention before ratification, but does prohibit it from taking steps that would fundamentally undermine the agreement.

In assessing the present wisdom of ratifying the Caspian Convention, it is worth taking a holistic view of what it does—and what it doesn’t do. The pact, while it contains clearly defined provisions, leaves multiple significant issues unresolved:

Another economic and geopolitical consequence of the convention concerns the construction of subsea pipelines. Under Article 14, the route of a pipeline is determined by agreement among the states whose seabed sectors it crosses; consent from all five Caspian states is not required.

This provision could facilitate construction of a gas pipeline between Turkmenistan and Azerbaijan, making it possible to transport Central Asian gas to Europe without passing through Iran or Russia. Iran would still be able to raise objections on environmental grounds, but the convention does not appear to grant any one of the five states a veto over such a project.

Heshmatollah Falahatpisheh opposes ratification before Iran’s share of the Caspian seabed and subsoil has been determined. He says:

“For now, this convention is Iran’s only source of leverage. If Iran accepts it before determining its share and resolving its disputes with Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan, it will no longer have bargaining power. Moreover, acceptance of the convention would render the two treaties between Iran and Russia ineffective.”

Falahatpisheh also observes that the convention lacks a binding dispute-resolution mechanism. He says Article 21 leaves dispute settlement to negotiation and consultation, while mutual consent of the parties is required to engage in arbitration or other legal mechanisms. Consequently, if Iran cannot reach agreement with Azerbaijan or Turkmenistan, it cannot unilaterally refer the dispute to binding arbitration.

He further argues that once the convention has been ratified and registered with the United Nations, the other four countries, acting in coordination, might even be able to take Iran before the International Court of Justice in The Hague. Whether they could in fact do so without Iran’s consent remains a matter of debate.

Kourosh Ahmadi broadly agrees that the government should first resolve its disputes with Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan before ratifying the convention, although he emphasizes that the convention establishes only the general framework of the Caspian legal regime and does not address the disputed details.

No ratification without delimitation?

Article 8, perhaps the provision most criticized by opponents of ratification, states:

“Delimitation of the seabed and subsoil of the Caspian Sea into sectors shall be effected by agreement between States with adjacent and opposite coasts, taking into account generally recognized principles and norms of international law, in order to enable those States to exercise their sovereign rights to exploit subsoil resources and conduct other legitimate economic activities related to the development of seabed and subsoil resources.”

Critics argue that once the convention is ratified and becomes binding, resolving Iran’s disagreements with its two northern neighbors, Azerbaijan and Turkmenistan, will not be easy. They therefore propose that the government withdraw the ratification bill or make approval contingent upon first resolving Iran’s rights in the Caspian.

Unlike Falahatpisheh, who argues that the convention offers Iran no benefits, Ahmadi believes that the provisions summarized above are valuable. Despite widespread criticism of President Masoud Pezeshkian’s government for submitting the ratification bill to parliament, the timing may reflect security considerations. The bill has been introduced amid growing concerns about Azerbaijan’s relations with the United States and Israel and during the run-up to a Caspian summit in Tehran—originally scheduled for August 12, now reslated for September 23.

Member of parliament Hassan Ghashghavi says:

“It is now the turn of the Islamic Republic of Iran and the city of Tehran to host the next summit of the presidents and leaders of the Caspian littoral states. It is certainly neither appropriate nor desirable for us to host this important international summit while the convention has still not been approved by our parliament.”

Ghashghavi’s argument for ratification focuses on the security guarantees created by the convention. He asserts:

“This document imposes extensive legal and security restrictions on the other littoral states, particularly with respect to the presence of foreign powers, and these are entirely in the interests of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

These remarks refer directly to the convention’s provision that no littoral state may make its territory available to a foreign power for an attack against another Caspian state. In the context of the ongoing war, the perceived value of this proviso appears to have driven the timing of the government’s decision to submit the ratification bill, eight years after it was signed.

An examination of the Caspian Convention shows that it neither necessarily reduces Iran’s share to 13 percent nor affirms Tehran’s demand for 20 percent. Its worth lies in establishing common rules for security, navigation, fishing, and environmental cooperation. Its weakness is that it postpones the issue most sensitive to Iran, the baseline and delimitation of the southern Caspian seabed, to future accommodations.

The central question before parliament, therefore, is not simply whether to accept or reject the convention, but in what order the decisions should be made: Should Iran nail down the treaty’s security guarantees at the expense of its ultimate means of leverage in negotiations over its maritime boundary and baseline? Or should ratification be postponed until Iran has hammered out a satisfactory agreement on its baseline and its rights to the seabed?

The post The Risky Drive to Ratify the Caspian Convention appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

The Kooy-e Daneshgah protests of 1999 were among the largest instances of Iranian student activism since the 1979 Revolution and are widely regarded as a turning point, the first in what built into a flood of at least 60 major episodes of unrest, from local and regional protests to nationwide uprisings, during Ali Khamenei’s last 27 years as Supreme Leader. Campus demonstrations were nothing new; what was unprecedented in July 1999 was the level of violence deployed by the regime against university students and, triggered by that violence, young people’s demands for fundamental transformation of the Islamic Republic.

The initial motive for the protests involved Salam, a leading reformist newspaper that had provided crucial support for Mohammad Khatami’s successful 1997 presidential campaign. On July 6, the paper published a leaked confidential letter written a year earlier by Saeed Emami, a senior Intelligence Ministry official, to the ministry’s chief, Qorban-Ali Dorri-Najafabadi. The letter called for tighter controls on the press and identified several journalists as threats to national security, including Mohammad Mokhtari, who was murdered a few months after the letter was written, in December 1998. His killing was one of what became known as the Chain Murders, a series of assassinations of intellectuals and dissidents that also claimed the lives of other prominent figures such as Dariush and Parvaneh Forouhar. Emami was arrested in February 1999 and died under suspicious circumstances in prison on June 20, 1999.

The day after the publication of his letter, July 7, the Majles approved a legislative amendment granting judges broader powers in cases involving the media and news coverage, while making juries’ role largely advisory. The amendment was widely seen as part of a broader crackdown on the reformist press—a view confirmed when Salam was closed the same day by court order. Students at the University of Tehran responded by staging a protest on July 8, a Thursday, against both the newspaper’s closure and the general tightening of press restrictions.

In the predawn hours of Friday, July 9 (18 Tir), security forces, including military and paramilitary units as well as plainclothes agents, raided the University of Tehran dormitory complex, known as Kooy-e Daneshgah. They beat, injured, and arrested many students and set fire to several buildings. One student, Fereshteh Alizadeh, visiting from Alzahra University in north Tehran, disappeared during the raid. She was never heard from again. A second, Saeed Zeinali, was arrested in its immediate aftermath. Aside from a single phone call to his family, three months later, he was never heard from again.

Following the raid, the protests swiftly escalated, with students barricading themselves in the dormitory, holding mass rallies on campus, and clashing with security details and regime-aligned thugs on the streets. They became the first major protests in Iran to call explicitly for the ouster of Supreme Leader Khamenei. On July 11, the unrest spread to Tabriz, where students gathered to protest the regime and what was taking place in the capital. After several days of chaos in and around the University of Tehran, the intensity of the regime forces’ violence and students’ recognition of how incapable President Khatami’s nominally reformist administration was of restraining it brought an end to the uprising.

Two years after the Kooy incident, a number of individuals who participated in the dormitory attack were tried on various charges; all were acquitted except Oroujali Babarzadeh, a conscripted soldier who was convicted of stealing an electric razor during the raid. Despite this mark on his record, he was later employed by the police force, where he rose to the rank of colonel.

As part of an ongoing Tehran Bureau oral history project, journalist Pezhman Tahavori, who gained access to Kooy-e Daneshgah on the morning of July 9, describes what he witnessed there, on the rest of campus, and at nearby scenes of unrest over the following four and a half days; he also reflects on Khamenei’s lengthy reign. A lead reporter for Iran, the official government daily, Tahavori began covering parliament for the newspaper in 1998 and resigned seven years later, after Mahmoud Ahmadinejad became president.

Ahmadinejad’s involvement with the Basij, the militia that operates under the aegis of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, has long been rumored. Between 1997, when he was replaced as governor of Ardabil province by Khatami, and 2003, when he was elected mayor of Tehran, Ahmadinejad received his doctorate in traffic and transport engineering from the Iran University of Science and Technology in northeast Tehran, lectured there, and twice ran unsuccessfully for public office.

In Revolutionary Iran: A History of the Islamic Republic, Michael Axworthy describes Ahmadinejad during this period as having “close connections to the Ansar-e Hezbollah street fighters who periodically broke into offices or disrupted meetings of the reformists…enforce[d] hejab…[and] reprimand[ed] couples holding hands in parks. Many of them were present or former members of the Basij.” The extent of those “close connections” has not previously been clear. Tahavori’s eyewitness account of the future president leading an attack by motorcycle-riding brawlers on the offices of the Islamic Republic News Agency on July 12, 1999, is the first such account on the record.

I was the first one to arrive at Kooy-e Daneshgah and the last to leave. When I got there, I was the only reporter on the scene. I stayed there from Friday until Tuesday night, when it was all over. I was there around the clock. When they attacked the Kooy on Thursday night, there were no reporters there, and no one really knew what had happened. But by Friday night, the place was crowded with journalists from all the media outlets because the news had reached everyone by then.

In Iran, [newspaper] journalists have Thursdays off and work on Fridays. We usually went into the newsroom around noon on Fridays to put together the Saturday morning edition. I usually went hiking on Thursdays. But unlike my usual routine, I went hiking early that Friday morning. When I came down from the mountain, I thought, I might as well go to the office, get my reports ready, finish up, and head home early. I didn’t want to have to stay until seven or eight that evening.

When I arrived at the Iran newsroom at around 9:30 a.m., Mr. Bolouri, a well-respected journalist, was the only person there. I went over to the political desk and noticed that the message light on our office phone was blinking. We had three unheard voicemail messages. The first two weren’t important, but the third was from a young man whose voice was panicked: “Hurry! They blew up Tahkim [Vahdat]’s office last night, and killed everyone there.”

I immediately went to get Mr. Bolouri. He came over, listened to the message, and said, “Go to Tahkim and see what’s going on.”

Before leaving, it occurred to me to call Ali Afshari, who was then the secretary of Daftar-e Tahkim-e Vahdat [Office for Strengthening Unity, a national student organization], and see what he knew.

Tahkim-e Vahdat had an old building in the back streets off Jomhouri Street where they held some of their meetings and gatherings. Based on the voicemail, I assumed that was the building that had been blown up. But when I called Afshari’s home number, he answered. I asked, “Ali, what’s going on?”

“Nothing happened at Tahkim last night,” he said. “They attacked the Kooy-e Daneshgah. Apparently things were pretty chaotic, but I haven’t gone there myself yet. That’s just what I’ve been told.”

I immediately got a car and went to Amirabad [St. and Keshavarz Blvd.]. When I got there, police had completely blocked off North Amirabad. There were a lot of Honda motorcycles there…the ones Basij members are always riding around on. The place was crawling with Basijis.

I started walking toward the dormitory, but the police were not letting anyone pass unless they asked questions and made sure the person actually lived in one of the nearby alleys. I asked a soldier, “Who is your commander?”

He pointed me to a police colonel. I went over to him and did the whole polite routine: hello, how are you, khaste nabashid [roughly, “excuse me, sorry to bother you”], khoda ghovat [roughly, “you’re working so hard”], and so on. I told him, “I’m a journalist. I’m here to cover the news, and I want to go inside.”

He said, “If you have the guts, go right ahead.” Those were his exact words. I said, “Okay, thank you very much.” He opened the gate. As I was about to pass through, he called me back and said, “I don’t think you understood what I said. If you go up there, the students will hit you with rocks. You can go if you want to, but be very careful..”

Back in the day, we all carried a clipboard with brown paper sheets that had the newspaper’s logo on them, which we used as a writing pad. I had that clipboard and the papers in my hands, and my recorder was in my pocket.

As I got close to the Kooy entrance, rocks started flying toward me. I don’t know where they had gotten the rocks from, but the whole area was full of them. Maybe there was a construction site nearby, or maybe they had gathered them from the garden beds … The students were throwing rocks at anyone who tried to approach.

I held the clipboard over my head and shouted, “Stop throwing! I’m a journalist!” I wasn’t afraid. I kept moving forward … A few rocks hit me, but I made it.

When I reached the young men throwing rocks, they started pulling me in every direction, and I kept telling them I was there to cover the news. My impression was that I was the first journalist to get in, because they immediately started debating whether they should let journalists in at all. That initial group that had gathered there hadn’t thought that far ahead. Then one of them shouted, “Only let the reformist journalists in.”

That was the era of reformist newspapers, after all. When I told them, “I’m a reporter for Iran newspaper,” the question became: Was Iran a reformist newspaper or not? I went back and forth with them for quite a while trying to convince them. 

Until that day, there had been a great deal of uncertainty about Iran newspaper. After all, it had long been regarded as [Akbar] Hashemi Rafsanjani‘s platform and had supported [Ali Akbar] Nategh [Nouri], so the public viewed it very differently. But Iran ended up surprising everyone.

When I entered the Kooy, I saw blood everywhere; all the students there were injured. Their bodies were covered with wounds, and their clothes were covered in blood. There were signs of clashes, and the attackers had completely burned down several areas. I noticed there were a lot of young men and women holding bloodied clothes up in the air. They were chanting. There were some highly charged slogans.

Later, when that photo of Ahmad Batebi was published and he was arrested, I always felt, as someone who had witnessed that scene, that he had been singled out. Many other people were holding up bloodied shirts that day. I don’t know whether Ahmad Batebi had already been under surveillance before then, but that photo, and that pose, were not unique to him. Many young men were holding their shirts up like that.

I started asking everyone who the attackers were. The only person whose name everyone knew and whom they had seen was Masoud Dehnamaki. So, in my report that was published in Iran the next day, I wrote that Masoud Dehnamaki had commanded the attack on the dorm. Dehnamaki sued Iran over that report. But he never said, “I wasn’t there that night” in court. He said, “I was there that night, but as an observer. I was not involved in those things. I did not beat anyone.” The court ruled in favor of Iran newspaper, which confirmed that my report was correct.

Around 11 a.m., I was standing in front of the Kooy when Faezeh Hashemi’s car pulled up. She was the first person to enter the dormitory for an inspection. I was a parliamentary reporter at the time and knew her from parliament, and she knew me too. I went over and greeted her. Faezeh asked me what was going on. I said, “You have to see it for yourself. It’s not something I can describe.”

Faezeh and I went through the halls one by one. The police were with us too. One of the dormitories that had been set on fire was for visually impaired students. These poor students were crying. They said they didn’t know what was happening, but they could hear people crying out in pain, people being beaten, and then they could smell something burning.

It was very shocking. It was a very painful moment to see what had happened there.

Some time after all of this, I was at a gathering at the home of a well-known film director. One of the directors there said something interesting, and I really don’t know how credible it was. He said the main reason they attacked Kooy-e Daneshgah that night was not over the Salam newspaper issue. 

The young man who was killed during that incident, Ezzat Ebrahimnejad, was a conscript. He was not actually a student, but he was killed inside the dormitory. He told me that this young man had taken a copy of the actual confession videos of Saeed Emami, which were classified, out of his barracks. They had attacked the dormitory to find that video, and when they couldn’t find it, they set fire to several buildings where they suspected the video might have been.

He was not someone who had firsthand knowledge of it. He said that someone who worked with the security apparatus had told him this and asked him to make a film about it. But he said he was afraid of getting caught up in the rivalries between Iran’s intelligence organizations, because he believed the IRGC [Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps] was behind the attack. He said the Ministry of Intelligence wanted this information to come out and wanted a film to be made about it. That director said he was afraid of getting involved in this game, but he said he thought it was an interesting subject to make a film about.

Around 1 p.m. on Friday, two buses pulled up and dropped off a large number of students. They were students who had been beaten and taken away the night before. They all had bandaged heads, their faces were bruised, and some had broken arms that had been wrapped and splinted. You couldn’t tell whether they were being brought back from a clinic or from a detention center, but whatever the case, no one dared to speak. When you tried to talk to them, they refused to say anything. The buses that brought them back were IRGC buses. 

The atmosphere at the university was very tense that day. All the officials started coming one by one. Abdollah Nouri came. [Mostafa] Tajzadeh came. The Khatami administration was doing everything they could to calm the students because they did not want the situation to become more inflamed.

The students were divided into two camps, and you could clearly see this division inside the Kooy. On one side were the Tahkim-e Vahdat students; on the other was the United Student Front, led by [Heshmatollah] Tabarzadi. The United Student Front’s views did not fit within the framework of reformism, nor did its members consider themselves reformists in that sense. 

Tahkim students were trying to bring everyone back inside the Kooy, hold their gathering there, and keep the protests inside the dormitory. But the United Student Front kept trying to move the crowd outside, saying that they had to go toward the Beyt [Beyt e-Rahbari, headquarters of the Supreme Leader].

I remember that Mr. Tajzadeh gathered the members of the Central Council of Tahkim. At the time, that was Afshari…, Akbar Atri, and several others. He told them very firmly not to let students out of the Kooy, and to hold them there by any means necessary.

I heard this directly from Tajzadeh. “The IRGC has warned that if students set foot on Enghelab Street, we will open fire on all of them. No one should even think about going toward the Beyt.”

The United Student Front was viewed as somewhat suspicious. They had managed to find some supporters on university campuses, but they did not have a very strong base, because at that time Tahkim had almost complete dominance over universities across Iran.

The reason I say people were skeptical of them was that Tabarzadi was the one who first promoted “Imam Khamenei” in his magazine. For a period during the Hashemi era, they attacked and criticized Hashemi. Then he started the “Imam Khamenei” thing, and he also published a university magazine that many people considered very hardline. Then suddenly, he switched to this side. Political observers were suspicious of them because they thought these people were working for the security apparatus. But I cannot really say whether those suspicions were correct or not.

One interesting thing I can mention is that a few days after the Kooy events, [state] television aired the confession videos of Manouchehr Mohammadi, his brother, and some other United Student Front members who had been arrested.

Three days before the Kooy incident, there was a gathering at the Faculty of Medicine at the University of Tehran that I had gone to cover. I don’t remember who the speaker was, but I do remember that the hall was packed. I was sitting in the front row, taking notes, when a student came over and whispered in my ear, “There’s a crowd at the entrance to the University of Tehran. I think you might find it interesting.” That was all he said to me, and then he left.

There were a lot of reporters in that hall, and I felt that if something had really happened at the university entrance, that was more important. So I got up and went to the entrance.

When I got there, I saw that the United Student Front group, Tabarzadi and the others, had gathered at the entrance. The Basijis had also gathered there. They were taunting each other, trading challenges, and chanting slogans when it suddenly turned into a physical confrontation. One of Tabarzadi’s people was making a big scene and causing a lot of commotion. 

I don’t know whether these Basijis were from the Ministry of Intelligence, the IRGC, or somewhere else, but they were people who were clearly security types, the kind who wore their shirts untucked over their pants. I was watching all of this happen right in front of me. Without drawing anyone’s attention, they grabbed this guy from behind, pulled him out of the crowd, put him on a motorcycle, and took off.

When they aired the confession videos of the Mohammadi brothers, I realized that they were showing that same guy and footage from the gatherings at the University of Tehran entrance as footage from Thursday night, the night of the attack. They were passing off the unrest and destruction from that day as if it had happened at the Kooy.

Since I had been there myself, I immediately told the photographer, “I need these photos.” Because wherever I went to cover a story, I took a photographer with me. I had the photography department print all those photos, along with the footage from the video they had broadcast. We put them side by side, and I was right. These gatherings, and the confessions they were showing, none of them had anything to do with the Kooy. They were all from three days before the Kooy incident.

I took all of this to Mr. [Fereydoun] Vardi-Nejad’s office, who was the managing director of the newspaper and also held a media-related position at the Supreme National Security Council. He was very surprised. He said, “This is a very important story. I need to send this to the president’s office right away.” So I handed it to him, and he took it from there.

The university was very crowded on Friday, and the clashes on campus became very intense that night. The next day, there was a gathering in front of the university. A lot of people came. It was one of the largest student gatherings of that decade. Once it ended, the students went back to the Kooy.

On Saturday night, the Basijis came to Amirabad Street. The police had set up a barricade. The Basijis were behind the police, and the students were on the other side. Students were throwing stones, and police were firing tear gas.

Suddenly, an elderly woman, who looked to be around 70, maybe 67 or 68, walked over to the group of students with covered faces who were chanting the most radical slogans. She handed them a container and said, “There’s gasoline in here. Go make Molotov cocktails and defend yourselves. You won’t be able to take them on with rocks.” Those were her exact words.

It was as if they had suddenly discovered a new source of strength. They immediately ran to the dormitory cafeteria, grabbed empty soda bottles, filled them with gasoline, lit them, and started throwing them toward the other side.

Where that woman had come from is a mystery. She appeared, handed them the gasoline, and disappeared. I don’t think anyone else even noticed her. I just happened to be standing there at that moment. This is something I saw with my own eyes.

There were probably things going on behind the scenes. At that time, the reform movement was getting stronger every day and gaining a more serious base of support. The system was afraid, genuinely afraid, because they had completely lost the parliamentary elections. I remember when the election results were announced, the incumbent members of parliament were losing their minds. A group of us parliamentary reporters went to Ayatollah [Mohammad Reza] Faker. I asked him, “What do you think about what happened?” He knocked my recorder out of my hand and threw it aside. He said, “You journalists, these newspapers, you destroyed [everything]…”

That was the atmosphere. They were very afraid of the reform movement and wanted to regain control. This system has always shown that whenever it wants to control something, it resorts to violence because it knows that in a violent confrontation, it has the upper hand.

Everyone was still at the Kooy on Sunday. If I remember correctly, that was the day of the Esteghlal–Persepolis [football] match. The United Student Front people were pushing the idea that we should get the crowds coming back from the stadium to join us and take the gathering out onto the streets. But the Tahkim students were trying to keep them inside the Kooy. They brought Ezzatollah Sahabi to persuade the students not to go out. 

I remember Sahabi’s speech was the most calming speech a political figure could have delivered under those circumstances; he told students not to get drawn into any confrontations. But when Ali Afshari and Ezzatollah Sahabi were tried, they were portrayed as the people who had incited the students. I wanted to go and testify that what the court was alleging against Afshari and Sahabi was completely false. But Vardi-Nejad wouldn’t let me. He said, “You’re a journalist, and you shouldn’t get involved in this.” But I was genuinely prepared to testify in court.

On Monday, we were not at the Kooy. The gathering was on campus. Professors had announced a gathering at the university mosque, so we went there. They announced a sit-in in the university prayer hall after the noon prayers and Basijis attacked that sit-in. The Basijis had a plan. They wanted to turn gatherings violent so they could crack down and bring the situation under control. They abandoned the restraint they had shown during the first day or two, when they had stepped back somewhat and were mostly standing by and watching. After the attack on the prayer hall, the students moved into the street above [campus], toward Keshavarz Boulevard, and the clashes became very intense.

There were also acts of vandalism in the [Tehran Grand] Bazaar and elsewhere to create the impression that there was widespread unrest and chaos. They had simultaneously started [to escalate tensions on multiple fronts to [justify the] crackdown on the students. They bussed obash [thugs] into the bazaar, and they started attacking people’s shops. Ahmadinejad gathered his goons, and they attacked a news agency. 

I was calling the newspaper almost every hour to let them know what was happening and what was going on. That day was pure chaos. I was around Valiasr Square when I heard the news.  When I called, they told me there was chaos in the bazaar but you should go to the news agency. The Islamic Republic News Agency’s office was further up Valiasr Street. You had to go a little farther up Valiasr Street [from the square] to reach it.

Back then, Ahmadinejad was the head of the Professors Basij. We had the Student Basij and the Professors Basij, and he was also a member of the Islamic Society of Engineers, which was headed by [Mohammad Reza] Bahonar. Ahmadinejad was leading the enforcers. He was one of the club-wielding thugs.

I saw Ahmadinejad with my own eyes. He and his motorcycle-riding club-wielders had attacked the news agency. There weren’t just one or two of them; there were at least 50 motorcyclists. Some were carrying clubs, others were carrying flags. The news agency had immediately called the police, who had surrounded the building to prevent [the thugs] from entering or damaging the building and its windows. If someone has access, it’s all in the agency’s wire reports. You can find it in the archives.

I don’t remember whether they had broken any windows or not, but they had created a very tense atmosphere overall. I’m telling you, they were riding motorcycles from one side of the city to the other, wreaking havoc.

Around four or five in the afternoon, when students were leaving campus, they started beating them. I witnessed scenes of direct gunfire. At one point, a bullet struck a tree branch above my head, and it fell right in front of me. They were not firing directly at the students; they were shooting into the air, but it created an incredible sense of fear.

Khamenei’s initial reaction was actually very sympathetic toward the students. He tried to reassure them. He gave a speech and said, “Even if the students tore up my picture, even if they said things [about me], no one should retaliate.” He downplayed it as an incident that had occurred and instructed the judiciary to look into the matter. He adopted a somewhat fatherly stance.

But that fatherly posture was only for show. Despite his public display of sympathy, Khamenei unleashed the Revolutionary Guards on the students and the IRGC attacked the very next day.

On that final night, they had created an atmosphere of sheer terror. Earlier that afternoon, they had opened fire on the students, forcing them to flee. Once it got dark, around dusk, there was not a single student left in the streets. The entire length of Amirabad Street had been taken over by the Revolutionary Guards and the Basij. 

Back then, we didn’t have mobile phones or anything like that. We would call the newspaper from public phone booths near the dorms, read our reports and news updates over the phone, and they would write them down and publish them. The only people going back and forth between the newspaper and the university were the photographers, who delivered rolls of film so they could be developed and printed. That night, I called the newspaper, and [my editor] Nouri said, “I’m coming tonight.”

Before becoming Iran newspaper’s political editor, Mr. Nouri had been in the Revolutionary Guards with Vardi-Nejad, and Vardi-Nejad had brought [a few of] them from the Guards to work at the paper. 

He came, and Mr. Nouri and I went to see what was happening at the dorms. The IRGC had sealed off the area and wouldn’t let anyone enter. There were also vans with metal grills that they had placed throughout the streets. Anyone they suspected was a student or mokhalef [opposed to the regime], they would immediately shove into those vans and take away. I saw a few young people shoved into the vans like that. I remember seeing a woman stop and start shouting [in protest] when she saw this. They beat her with a club, threw her in the same van, and took her away.

After having spent four or five days and nights there, I had started to look like a Basiji myself. I hadn’t shaved for several days, my clothes had begun to smell, and I looked just like them. We even carried a copy of Kayhan newspaper with us, just to complete the Basiji look so they would let us do our job. When we reached the entrance of the Kooy, all the Tehran IRGC commanders were there. Mr. Nouri knew all of them. He stood there chatting with them.

Out of nowhere, a Revolutionary Guard came over and grabbed my wrist, as if he had caught an infiltrator or a spy. He started questioning me: “Who the heck are you? What are you doing here?”

I calmly said, “I’m Haj Mohammad’s soldier.”

He said, “Who’s Haj Mohammad?”

I pointed him out. Mr. Nouri was talking with the commander of the IRGC’s Tharallah Headquarters. Once [the Guard] saw that, he realized I was one of their own and left me alone. 

That night, they kept riding up and down Amirabad Street on motorcycles and in cars, screaming “Heydar, Heydar.” The Basijis had another chant as well: “Where are the sissies? They’re hiding in their holes,” trying to provoke and humiliate the students. You could see some students peeking out from the dormitory rooftops to see what was happening in the street. That was how they ended the protests that night.

Were you really one of them?

I absolutely was not one of them. We were very hopeful about reform in those days. I myself entered journalism [because] I felt there was an opening, a space where we could work and bring about change. We had turned a known conservative publication like Iran into a reformist one. 

Seeing the press gain momentum was itself a sign to us that things were working and that changes were taking place. When the reformists won control of the Majles, we thought that now that we had both the executive and legislative branches, we would certainly achieve some successes and be able to accomplish things. 

We truly did not think the system would resist the reform movement to this extent. We thought the system would eventually accept reforms, yield to them, and that those reforms would lead somewhere. But we later realized that was not happening, because Khamenei showed tremendous rigidity.

I think if you look at the 27-year period between July 9, 1999, and July 9, 2026, when Khamenei was buried, you can clearly see the erosion of his legitimacy. On 18 Tir 1999, Khamenei himself was not yet the focus of popular or student movements. Attention was directed toward military and police officials, or figures like [Ahmad] Jannati. I remember that the main slogan at the University of Tehran at the time was: “Pinochet Jannati, Iran will not become Chile.” But after the Kooy incident, the “Jannati” in the slogans immediately changed to “Seyyed Ali.”

One of the reasons Khamenei refused to remove Jannati until the very end was precisely because of these slogans. A major student demand at the time was Jannati’s removal because of the Guardian Council’s vetting process, the disqualifications during the Sixth Parliament elections, and everything that was preventing the reform movement from moving forward. This was a major issue at the time. Khamenei stood behind this man and refused to remove Jannati until the day he died. Even when it became clear that Jannati was no longer in control of his own body and needed adult diapers, and his mind was gone. It’s no joke; the man is 100 years old. He held on to Jannati’s decaying corpse, but he refused to yield to even the smallest of the people’s demands. This shows that Khamenei simply wanted to defy the public and kept him in place out of sheer stubbornness.

The point I want to make, and I think it is important to pay attention to, is that 18 Tir was the first moment when politicians and domestic critics realized that this system was willing to pay any price and use any level of violence to preserve itself, but it would not accept reform. 

When you look at the period between these two anniversaries, you can see how Khamenei went from someone who publicly apologized to students and even shed a few tears, to someone who, on the eve of January 8, 2026, issued the kill order, and the massacre was carried out with his direct approval.

When he came out and said, “These are undesirable elements, both in the eyes of the people and in the eyes of the Islamic government,” he was, in effect, calling for their elimination. Or when, the year before, he said, “The God of the 1980s is still with us,” he was effectively calling for executions and a crackdown, because the 1980s were the decade of mass executions and repression.

Throughout the years, the more Khamenei’s legitimacy collapsed, the more brutal he became, the more he gravitated toward violence, and the more he turned to repression. It reached a point where, at the end, they carried out a massacre [in January], killing people in that way, firing live ammunition at people in the streets, and shooting young people in the eyes, something unprecedented in the history of the Islamic Republic itself.

Mohsen Makhmalbaf has a film called The President. It is an interesting film. It shows that when a person reaches a certain level of dictatorship, their actions are no longer guided by rationality. Power puts you in a position where all you want to do is keep using that power and constantly demonstrate it to society.

He never once came out and said, “Okay, this is the point where I need to return to the people.” Because he felt he was on a path of no return: a path where, if he took even one step back, he would lose everything. He remained on that path until the very end and was even killed that way, but he was never willing to stand with the people at any point, because he knew that the people no longer wanted him and no longer liked him.

That is why he kept trying to emphasize his ideologies, give more prominence to non-Iranian groups, and build a transnational image of himself. In the end, he destroyed himself and left behind a dark chapter in the history of the Islamic Republic that will not be forgotten for years to come. A government that ruled Iran through five decades of repression has endured, and what its fate will be remains uncertain.

In the beginning, slogans were never directed at Khamenei. They were about much more peripheral issues. I remember going to the 40th-day memorial, or perhaps the first anniversary, of the Forouhars at the Safi Ali Shah Sufi lodge near Baharestan Square. The people who had come were, as Iranians say, “suit-and-tie types”—well-dressed, polished people. They were members of the religious-nationalist movement, the Freedom Movement, and the National Front who had come to attend the Forouhars’ memorial.

Parastoo Forouhar spoke, and then Mr. Sahabi started speaking when suddenly a group of Basijis stormed in and started beating everyone with clubs. They did not care who these people were. Most of them were elderly men and women. They just started beating everyone.

It was a small, enclosed space, and these poor people had no way out. Then [the Basijis started] chanting “Heydar, Heydar” and other slogans. Suddenly, the people there started chanting “Death to Khamenei.” You could say it was out of desperation because they had no escape route and no way to defend themselves. At the same time, they did not want to stand there and surrender, so they started chanting “Death to Khamenei.”

Two or three days later, I had an interview scheduled with Dr. [Mohammad] Mirmohammadi, who at the time was the head of the Beyt’s auditing department. After the interview, I told him about what had happened. I said that a group of people had gathered respectfully to hold a memorial ceremony when the Basijis stormed in, and this is what occurred.

Mirmohammadi’s face turned red. I spoke to him in a friendly manner, like someone offering sincere advice. I told him: “Today, they chanted ‘Death to Khamenei’ inside the Safi Ali Shah lodge, in an enclosed space where no one could hear them. But if this chant reaches the streets, you will no longer be able to contain it. Your behavior has to change a little.”

You won’t believe it, but even hearing this was difficult for Mirmohammadi. He became flustered by what I was telling him.

And well, that is exactly what happened. Not only did people begin chanting “Death to Khamenei” in the streets, they openly chanted: “Our shame, our shame, our disgraceful leader.” Of course, these were among the most restrained slogans that have been chanted in recent years. They went much further than this, with obscene insults directed at Khamenei, his wife, and his children…

My point is about Khamenei’s beginning and his end: that the process through which Khamenei became the figure he ultimately became did not happen overnight. It began on July 9, 1999, when it became clear to him that there was a current inside the country that was moving beyond this structure.

If you recall, during a Participation Front campaign event at Shiroudi Stadium for the Sixth Parliament elections, Saeed Hajjarian gave a very historic speech. It was a very fiery speech which, in my opinion, sealed the fate of the reformists. He explicitly said: “We must throw all of them into the dustbin of history, every last one of them.” Those were his exact words. He said: “We must make the leadership accountable, and we must  place the leadership within the bounds of the Constitution.”

When he heard those statements, Khamenei fully realized that he was dealing with a movement whose reform agenda had no limits. They were seeking to create a different structure within the Islamic Republic. This was Khamenei’s assessment of the reform movement. They realized that if they [reformists] were allowed to continue through the electoral system, if they were not stopped, all of these exclusions and changes would take place.

Of course, these were only the avant-garde elements of the reform movement; not all reformists thought this way. But that speech was a turning point, and members of Daftar-e Tahkim-e Vahdat were among his [Hajjarian’s] supporters.

That year, the Tahkim-e Vahdat was a completely reformist political movement, fully within the system’s framework. Under no circumstances was Tahkim considered an opposition or anti-establishment movement. 

18 Tir lit the first spark within Tahkim-e Vahdat. The generation that came after Afshari and the others, people like Abdollah Momeni, who became known as the Allameh faction, were completely anti-establishment and said, “We are no longer reformists; we are change-seekers.” They joined with the nationalist-religious groups and the Freedom Movement of Iran and created their own change-seeking movement outside the 18 Tir reformist groups.

They could not outright say they wanted to overthrow the regime, because they would not have been allowed to operate. They used the language of change-seeking, but in reality they were looking to overthrow the system. In other words, they began the process of moving beyond the system. 

Of course, the system itself played a major role in this. Instead of accepting their demands, cooperating with them to some extent, and showing some flexibility, they tried to split Tahkim-e Vahdat into two factions and create a pro-government faction within it. They created the Shiraz faction of Tahkim, which was a completely security-driven project directed by the Kayhan newspaper. Unfortunately, Mr. [Mostafa] Moein, who was part of President Khatami’s government, became its executor.

Dividing Tahkim pushed the Allameh faction further toward regime change and turned it into a completely anti-establishment political movement. Gradually, they all ended up in prison, and Tahkim went from being a movement aligned with the system to one that the establishment had lost control of. This was the result of the way the government dealt with them.

If you go back through the history of the Islamic Revolution, you see that Rafsanjani was essentially the person who brought Khamenei into prominence. He took Khamenei under his wing and brought him into the Revolutionary Council.

Khamenei was the only clerical member of the Revolutionary Council whose appointment order Khomeini was unwilling to issue directly. In the order he issued for Khamenei, he did not address Khamenei himself; he addressed Hashemi Rafsanjani. He said: “I am appointing him to the Revolutionary Council based on your recommendation.” For anyone else Khomeini appointed, he issued the order directly and said: “I am appointing this person.” But when it came to Khamenei, he was unwilling to do so.

The major turning point came during Khamenei’s presidency, when he had essentially become a ceremonial figure. Mir Hossein [Mousavi] coordinated all of his plans with Hashemi [Rafsanjani], and Hashemi coordinated with Khomeini. Khamenei did not approve of Hashemi’s approach, but at the same time, he lacked the power to stand up to him.

Hashemi was the one in charge from the very beginning. He helped advance Khamenei within the system. Hashemi was actually the one who made him Supreme Leader.

Naturally, when Hashemi was the person who made him leader, Khamenei was expected to listen to him. And in the beginning, he did. Early on, he coordinated all of his actions with Hashemi, but not because of any affection for him or because he particularly respected him; it was because of Hashemi’s power.

Once Khamenei was able to establish himself, he began restricting Hashemi’s influence. He did not want to be seen as attached to him, but in the beginning he had no other choice. Hashemi was commander-in-chief of the armed forces when Khamenei was president. This man was head of the Defense Commission in parliament, then became commander of the Revolutionary Guards, and later became president. Yet when Khomeini wanted to hand over command of the war to someone, he gave it to Hashemi, not to him. Khamenei was the first commander of the Revolutionary Guards, meaning he had a military background. In fact, at that point Khamenei was more of a military figure than a cleric. But even so, Khomeini did not give him command of the war. In other words, Khomeini held Khamenei in little regard. It was Hashemi’s power that always forced Khamenei to coordinate with him. He could not do anything without Hashemi’s permission.

Look, Khamenei used to be Hashemi’s tenant before the revolution. When he was just a young seminary student, he rented from Hashemi and lived there. Their children were around the same age and grew up together. Hashemi’s wife, Effat, who would lash out at Khamenei like that, did so because she had raised him almost like one of her own children. That was the kind of relationship they had.

When you look at Hashemi’s first cabinet, which coincided with the beginning of Khamenei’s leadership. More than half of its members were figures who later became part of the reformist camp. At the time, they were not called reformists; they belonged to the left faction. Figures like Abdollah Nouri, [Ali Mohammad] Besharati, and other members of the left were part of that cabinet. But when you look at Hashemi’s second administration, you see that the cabinet was largely filled with conservative figures. Javad Larijani replaced Khatami. This showed how much influence Khamenei had been able to exert over the cabinet in just four years, and how much his power had grown compared with before.

In general, Khamenei’s worldview was very different from Hashemi’s. Hashemi was a development-oriented figure; Khamenei was an ideologue. In one of his speeches, he made this point very clear and said: “We are not seeking development. Development is an entirely misguided concept promoted by the West; we are seeking transcendence.”

This was exactly the opposite of Hashemi’s approach, because Hashemi’s government was development-oriented. He strongly believed in development, but it was an authoritarian model of development, not a participatory one. His model was: “We design a system, and everyone must follow it.” Hashemi only thought about development. He used to say: “I am [modern] Iran’s Amir Kabir.” He wanted to build Iran according to the model he believed was right.

But Khamenei fundamentally did not believe in development, and that is why he began to diverge from Hashemi. The one thing Khamenei never thought about, and never did think about until the end of his life, was building Iran. He was only concerned with his own ideology. 

Abdollah Nouri once told me, in a private meeting, that Hashemi had called him and asked whether he should run for president again. This was, I think, in 2005, after Khatami’s second term.

He said: “I told Hashemi: ‘Back when Khamenei did not have power, and you came in and formed your cabinet, before four years had even passed, he forced you to replace your entire cabinet. You did not have the power [to object]. Now that you have no power whatsoever compared with Khamenei, why would you want to run? Even if you become president tomorrow,  Khamenei wouldn’t let you do anything.’”

And that is exactly what happened. After that election, Khamenei openly said on television that his thinking was closer to Ahmadinejad. He made his position explicit.

When the issue of succession gradually came up, the biggest threat facing him was Hashemi. And in my view, that is why he had him taken out. There was a succession crisis. People were saying Khamenei was ill and might die. Under those circumstances, Hashemi’s continued presence was very dangerous for him, because he knew that if he died and Hashemi remained, then even if Hashemi himself did not become Supreme Leader, at the very least Hassan Khomeini could become leader, and that was something Khamenei could never accept.

I am not saying he was necessarily pursuing Mojtaba [Khamenei’s succession], but he was looking for someone who would carry on his ideological line after him. He wanted an ideologue like himself. I do not know exactly whom he had in mind, but in my view, [Alireza] Arafi was a serious candidate.

If you look at Arafi, he was the person closest to Khamenei ideologically. In terms of the ideology of resistance, the expansion of Shiite thought, and these kinds of currents, no one had worked for him as much as Arafi had. Arafi was someone who completely followed Khamenei’s line of thinking. Whatever position Arafi held, his mission was to advance this ideological line.

I think Arafi was also a serious contender, but the IRGC, through the coup it carried out, installed Mojtaba.

The post Storming the Dormitory appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

Nearly half a century ago, just a year after the Revolution, a young Iranian engineer arrived in the port city of Chabahar to work on what was supposed to be one of the country’s great strategic projects. Chabahar sits near Iran’s southeastern edge, on the Gulf of Oman, with unimpeded access to the Indian Ocean. On a map, its advantages seem tantalizingly obvious. It lies outside the Strait of Hormuz, close to major shipping routes and within reach of markets stretching from the Persian Gulf to Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent. There are few places in Iran where geography appears to offer such evident economic possibilities.

Yet the engineer remembers the project, which had begun under the Shah and which the new Islamic Republic was eager to pursue, as something very different. The port was being developed almost exclusively for military purposes. There was no doubt, he told Resanegar, Tehran Bureau’s economic unit, as to the area’s commercial promise. But neither Chabahar nor the coastline around it was seen as the potential foundation of a broader economy in the poverty-stricken province of Sistan and Baluchistan.

For decades, this blind spot has defined much of the government’s relationship with the south. Iran’s southern provinces contain many of the assets on which the country depends. Khuzestan, in the country’s southwestern corner, holds roughly 80 percent of Iran’s onshore oil reserves. Bushehr and its coastline became the heart of the country’s enormous natural-gas and petrochemical industry. Hormozgan has Bandar Abbas, Iran’s principal container port, as well as the shoreline and islands overlooking the Strait of Hormuz. Farther east, Sistan and Baluchistan’s coastline—known by the region’s ancient name, Makran—provides entrée to the open sea through Chabahar.

And yet the wealth generated in the region has never translated into comparable prosperity for the people who live there. Khuzestan, Hormozgan, and Sistan and Baluchistan continue to rank poorly by measures of economic well-being. In the spring of 2025, according to figures from Iran’s National Statistics Center, Khuzestan had the country’s highest level of economic hardship. Hormozgan and Sistan and Baluchistan also performed worse than the national average. Bushehr, fronting most of the northwestern side of the Persian Gulf, was the exception, though only modestly so.

This is one of the central contradictions of the modern Iranian economy. The south functions as the country’s energy base, as well as its strategic gateway, but the wealth it generates is hardly reflected in development within the region itself.

Before the 1979 Revolution, oil revenues extracted largely from the south financed development elsewhere in the country, while major investment inside the region concentrated on refineries, export facilities, and projects such as the Kharg Island oil terminal.

After the Iran-Iraq War, successive governments built petrochemical complexes and expanded the oil and gas chain. South Pars and Asalouyeh became industrial behemoths. Free-trade zones were established. Ports grew, and military investment expanded along with them. Khatam al-Anbiya Construction Headquarters—an arm of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC)—and the Defense Ministry’s Marine Industries Organization built shipyards and other installations along the coast. In sum, the Islamic Republic was developing the south, but much of what it was developing served almost exclusively the needs of the state: energy exports, logistics, and defense.

Even the heavy industry that was established in the region has been at best of limited benefit to it. According to Iranian media reports, 70 percent of the workers in the south’s vital oil and petrochemical industries are nonlocal. Because these industries are largely state-owned, their managers are political appointees and generally not from the surrounding area. Commonly referred to as “commuting managers,” they reside in Tehran, Isfahan, or other major cities. They typically fly to the work site a couple times a week, for visits lasting a few hours. In hiring, these managers tend to favor applicants from their home regions—especially as there is a dearth of vocational and technical training centers in the south where locals might gain needed skills. Many of the remaining industrial facilities are operated by contracting companies, most of which are based in Tehran and do their recruiting there. Consequently, up to 90 percent of the workforce in privately owned plants is nonlocal.

The result has been a peculiar kind of growth. Enormous industrial complexes rose beside communities struggling with persistent unemployment and inadequate services while facing new industry-related water shortages and pollution. The region is indispensable to the national economy while its people long remained virtually invisible to national policymakers.

The maritime plan

For years, governments paid little more than lip service to the problems in the region. Then came an ambitious idea: Iran would turn toward the sea.

In November 2023, Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei issued a nine-point directive under the title of General Policies on Maritime-Oriented Development. By the time of the Seventh Development Plan, approved by the Majles in June 2024 and put into action by President Masoud Pezeshkian a month later, the concept of a “marine-oriented economy” had become something approaching a national strategy.

The Makran coastline on the Gulf of Oman, adjoining Pakistan, would be developed. Chabahar and Bandar Abbas would expand. Petrochemical plants, steel mills, and other water-intensive industries would move from Iran’s increasingly arid interior toward the coast. The country would finally build out and take full advantage of the North-South Transport Corridor, described by state media as a “sanction-proof route with great economic prospects,” connecting the Persian Gulf and Indian Ocean to markets farther north. Iran would become a regional transit hub. In January 2025, government spokesperson Fatemeh Mohajerani stated that the Makran region was being seriously considered as a potential site for relocating the country’s capital.

The ambition was extraordinary: not merely to build more ports but to alter the geography of the Iranian economy.

For a country increasingly constrained by drought, the idea had a compelling logic. Much of Iran’s industrial development took place on the central plateau, where water has become dangerously scarce. With advances in desalination, the south could address that problem, while offering ports for international commercial shipping and territory that had never been developed on the scale its location seemed to justify.

The engineer who worked in Chabahar half a century ago calls the region Iran’s “gold mine.” In the 1970s, he said, the extreme heat and lack of modern cooling made large-scale settlement and investment more than difficult. That calculation has changed with greater access to air-conditioning across the country and worsening water scarcity in central Iran.

The question was no longer whether the south had potential. It was whether the Iranian state was capable of turning that potential into sustained civilian development. This question was still unanswered in February 2026 when war arrived. The geography Iran had promised to make the foundation of its economic future became central to the conflict. Ports, coastal defenses, military installations, and logistical networks assumed immediate strategic importance and were targeted in US strikes. The reporting done for this article establishes that civilian facilities, including desalination plants, grain storage, agricultural water systems, and transportation infrastructure, have also been damaged.

As a result, the issue confronting southern Iran now is not simply whether the war will derail an ambitious development program. It is whether the government will respond to the destruction by reproducing the same pattern that has shaped the region for decades: rebuilding the south primarily in accordance with the security needs of the state. That possibility is especially significant because Iran entered the war without the funds needed to carry out many of its development promises.

A Tehran-based journalist and economic analyst told Resanegar that even before the conflict, the government was struggling to finance major projects. The war has only increased the demands on its limited resources. Damaged roads, ports, water systems, and industrial facilities must be repaired. Military installations and other defense capabilities must be reconstructed.

What remains for everything else? The government has given one indication of how it may respond to that question. On July 11, Ali Abdolalizadeh, the president’s special representative for Makran development, told Iran’s Chamber of Commerce that the state intended to retreat from the direct management of the development program, restricting itself largely to policymaking while transferring implementation to the private sector and other nongovernmental actors.

On paper, such a shift might appear to signal economic liberalization. Under wartime conditions, it could mean something simpler: the government does not have enough money.

And transferring responsibility to private investors raises a second problem. The Makran strategy depends not merely on building roads and ports but on persuading people and capital to move toward the coast. Investors need to believe factories will operate. Workers need schools, hospitals, and housing. Families need to imagine a future, while war undermines precisely that sort of vision.

“If the war turns into a prolonged conflict and living and investing in the south is perceived as risky,” the Tehran analyst said, development projects could stall while financial and human capital begins moving in the other direction. That exodus has not happened on a large scale, at least not yet.

In Bandar Abbas, a woman named Leila said friends and relatives repeatedly ask why she has not left.

“This is our home,” she tells them. “Where are we supposed to go?”

The roads remain open, she said, and she had seen no significant wave of departures. In Qeshm, another resident described much the same thing. Explosions could be heard around the island, she said, but daily life continued largely unaltered. There was little evidence even of widespread panic buying.

Their decision to remain might sound surprising from a distance. Up close, it is partly practical. Leaving requires gasoline and money. It requires somewhere to stay. And in a war in which danger is not confined to one front, departure offers no guarantee of safety.

But whether people are leaving today may be merely a footnote to a larger, still unfolding story. People in southern Iran were already being pushed from their communities long before the latest fighting. They were leaving because of heat, drought, unemployment, water shortages, and deteriorating public services. Iran’s Migration Observatory reported tens of thousands of displacements in the south associated with floods, dust storms, and tropical storms in 2021 and 2022, while Khuzestan has ranked among the country’s leading provinces for outmigration.

War adds another layer to pressures that have accumulated over decades. That history is particularly vivid in Khuzestan, where memories of the Iran-Iraq War remain embedded in family life.

Losing a sense of belonging

Samireh was nine when her family fled the Karun Agro-Industry residential complex in 1987. The bombing near the Iraqi border had been getting closer. Then a bomb landed near a school and bus stop as workers and children were returning home. Her family packed a few suitcases and departed for Shiraz, over 300 miles to the east.

In Shiraz, Samireh said, she never felt at home. She made no friends. Returning from school to her aunt’s house, she would climb into a wardrobe, switch on the small lightbulb inside, and sit reading Tintin comic books. Her father lasted only a few weeks before returning to Khuzestan despite the bombing. Samireh, her mother, and her brother followed months later.

“Losing your sense of belonging is much worse than losing your house,” she said.

Today, when she hears reports of attacks in southern Iran, she thinks people should leave. Then she catches herself. Like Leila, she thinks, Where would they go?

During the Iran-Iraq War that began in September 1980, families fleeing Abadan, Khorramshahr, and other southern cities crowded into Tehran, Shiraz, Isfahan, and towns farther from the front. Shops, industrial buildings, and other improvised spaces were converted into housing for displaced families. By late 1981, according to official figures, there were already nearly 1.5 million war-displaced Iranians.

Displacement, in solving an existential problem, creates many practical ones. People lose jobs. Savings disappear. A family staying with relatives eventually becomes a family that needs somewhere else to live. Children enter unfamiliar schools. Accents mark newcomers as outsiders. Temporary departure can become permanent exile from where one’s roots are and a future was planned.

“If I’m going to die somewhere,” Samireh remembers her mother saying, “let me die in my own home.”

For now, millions of people across southern Iran remain in theirs. But what kind of home does the Iranian state—increasingly within the grip of the IRGC—intend the south to become when the fighting stops?

From Chabahar to Hormuz to Kharg Island, any Iranian government would regard the coastline as strategically important. An economist interviewed for this article argued that Iran’s security could ultimately depend as much on a prosperous coastline as on military installations. Economic opportunity, functioning infrastructure, and public confidence can themselves contribute to stability. Yet in a political system accustomed to viewing everything of consequence through a security lens, civilian investment is easily postponed while military expenditure is seen as permanently urgent.

The current war makes that logic more powerful. Ports damaged in the fighting can be rebuilt as commercial gateways or hardened as strategic assets. Restored roads can connect cities and markets or military supply networks. Coastal development funds can finance housing, water systems, and employment, or disappear into an expanding defense economy. Half-realized plans, like those for the North-South Transport Corridor, first agreed to with Russia and India in 2002, can finally reach fruition or fade away.

These choices are not new. The south did not become economically vulnerable because war suddenly interrupted an otherwise successful development project. It was drawn into the war after decades in which the wealth beneath its soil consistently mattered more to the state than the quality of life above it. Iran never treated the south as a place whose inhabitants deserved to share in the prosperity their region generates.

The maritime-economy project was supposed to change that. It offered, at least in theory, a different relationship between the Iranian state and its coast. Instead of using the south to support the rest of the country, here Iran would build its economic future.

The war may now determine whether that experiment ever really begins. Perhaps the government will rebuild ports, pursue the Makran strategy, attract outside investment, and finally direct resources toward the towns and communities that have existed next door to the country’s most valuable assets with little to no reward. Or perhaps reconstruction will become no more than a rationale for fortification. If so, the war will simply have returned the region to the role it has been assigned again and again: essential to the defense and survival of the Iranian state, crucial to the national economy, and still waiting for development to reach the people who actually live there.

The post The South That Iran Promised But Never Builds appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

The young woman cradles a framed photograph of Ali Khamenei against her heart as she raises her right hand, daubed blood-red. She stands on Enghelab Street just outside the University of Tehran campus, people streaming past her in black mourning wear. The top of her own headscarf is pulled back far enough for the early July sun to illuminate her fair, perhaps dyed hair. She acknowledges that she participated in the January mass protests against the Iranian regime but has since repented. She describes her former views as misguided and says that reading the late Supreme Leader’s words has changed her life. She urges others “to read Mr. Khamenei’s books and letters without prejudice, with an independent and open mind.” 

Her eyes keep shifting down and to the left as if she’s trying to remember something (or signal that she’s obliged to remember something)—perhaps the next line. She continues, “I personally decided to get to know him and listen to his speeches.” Why did she decide this? “Personally,” as if there might be some other way. She offers no explanation, merely the result. “I realized that the image of him that had been created in my mind, to put it simply, that he was a dictator, a monster, or whatever they say, was not true. He was a very unusual person, and coming to know him has become something deeply valuable to me. Even though it ended up costing me ten years, I still consider myself the winner.” Many viewers of this widely shared video commented on the “ten years” reference, which some took as suggesting that she had received a prison sentence for her participation in the protests—perhaps suspended thanks to her public contrition. She divulges no details.

یکی از معجزات عمام کتلت :پروژه جدید، من مخالف رژیم بودم حتی در تظاهرات ۱۸و ۱۹ دی شرکت کردم اما اشتباه میکردم ، چرا اینها هم مثل هم حرف میزنند pic.twitter.com/T6N314eTPh

— Reza Esmailei (@esmailei) July 8, 2026

Ayatollah Ali Khamenei’s extravagant funeral, intended to project popular enthusiasm and unity, unfolded amid a climate of political repression and an economic meltdown that has left much of the public straining to meet basic needs. Ordinary Iranians were thus especially vulnerable to intimidation, on the one hand, and practical inducements, on the other, as the regime labored to create the appearance of mass support. Rival political factions, meanwhile, sought to appropriate the spectacle for their own ends. The outcome revealed both the cracks within the establishment and the gulf between its manufactured narrative of cohesion and the public’s daily struggle to survive. 

The funeral and farewell procession, long anticipated by Khamenei’s supporters, eventually began 126 days after his death in a US airstrike on the leadership’s central Tehran compound on February 28. The ceremony commenced in the capital on the morning of July 4, coinciding with Independence Day in the US, a deliberate choice in the eyes of many. Footage of the rubbled compound, which had been withheld from the public, was finally released on July 8.

As Khamenei lay in state in the Grand Mosalla, and more than 100 foreign delegations arrived to pay their respects, the funeral became a stage for political theater. The Islamic Republic used the occasion to implicitly, but unmistakably, commend its allies and scold its adversaries, in what has been described as “Qur’anic diplomacy.” As the members of each delegation approached the coffin to pay their respects, a different Qur’an verse was read by a qari (professional reciter)—in some cases, lines clearly conveying praise, as greeted the Houthi and Hamas representatives, while the Saudi delegation, in contrast, was reminded that the early Muslim army (presumably like the Islamic Republic) had prevailed over a “larger army of unbelievers.” 

Even the family of Khamenei’s predecessor as Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, was not spared. The verse selected for the group included the line “those who stay at home are not the same as those who strive in the cause of Allah with their wealth and their lives,” a message that appeared to exalt Khamenei at the expense of the heirs of the Islamic Republic’s founder. Unlike the Saudi representatives, Khomeini’s family members walked out midway through the recitation aimed at them.

Held under tight security and postponed several times because of the war, the ceremony was attended by three of Khamenei’s surviving sons. Notably absent was his designated heir and successor, Mojtaba Khamenei, who has not been seen in public since the February 28 attack and his accession as Supreme Leader eight days later. A video that circulated online showing a man filmed from behind at the funeral sparked rumors that it was Mojtaba. The claim was debunked after the subject of the footage identified himself as Reza Mousavi Vaez, director of the Ahl al-Bayt Quranic Institute.

The state granted access to over 80 international media outlets, including the BBC and Washington Post, and invited 500 supportive foreign influencers and social media personalities such as Jackson Hinkle, who attended regime rallies and led chants of “Death to America.” Bushra Shaikh, a UK-based influencer who first came to Iran in May for a state-sponsored visit, also attended the ceremony. She arrived wearing a white headscarf but later adjusted her outfit to conform with the Islamic Republic dress code, telling her followers on X: “I have chosen to report while wearing a hijab and dressing in black as a mark of respect during the funeral period for the late Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.”

(Mis)taking attendance

The messaging surrounding the funeral sought to portray it as a nationwide outpouring of love for a paternal figure. State media outlets adjusted their language, increasingly referring to Khamenei as the “father of the nation,” “the most Iranian Iranian” (as opposed to the Pahlavi family, which was referred to as “the most un-Iranian family in history”), and “Aqa-ye Shahid” (literally, martyred Sir), a reverential title more affectionate than “Rahbar-e Shahid” (martyred Leader), which had been standard in the weeks after Khamenei’s death.

Yet the state’s efforts to project an image of widespread public devotion faced scrutiny over one of the most visible elements of the ceremony: the size of the crowd. While the Islamic Republic claimed that there were many millions of participants, with some media outlets and supporters placing the figure at 20 to 24 million, Factnameh disputed the claims, estimating the turnout at between 600,000 and three million. Videos filmed from the top of Azadi Tower also appeared to show that the crowd size was smaller than state outlets reported. In response to the mounting skepticism, at least one regime supporter argued that the nature of the ceremony explained why the crowd numbers appeared so modest, saying: “This was a farewell; people don’t come and stay. People come, pay their respects, say farewell, and leave.”

The issues with turnout were reportedly fueled by multiple changes to the planned funeral procession route made without informing the public. The original route, beginning toward the eastern end of Damavand Street and ending at Imam Hossein Square, was canceled on the morning of the ceremony. A second planned route, from Imam Hossein Square down five kilometers of Enghelab Street to Enghelab Square, was also scrapped. The final, considerably shorter route ran between the Sharif University campus and Azadi Square, extending roughly two kilometers. The changes prompted frustration among some attendees, who accused authorities of leaving many people at the wrong locations.

In Qom, where Khamenei’s body was taken before being brought to the Iraqi cities of Najaf and Karbala, the state’s declarations of a vast turnout were punctured yet again. Footage of a slow-moving helicopter carrying Khamenei’s remains arriving at Jamkaran Mosque drew comparisons with the 1989 funeral of Ruhollah Khomeini, when the helicopter carrying Khomeini’s body struggled to land because of the size of the crowds surrounding the site.

A local real estate developer, who offered a significantly lower assessment of the crowd size than the official claims, said he believed large numbers of participants had been bussed into the city for the procession, which stretched eight kilometers from Jamkaran Mosque to the Fatemeh Masoumeh Shrine.

“Organizers claimed that around four million people attended,” the developer said, “but my personal estimate was between 800,000 and one million. Of course, most of them had been brought to Qom from other cities; fewer people from Qom itself took part.”

He also said the scale of supplies distributed suggested organizers had expected a much larger turnout. “Instead of giving people a single bottle of mineral water, they handed out entire cases and told recipients to share them with others along the route.” The cases were marked “not for sale,” indicating that they had been prepared specifically for the ceremony.

To counter criticism over the funeral’s organization and disputed crowd numbers, state media relied on familiar elements from the Islamic Republic’s propaganda playbook, with a well-established cast of recurring figures appearing in its carefully curated scenes of public mourning and devotion: the supporter who traveled thousands of miles from Canada, Germany, and even the US to pay respects; the loyalist overseas who sent a message of grief from afar; the ordinary citizen expressing unwavering devotion; and always the impassioned crowds presented as evidence of popular support.

Redemption or coercion? The born-again women

The coverage also emphasized highly emotional displays of grief: women with loosely worn hijabs wailing as though they had lost a close family member, supporters appearing overwhelmed by emotion, mourners collapsing and being carried away while still clutching their phones and water bottles, and even Red Crescent workers who appeared to break down only after cameras turned toward them.

Alongside the black-clad mourners was another familiar character: the regime’s version of a fashionable, bihejab (loosely, “unveiled”) young woman. Interviewed by the Narm Khabar news agency, one especially stylish speaker in tangerine cat-eye sunglasses, hair cascading in ringlets from under her tasseled headscarf, warned: “If even a single speck of our homeland’s soil clings to an enemy soldier’s boot, this entire nation will wash it clean with its own blood.”

Approvingly portrayed, even while not fully adhering to the state-mandated dress code, such figures have become a staple of pro-government rallies and official messaging in recent years: even those who do not fit the regime’s traditional image of a devout supporter can still be loyal to the Revolution and its leadership. By the same token, they are employed in attempts to discredit anyone who draws attention to the harassment and violence to which women caught at the wrong time without proper hijab are still routinely subjected.

State media highlighted, in particular, young women who appeared to embody the regime’s newly preferred narrative of redemption, like the one on Enghelab Street who inexplicably became fascinated by the literary output of a Supreme Leader rarely acclaimed by even his most fervent devotees as a compelling rhetorician. Government-controlled and -aligned outlets eagerly featured these erstwhile unbelievers who had recognized their mistakes, returned to the fold, and were seeking forgiveness—even if they struggled at times to keep their chadors in place.

The appearance of such figures has drawn skepticism from rights groups, who have long questioned the authenticity of some pro-government displays and alleged that detained protesters and their relatives have been pressured to participate in official events or provide supportive interviews in exchange for leniency.

The carefully constructed images of spontaneous public grief were accompanied by other scenes that raised questions about the extent to which attendance was voluntary. Photos and videos showed municipal street cleaners (pakbans) in uniform holding pictures of Mojtaba Khamenei at the funeral, prompting allegations that some had been compelled to attend at the risk of losing their jobs.

Factional frictions and “super-revolutionaries”

Despite all of the effort to project unity during the funeral, the ceremony also exposed deep factional tensions within the regime and its camp. On the sidelines of the event in Tehran, President Masoud Pezeshkian was met with chants of “death to the compromiser.” The state-aligned Tabnak media outlet described those berating the president as “super-revolutionaries.” Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi was chased by an angry mob of regime supporters, whom Iranian media dubbed “radicals,” hurling stones and insults and seemingly ready to tear him apart. The confrontation was not entirely unexpected: hardline true believers had been calling for Araghchi to be executed for his participation in negotiations with the United States over the past few months.

In Mashhad, where Khamenei’s body was brought back from its Iraqi sojourn for interment in the Imam Reza Shrine, officials including Majles speaker Mohammad Bagher Ghalibaf faced similar chants and demands for “revenge,” prompting state television to cut its audio feed at times. The incidents forced officials to publicly warn against internal divisions. Government spokeswoman Fatemeh Mohajerani addressed the incidents, saying, “In such circumstances, any attempt to undermine unity is not only a violation of fairness and basic decency, but also squanders this great asset and goes against national interest.”

The minister of culture and Islamic guidance, Seyyed Abbas Salehi, called for those responsible to be held to account, while comparing the Araghchi incident with a 2013 attack in which a group of men launched shoes and prayer stones (mohrs or turab) at the late principlist politician Ali Larijani at the Fatemeh Masoumeh Shrine in Qom. “It has not been long since martyr Larijani was pelted with prayer stones, and yesterday we witnessed similar scenes. Is history destined to repeat itself?” Salehi wrote on X. “Put the perpetrators and those who issued the order in their place. Is that such a difficult thing to do?”

Former president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad—whose supporters state media had held responsible for the 2013 assault on Larijani—also made an appearance at the Khamenei funeral. Once a central figure of the Islamic Republic’s hardline camp, Ahmadinejad has become increasingly estranged from the establishment. The New York Times reported in May that US and Israeli officials had considered him as a potential leader of Iran in a regime-change scenario.

An enormous price tag

Beneath the ideological battles over who represented the true revolutionary path and who was branded a traitor lay another question: the vast public resources required to stage such an event.

Khamenei’s funeral was perhaps the largest state-sponsored event in Iranian history. A funeral of such scale required a vast logistical operation. Authorities mobilized thousands of government and municipal workers, security personnel, emergency responders, and volunteers in Tehran, Qom, and Mashhad. They procured thousands of tons of food supplies, millions of loaves of bread, bottled water, fuel, medical supplies, and transportation services.

Tehran Municipality alone deployed thousands of city workers, arranged free round-the-clock public transportation, installed temporary facilities, prepared accommodation for millions of visitors, and covered extensive citywide decorations, banners, and advertising campaigns to promote the ceremony. Additional costs included nationwide security operations and elevated utility outlays—none quantified by officials.

Behind the images of a massive public turnout was a significant campaign aimed at encouraging participation. Some social media users shared screenshots of push notifications from the Ministry of Information and Communications Technology and Hamrah-e Aval, the country’s largest mobile service provider, informing participants they would have access to cell phone repair services, healthcare services, and other amenities during the ceremony.

Hamrah-e Aval had also set up media centers where content creators and members of the press could access free internet, charging stations, and editing desks. Each center featured a “data analysis section” designed to help users produce “content more easily and increase their visibility.”

While attendees received bags containing potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, and paper visors, videos circulated showing officials and invited guests being served hot, prepackaged meals from Hani Restaurant, which operates a lucrative ready-meal business.

The committee organizing the funeral, chaired by First Vice President Mohammad Reza Aref, has not disclosed the budget allocated for the ceremony or the source of the funds. However, social media users and commentators have speculated that the ceremony alone cost around seven trillion tomans (roughly $44–47 million). When the broader impact of the costs of shutting down much of the country for a week is included, some estimates have placed the total drain on the Iranian economy as high as $1 billion, which, if even close to accurate, would make it the most costly funeral in Iran’s modern history and among the most costly anywhere in the world.

The reported expense prompted widespread criticism online. Some Iranians who lost their homes during the recent wars contrasted the funeral’s spending with their own travails, saying promised government assistance had not been delivered and that they were struggling to cover medical expenses, housing, and basic household needs.

“How is it that people like us, whose homes were destroyed in the war three months ago, had to get a security deposit and a voucher for household items from the municipality because the government didn’t have the budget? Not a single item in our home survived. Just four basic plastic household items cost us 60 million tomans,” said one Instagram user. “In the middle of this economic crisis, you’re throwing away seven trillion tomans while many people displaced by the war in other cities are still living in tents, and many in Tehran are still in hotels. So when are they actually going to release the funds they promised and do what they’re supposed to do?” 

The funeral was meant to project strength and solidarity. But for many of those whose livelihoods or entire lives have been turned upside down by war, the event highlighted a widening gap between the regime’s ideological priorities and the everyday concerns of the people it governs. While the state was able to organize a massive funeral operation, the country’s countless economic problems remain unresolved. With muted hope, the Qom developer said, “I hope that now that this is over, our situation will also change, because you cannot do business in this environment.”

The post A Theocrat’s Long Goodbye appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

Near the intersection of Nastaran Alley and Jaleh Street in the affluent Salarieh district of Qom, the deeply religious Yekta family once lived. Haj Abbas, the patriarch, was a well-known merchant in the Qom bazaar. The father of Mohammadhossein (born November 1967), another son, and several daughters, he moved his family to Salarieh in the mid-1980s as the neighborhood was undergoing a massive transformation.

Ayatollah Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani had purchased much of the undeveloped land in Salarieh from Qom’s primary religious endowment trusteeship, or toliyat, in the 1970s. After the 1979 revolution, he started a construction company and built a couple hundred upscale residences in the area. Rafsanjani went on to gift many of these to members of the emerging power elite to develop and cement his political-religious network in the new Islamic Republic, even as others bought in to enjoy, and perhaps benefit from, the neighborhood’s blossoming cachet.

From the family of Ayatollah Mohammad Yazdi, head of Iran’s judiciary for most of the 1990s, to members of the Assembly of Experts and Guardian Council, to the family of Seyed Mehdi Hashemi, one of the founders of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), who was later executed for leaking information about the Iran-Contra affair, many powerful figures lived in the district. Brigadier General Mohammad Saeed Izadi, commander of the Palestine branch of the IRGC’s Quds Force, responsible for arming and training Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad members, was killed in his Salarieh home by Israeli missiles during the 12-day war in 2025. Families tied to the Supreme Council for the Islamic Revolution in Iraq—from the family of Ayatollah Mahmoud Hashemi Shahroudi to that of Ayatollah Mohammad Baqir al-Hakim—lived alongside prosperous, devout merchants like Haj Abbas Yekta. (To distinguish the family’s generations-old, rather common surname of Hosseini, Yekta—“unique” or “peerless”—was at some point appended to it and in time became primary.)

Even after the toliyat sold much of the area to Rafsanjani, it retained a sprawling garden bordered to the south by Yasaman Street, one block over from Jaleh, where Qom’s only amusement park was built, a major attraction for people from around the city. In 1984, at the direction of Supreme Leader Khomeini, Iran’s largest women’s seminary was established, occupying about half of the garden’s footprint, and the amusement park shut down.

Among Salarieh’s most distinctive features, every street was named after a flower (nastaran, wild rose; yasaman, jasmine) or other garden motif (jaleh, morning dew). Later, the streets were officially renamed for martyrs of the Iran-Iraq War, but the new appellations were ignored by residents, who continued to use the traditional flower names. The entire neighborhood was filled with fragrant acacia and jasmine trees.

Despite the elegant villas and charming atmosphere, most residents did not resemble the affluent classes of other major cities in their visual appearance. Where in tony north Tehran, the residents—including the families of wealthy IRGC commanders—looked modern and stylish, the primarily religious beneficiaries of the revolution’s patronage system in Salarieh appeared much more traditional: men with beards wearing black-and-white clothing, women in black chadors.

Unlike Haj Abbas, who maintained a low profile in the neighborhood, on the far side of the city from the bazaar that consumed his attention, his son Mohammadhossein in the early 1990s began to play a prominent role in the district’s religious and political events. Soon earning the same honorific by which his father was long known, Haj Hossein cut an intimidating figure at first glance: stern-faced, with a glass eye—he had lost his right eye while serving as an IRGC officer in the Iran-Iraq War—and a thick black beard. But in fact he was warm, approachable, and, as people from working-class neighborhoods might say, down to earth (khaki) and honorable (looti maslak). He spoke in the slang of street toughs and loved joking around. Only when angered did he become truly frightening.

Mohammadhossein eventually became so renowned that Haj Abbas himself was identified through his son’s reputation. When the patriarch died in January 2023, around the age of 80, media outlets were flooded with condolences from political and military officials addressed not to him, but to his son, Haj Hossein Yekta.

Cultivating loyalty

The geographic enclave of Salarieh is linked to three ideological institutions of the Islamic Republic: the Meysam Cultural Center, which operates out of the neighborhood’s Al-Nabi Mosque; Masoumiyeh Seminary, about a mile and a half northeast, whose entire leadership for years lived in Salarieh, including its principal, the Al-Nabi imam; and, just steps from the seminary, the Imam Khomeini Educational and Research Institute, founded by Ayatollah Mohammad Taghi Mesbah Yazdi. Key figures from the institute, among them Morteza Agha-Tehrani—who currently presides over the Iranian parliament’s Cultural Commission—were frequent participants in the gatherings at the Meysam Center.

Within this set of institutions, a circle of influential figures play various roles in developing and executing communications strategies to maintain the regime’s popular base, ensure it is continually replenished with youthful recruits, and mobilize them on demand to display their support for the regime—and sometimes more aggressive actions. Agha-Tehrani and Mehdi Aboutalebi, who like Hossein Yekta reached adulthood in Salarieh, are among the “producers of meaning,” developing ideological frameworks and maxims, then disseminating them in media appearances and at religious gatherings. Meanwhile, figures in the leadership circle of the Meysam Center such as Abbas Mohsen and Mojtaba Vafi are primarily responsible for direct outreach to prospective supporters and their subsequent training and mobilization. 

Hossein Yekta has played multiple roles. He spent years working out of the Meysam Center to recruit and indoctrinate teenagers and young adults, becoming known especially as a teller of stories about the war against Iraq, drawing on his own extensive combat experiences. With the passage of time, his influence expanded well beyond the center, as he gradually emerged as a leading institutional administrator and strategist in his own right. Whatever its members’ specific roles, the circle’s collective aim, in Yekta’s words, is to “build human beings for the New Islamic Civilization.”

Almost this entire network, whose members met as young neighbors in Salarieh, came of age attending events at the Meysam Center. According to one local resident, “the center’s function was patron cultivation—transforming the wealthy religious youth of the neighborhood into devoted followers of the Supreme Leader and promoters of the ruling ideology.” They pursued their clerical studies at Masoumiyeh Seminary—some, like Hossein Yekta, briefly; others, such as Mehdi Aboutalebi, more comprehensively. They are ultimately of one mind in promoting an unswerving worldview: loyalty to the Supreme Leader and dedication to revolutionary activism.

Claiming the mantle of a discourse centered on alleviating hardship, these figures, almost all from backgrounds of relative privilege, speak repeatedly of “saving the deprived.” Yet they place far less emphasis on the economic empowerment of lower-income groups than on their ideological and identity-based organization. Their so-called jihadi work is increasingly directed at recruiting ardent followers into the burgeoning jan-fada movement, the Islamic Republic’s “devotees unto death,” a process that involves the crucial step of pledging allegiance to the doctrine of Velaayat-e Faghih (guardianship of the Islamic jurist—the principle by which the Supreme Leader exercises absolute authority.) 

War stories and “Travelers of Light” 

For most of the 1980s and early 1990s, Iran’s leading storyteller—or, in the Persian idiom, narrator (ravi)—of the war with Iraq was documentary filmmaker Morteza Avini. Across more than 80 films made during the war and its aftermath, he took his camera to communities near the front lines, focusing on how ordinary citizens participated in and were affected by the conflict. For years, his films aired every Friday night on Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting. After Avini’s death in 1993, members of the Meysam Center engaged in intensive discussions about his legacy. To fill the void of inspirational war narrator, a quiet competition developed among the center’s members, including Haj Hossein Yekta. As an officer in the IRGC’s Habib Battalion, he was a veteran of many of the war’s fiercest battles, including Valfajr 3, 4, and 8, Operation Badr, and Karbala 1, 4, and 5. After the war, he remained a core member of the Habib Battalion network, which evolved into a coterie bringing together some of the Islamic Republic’s most hardline intelligence and security figures around Mojtaba Khamenei, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei’s most influential son and eventual (if perhaps only nominal) successor as Supreme Leader. Yekta ultimately won recognition as Avini’s successor, though he employed a methodology very different from the filmmaker’s.

The campaign he led tasked school administrators and guidance counselors around the country with selecting religiously devoted students and sending them to cultural-military camps along the Iran-Iraq border, in the operational zones of the “Sacred Defense.” Known as Rahian-e Noor (Travelers of Light), these student excursions, which might last anywhere from two to ten days, have been described by critics as meant primarily for ideological indoctrination. Whether voluntarily or under pressure, thousands of teenagers and young adults were sent to listen to Haj Hossein recount war stories, including vivid tales of grassroots resistance and martyrdom.

Over the course of more than 20 years leading the Rahian-e Noor camps, Hossein Yekta’s war narratives earned him recognition among religious youth and Basij militia members who would also visit the camps to hear his presentations. But the regime’s interest in cultivating loyalists willing to give their time at a moment’s notice to pro-regime rallies and marches and even carry out acts of repression required deeper recruitment—particularly from lower social strata—and Yekta’s role evolved to provide it.

A new society

For two decades, Iran’s leading nongovernmental aid group addressing the needs of marginalized communities was the independent Imam Ali Society. Founded by university students in 1999, the group—formally, the Imam Ali Popular Students’ Relief Society—focused on empowering vulnerable children, youth struggling with addiction, and those affected by poverty and violence. In 2010, it achieved special consultative status with the UN Economic and Social Council, and a decade later it was operating more than 40 facilities in disadvantaged areas across Iran, supported by more than 10,000 volunteers. 

According to Sharmin Meymandinejad, one of the Imam Ali Society’s founders, officials in the Islamic Republic’s security apparatus tried to bring the organization under ideological control after it received UN recognition—even as they praised it publicly. When those co-optation efforts failed, the security forces moved in 2017 to establish a parallel structure: the Imam Reza Society, with Haj Hossein Yekta as its public face. The following year, Yekta’s war narratives were collected and published as Red Squares, further boosting his reputation; the collection has been reprinted 11 times. By this point, he was also a member of the central council of the Ammar Headquarters, an internal propaganda think tank, and a senior commander of the IRGC’s internal plainclothes operations.

The Imam Reza Society initially presented itself as a humanitarian group providing relief to earthquake and flood victims. Maintaining that it received no funding from any government or state-affiliated institution, the society announced that it was created to step in where the government and traditional charities had been unable to solve problems and try to fill the gaps. 

As the Imam Ali Society continued to defend its independence, on June 21, 2020, IRGC operatives shut down its Tehran headquarters, confiscated all of its computers, phones, and archives, and arrested Meymandinejad and two colleagues. The accusations against the trio, who were held incommunicado for 48 hours, involved transgressions against national security and insults to the country’s religious leaders. Meymandinejad’s colleagues were released on bail following two months’ imprisonment.

Meymandinejad, who later left Iran after he was incarcerated for four months under brutal conditions, told Resanegar, Tehran Bureau’s economic unit: “In Rahian-e Noor, they couldn’t recruit soldiers or create ‘fire-at-will’ forces. That program mostly drew from the regime’s base of middle-class ideological supporters. But with the Imam Reza network, they went after marginalized children—kids who, in my experience, were sometimes susceptible to [committing] violence and repression.”

Human rights documentation suggests that the Islamic Republic systematically draws from lower-income and marginalized populations in its repression apparatus. While not officially declared policy, this pattern is visible in institutional design, socioeconomic incentives, and security planning. The Imam Reza Society appears to be part of this structure.

The society today is involved in an expansive range of activities, many of which give it access to the demographic Meymandinejad describes. It provides vocational training and life-skills education for young people, organizes local markets where farmers and other small producers can sell directly to consumers, distributes free charitable meals (nazri), campaigns for the release of prisoners, and participates in school construction and flood-control projects.

At the same time, it also engages in overtly political and ideological functions. The society has marshalled teenagers to participate in public pledges of allegiance to Mojtaba Khamenei, organized pro-government street rallies, and arranged pilgrimages to Shia holy sites.

While Hossein Yekta is widely believed to be the society’s founder, Meymandinejad claims that it was actually established by a former Imam Ali Society member who was later revealed to have been an infiltrator planted by the Revolutionary Guards. In his view, organizations like the Imam Reza Society “don’t have a public audience—they serve the state. Security structures cannot organically attract volunteers; they must infiltrate existing social networks.”

Identity-based mobilization

In political economy studies, the use of force combined with the allocation of resources—money, jobs, privileges—to maintain political control is known as the “economy of repression.” Its inputs include official defense and intelligence budgets, unregulated revenues from institutions tied to the Supreme Leader’s office, and informal income streams such as rents and smuggling—areas where entities like the IRGC and Bonyad Mostazafan (BM) play key roles.

Lower-income populations are often more easily drawn into such systems due to economic incentives, access to patronage networks, and susceptibility to identity-based mobilization. The Islamic Republic has long structured recruitment around this dynamic, from the Basij to newer entities like the Imam Reza Society.

In effect, the system transforms poverty into loyalty and a capacity for repression. Not all participants come from disadvantaged backgrounds—ideology also plays a role—but economic leverage remains central.

Budget transparency is limited, making it difficult to arrive at precise figures. In 2023, Deutsche Welle estimated the cost of Iran’s repression apparatus at 557 billion tomans (then approximately $11.2 million USD) per day, based on official budgets for the IRGC, intelligence ministry, and security police. This figure does not include many off-budget funding streams. For example, around the same time he became head of the new Imam Reza Society, Hossein Yekta was also appointed by Ebrahim Raisi—Iran’s future president—to launch another charitable body, the Karamat Foundation, under the aegis of Astan Quds Razavi, one of the Islamic Republic’s wealthiest religious-finanical entities.

With a putatively humanitarian mission similar to that of the Imam Reza Society, the Karamat Foundation’s operations include a comprehensive counseling center, a women and family affairs center, the Razavi volunteer service network and service centers, the Pilgrim Endowment Institute, and a sports and physical education institute. While these projects are ostensibly focused on assisting disadvantaged communities, critics argue that their ultimate objective, again like that of the Imam Reza Society, is to identify vulnerable Iranians, organize them into structured networks, and transform them into dependable supporters of the regime, ready for mobilization.

Meymandinejad argues that recruitment into such networks builds on years of ideological conditioning among poor youth: “They first make children anti-social, because someone raised that way can more easily commit violence. They invest heavily in shaping them.” He traces such efforts in recent years to the IRGC’s recruitment of Afghan migrant children as young as 14, living in Iran mostly without legal residency, to fight the Islamic Republic’s proxy war in Syria. Further back, he points to the regime’s formative era, when the use of child soldiers in the Sacred Defense against Iraq became normalized.

Repression as ritual

On January 8, 2026, amid mass protests against the regime, Hossein Yekta released a video online in which he openly threatened violence, urging Basij forces to take action and warning families not to complain if their children were harmed. The video was picked up by state television and broadcast repeatedly, gaining widespread attention and leading to Yekta’s sanctioning by the EU and multiple European countries. In the next 48 hours alone, thousands of Iranians were killed by regime forces and followers—IRGC, Basij, eager jan-fada, all freed to “fire at will.”

More recently, during the months-long fraught ceasefire with the United States and Israel, the signals that Yekta’s Imam Reza Society serves as a mobilization arm for repression have grown louder as well. The society has organized a series of mass street events in which jan-fada occupy and overwhelm public space in a way meant to intimidate any observers opposed to the regime. The participation of children and teenagers in a rally pledging allegiance to the Supreme Leader on April 29 underscored that the Imam Reza network’s true commitment is to state security goals rather than grassroots charity.

The Imam Reza Society and Karamat Foundation, under Hossein Yekta, are vital exponents of the Islamic Republic’s broader economy of repression. Through training, jobs, privileges, and tangible goods, the state cultivates a loyal force capable of suppressing protests, enforcing social surveillance, and on occasion, wreaking vengeance.

For participants from affluent backgrounds, this system is not merely ideological—it is also economic. It offers access to contacts, contracts, and institutional power. Dismantling such a system is beyond difficult, as it requires replacing the entire structure of incentives that sustain it. And as long as this economy of repression persists, meaningful change will remain elusive.

Reflecting on the jan-fada movement and Hossein Yekta’s role in organizing and galvanizing it, Sharmin Meymandinejad argues that the regime supporters who storm demonstrations chanting “Heydar, Heydar” have already been invested with a sense of epic heroism, casting them as protagonists in a historic, almost mythic struggle. Once convinced that they alone represent righteousness, they are able to carry out the most extreme violence with remarkable ease. He puts it starkly: “They have turned repression into ritual. Ritual is powerful—it mobilizes emotion. Where we gave poor families bags of rice, they deliver black body bags.”

The post The Recruiter: Haj Hossein Yekta appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

Even as the new supreme leader, Mojtaba Khamenei, continues to operate in the shadows. He is rumoured to be injured, even dead, and his concealed whereabouts evoke the imagery of a “hidden Imam” central to Shi’a ideology. Although his brothers and other relatives serve on the boards of influential businesses and institutions, his name does not appear in any public business registries. This murky role has made him a useful figure in the Islamic Republic’s opaque power structure.

Until recently, regime propaganda led the Iranian public to believe that the Supreme Leader and his family refrain from business and politics. Ali Khamenei explicitly forbade his sons from engaging in such activities, an edict often repeated by hardline politicians. Behind the scenes, his son Mojtaba was the eminence grise of the Supreme Leader’s Office (Beyt-e Rahbari), acting as the go-between his father and the vast security apparatus and strategic economic empire the Beyt oversaw. 

Through his role in the Beyt,  Mojtaba has privileged knowledge of the security and financial systems that prop up the Islamic Republic’s power structures. Intentionally circular in nature, this self-reinforcing network of unelected institutions was created by the Islamic Republic’s founders to protect their interests. 

It also allowed the Khamenei family to gain control of lucrative companies in strategic industries. Legal privileges allowed the Khameneis to move vast amounts of funds–including those allotted from public coffers– across industrial sectors, funnel money abroad, and crush competition–all in an effort to maximize private profits.

The Supreme Leaders’ Financial Portfolio 

The Beyt-e Rahbari is the only entity within Iran’s ruling structure with the legal power to oversee and regulate the financial activities of major bonyads, including Astan-e Qods Razavi and the IRGC’s Sepah Cooperative Foundation and Khatam al-Anbia, as our deep dive on bonyads has shown. 

In addition, the Beyt directly oversees an array of umbrella organizations that function as predatory conglomerates as well as propaganda machines. They include: Bonyad Mostazafan (BM), Bonyad Shahid (BS), EIKO, Bonyad Sadouq, Development and Improvement of National Endowments Bonyad (BTOM), Bonyad Maskan, Endowment and Charity Affairs Organization (Oqaf), Imam Khomeini Relief Fund (IKRF), Astan Qods Razavi (AQR), Tamin Social Security Fund, Islamic Development Organization (IDO), 15 Khordad Bonyad, Islamic Economy Organization (IEO), etc.  

Though the financials of these organizations are legally shielded from the eyes of elected officials, one institution manages them all: Mofid Rahbar, an auditing firm that exclusively services the companies that fall under the Beyt’s purview. Among the 403 known organizations audited by Mofid Rahbar are book publishing, banking and food-producing brands Iranians encounter on a daily basis. Please see our Updated List of Companies Audited by Mofid Rahbar for a complete overview. 

The Khamenei Family Tree

Mojtaba’s family network operates an extensive network of businesses in strategic industries including oil & gas, construction, publishing, export/import, healthcare, media and technology. A significant number of these companies are co-owned by major bonyads. Others lead to cultural, educational or welfare organizations. Still others are linked to elected governmental bodies, such as the Tehran Municipality. The national budget funds the operating costs of many of these institutions.

Mojtaba’s brothers

While Mojtaba himself doesn’t appear in any business records, his brothers founded various charities. These ostensibly “cultural” institutions engage in the publication of books and periodicals, but also own other active companies, land, and endowed properties, which allowed them to facilitate the opaque transfers of state-owned assets. The national budget funds the operating costs of many of these institutions.

Seyed Mostafa Hosseini Khamenei

• Founding Member of the Islamic Culture Publishing Office

Seyed Meysam Hosseini Khamenei

• Rahpouyan Sepehr Charitable Foundation
• Member of the Board of Trustees and Member of the Board of Directors of Kowsar Cultural Foundation
• Founding Member of the Islamic Culture Publishing Office

Seyed Masoud Hosseini Khamenei (Seyed Mohsen Hosseini Khamenei)

• Founding Member of the Islamic Culture Publishing Office

Mojtaba’s In-Laws

Mojtaba married into the Haddad-Adel family. His father-in-law, Gholam-Ali Haddad-Adel, served as Majlis speaker and held positions in various think-tanks, councils and foundations including the Expediency Council.

He owns Mehr Farhang School, one of the most expensive in Iran.

His son Farideddin is a trustee of Tasnim Nour Institute, along with Meysam Khamenei. Farideddin is on the board of Tehran Times daily, Mehr News Agency, Jam-e Jam daily, National Retirement Fund-owned Omid Gostar News Agency, Hamshahri Magazines, as well as the Basij-owned Razmandegan Eslam Cultural and Educational Institute.

Haddad’s other son-in-law, Rouhollah Rezaei, is the nephew of IRGC commander and former hostage-taker Mohsen Vezvayi. After a stint in the Ministry of Communications & Technology, Rezaei resigned due to a scandal. He then joined Digikala, Iran’s version of Amazon, as VP of Innovation.

Paternal Brothers and Blood Relatives

Mojtaba’s youngest paternal uncle, the late Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s brother Mohammad Hassan, is a board member of oil and gas, petrochemical, cement, and construction companies affiliated with various financial institutions and foundations such as Bank Melli, Bank Saderat, the National Banks’ Employees Retirement, Disability, and Savings Fund, Mostazafan Foundation, the bonyad EIKO, and Tehran Municipality.

Charitable and For-Profit Organizations

Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s elder brother, Mohammad, along with his children, owns the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation (Bonyad-e Hekmat-e Eslami-ye Sadra). This foundation has several subsidiary companies that provide cold storage and transportation services. Seyyed Mohammad Khamenei is the Head of the Iranology Foundation and has served two terms in the Islamic Consultative Assembly and the first term of the Assembly of Experts for the Constitution. Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s other brother, Hadi, is the Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Islamic History Research Institute (Pajooheshkadeh-ye Tarikh-e Eslam) and owns the Hayat-e No Cultural and Artistic Institute. Despite the closure of the Hayat-e No newspaper, this institute has not been dissolved.

Oil and Gas and Construction

Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s cousin, Vahid Vaezzadeh Khorasani (son of Fatemeh Mirdamadi), is the Chairman of the Board of Directors of some of the Martyrs Foundation’s construction companies and a board member of Pasargad Oil Company, affiliated with Tamin Oil, Gas and Petrochemical Investment Company. Vahid Vaezzadeh Khorasani is the son-in-law of Mohammad Jafar Montazeri, the Prosecutor General of the country.

Censorship

A large number of Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s relatives are members of the board of directors and board of trustees of companies, charities, foundations, and cultural institutions that have defined their scope of activity as “achieving the goals desired by the Supreme Leader and the system of the Islamic Republic of Iran,” “expansion of the values and ideals of the Islamic Revolution,” protecting… social norms, and promoting and popularizing the injunction of commanding right and forbidding wrong in cyberspace.”

Policymaking for the Elimination of Dissidents

Mohammad Vaezzadeh Khorasani, Khamenei’s maternal uncle’s husband, was a member of the Board of Trustees of Razavi Islamic Sciences University, affiliated with Astan Quds Razavi, before his death. Khamenei’s cousin, Sadeq Vaezzadeh Khorasani, is a member of the Supreme Council of Cultural Revolution (SCCR) and the Secretary General of the Iranian Council on International Relations. “Expansion of the influence of Islamic culture in society’s affairs, strengthening the cultural revolution, promoting public culture, and purifying scientific and cultural environments from materialistic ideas and negating the manifestations and effects of Westoxication” are among the goals of the Supreme Council of Cultural Revolution. This council has played an important role in purging universities of dissident professors. The members of this council are chosen by the Leader of the Islamic Republic, and only he can annul its approvals.

Seyed Mohammad Hosseini Khamenei 

• Representative of Mashhad in the First and Second terms of the Islamic Consultative Assembly
• Member of the Assembly of Experts for the Constitution
• Head of the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation
• Head of the Iranian Studies Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Hekmat Sara, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the International Mulla Sadra Association, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the House of Wisdom and Philosophy, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Iranian Scientific Association of History of Philosophy, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation

Seyed Hadi Hosseini Khamenei

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Islamic History Research Institute
• CEO and Chairman of the Board of Directors of Hayat-e No Cultural and Artistic Institute
• Managing Editor of Jahan-e Eslam newspaper
• Representative of Fariman in the First term of the Islamic Consultative Assembly
• Representative of Tehran in the Sixth term of the Islamic Consultative Assembly

Seyed Mohammad Hassan Hosseini Khamenei

• Member of the Board of Trustees of the Rassam Non-Profit University
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Sepehr Hashtom Urban Development Investment, affiliated with the National Banks’ Employees Retirement and Savings Fund
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Hegmatan Cement, affiliated with the Mostazafan Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of Payam-e Resa Company
• Member of the Board of Directors of Shazand Petrochemical, affiliated with Bank Melli
• Member of the Board of Directors of Firoozkooh Cement
• Member of the Board of Directors of Beenas Energy
• Member of the Board of Directors of Atmosfer Manufacturing and Industrial Plants
• Member of the Board of Directors of Chin Chin Agriculture and Industry
• Member of the Board of Trustees of Mehr Reza Pilgrim House, affiliated with Alavi Foundation (Mostazafan Foundation)
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Liser Mah Oil, Gas, Energy, and Petrochemical Company

Seyed Ahmad Hosseini Khamenei

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Karvan Transportation, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of Autosard Company, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of the International Mulla Sadra Association, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation
• Treasurer of Homaye Hekmat Charity

Seyed Mehdi Hosseini Khamenei

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Homaye Hekmat Charity
• CEO of Homaye Hekmat Charity
• Member of the Board of Directors of Ehya Fanavar Abzar
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Iranian Scientific Association of Qur’anic Miracles
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Alvand Catalyst Pioneers
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Hirad Mohaqeq Iranian Medical Equipment
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Yாவarandishan Salamati Company
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Hirad Teb Abzar Qeshm
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Khorasan Khodro Exhaust, affiliated with Iran Khodro
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Behin Roshd Qeshm
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Housing Cooperative of the Rehabilitation Faculty of Shahid Beheshti University of Medical Sciences
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Akam Sazeh Atieh Company

Seyyedeh Zohreh Hosseini Khamenei

• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Homaye Hekmat Charity
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Rouh Al-Jinan Cultural Institute of Qur’an and Etrat, affiliated with Nahj al-Balagha Foundation

Seyyedeh Monireh Hosseini Khamenei

• Member of the Board of Directors of Homaye Hekmat Charity
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Clean Cyberspace Developers Association (Famp)
• Faculty Member of K. N. Toosi University of Technology

Seyyedeh Zahra Hosseini Khamenei

• Member of the Board of Directors of Homaye Hekmat Charity
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Rahab Sazeh Parsian

Seyed Mohammad Reza Hosseini Khamenei

• Member of the Board of Directors of Homaye Hekmat Charity

Seyed Mohammad Hosseini Khamenei (not to be mistaken with Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s brother, Mohammad)

• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Ehya Fanavar Abzar
• CEO and Member of the Board of Directors of Ideh Pardazan Pishro Rah Ayandeh Company

Maryam Hosseini Khamenei

• Member of the Board of Directors of Hayat-e No Cultural and Artistic Institute

Seyed Mohammad Hossein Hosseini Khamenei

• Member of the Board of Directors of Hayat-e No Cultural and Artistic Institute
• CEO and Member of the Board of Directors of Andisheh Khalaq Adak Company
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Andisheh Khalaq Ider Company
• Chief Inspector of the Board of Directors of Arzesah Sazan Ayandeh Pooya Company
• Member of the Board of Directors of Rahab Sazeh Parsian

Seyed Hassan Hosseini Khamenei

• Member of the Board of Directors of Ehya’e Sanaye Khorasan
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Autosard Company, affiliated with the Sadra Islamic Wisdom Foundation

Seyed Hamed Hossein Hosseini Khamenei

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Lemir Qeshm Engineering Services

Mohammad Vaezzadeh Khorasani (Maternal Uncle’s Husband) (1925-2016)

• Member of the Board of Trustees of Razavi Islamic Sciences University, affiliated with Astan Quds
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Islamic Research Foundation of Astan Quds Razavi
• Director of Astan Quds Razavi magazine
• First Secretary General of the World Forum for Proximity of Islamic Schools of Thought

Sadeq Vaezzadeh (Khorasani)

• Member of the Supreme Council of Cultural Revolution (SCCR)
• Member of the Expediency Discernment Council
• Member of the SCCR’s Specific Council
• Member of the Board of Directors of Iran Aluminum Company, affiliated with the Steel Employees Retirement Fund
• Head of the Iranian-Islamic Model of Progress Center
• Head of the SCCR’s Cultural and Scientific Monitoring and Evaluation Board

Hessamuddin Vaezzadeh

• Head of the Iranian Council on International Relations
• Faculty Member of the University of Tehran

Hamed Vaezzadeh Khorasani (Hamed Vaez)

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Arfa Steel and Iron
• Member of the Board of Directors of Pasargad Oil Company, affiliated with Tamin Oil, Gas and Petrochemical Investment Company
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Omran va Tose’e Atieh Shahedan Khorasan, affiliated with the Martyrs Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Asman Afarin Construction Company, affiliated with the Martyrs Foundation

Khamenei’s Wife’s Family

The family of Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s wife, Mansoureh Khojasteh Bagherzadeh, has also benefited from government rents due to their family connection to the Leader of the Islamic Republic. Hassan Khojasteh Bagherzadeh, Khamenei’s brother-in-law, in addition to holding various positions in the Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB), is also a board member of companies such as Soroush Publications and Tasvir-e Shahr. He is also a member of the Board of Trustees of the Farabi Cinema Foundation.

Hassan’s son, Komeil Khojasteh Bagherzadeh, manages Khamenei’s official website and is the CEO of Tabyan Noor Cultural and Artistic Institute. Komeil Khojasteh Bagherzadeh is one of the founders of the Institute for Research and Explanation of the Discourse of the Islamic Revolution, whose goals include “explaining and promoting the main indices of the Islamic Revolution from the perspective of Imam (Khomeini) and the Supreme Leader” and “promoting the views of… thinkers aligned with the trend of the Islamic Revolution to explain the discourse of the Islamic Revolution.”

Khamenei’s other brother-in-law, Mohammad Khojasteh Bagherzadeh, is a board member of Iran Red Crescent Investment Company and its subsidiaries, such as Helal Agriculture and Industry. Mohammad Khojasteh Bagherzadeh’s children own a complex of companies producing food products, construction and urban development, and waste management. One of Mansoureh Khojasteh Bagherzadeh’s nephews, Mohammad Saeed Ahadian, is the CEO of the Khorasan Cultural and Artistic Institute, which publishes the Khorasan newspaper. Ahadian is also the Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Khorasan Province Press House, which oversees all media in Khorasan.

Hassan Khojasteh Bagherzadeh

• Member of the Board of Trustees of the Farabi Cinema Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Soroush Publications
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Tasvir-e Shahr
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Tasvir-e Shahr
• Member of the Board of Directors of Toos Taymaz
• CEO of Asa Toos Food Products

Komeil Khojasteh Bagherzadeh

• CEO of Ayatollah Khamenei’s Official Website
• CEO of Tabyan Noor Cultural and Artistic Institute
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Institute for Research and Explanation of the Discourse of the Islamic Revolution
• Member of the Board of Directors of Mirath-e Ahl-e Qalam

Mohammad Khojasteh Bagherzadeh

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Khojasteh Charitable Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the MS Association of Razavi Khorasan Province
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Mashhad Behrouz Food Products
• Member of the Board of Directors of Helal Agriculture and Industry, affiliated with Iran Red Crescent Investment Company
• Member of the Board of Directors of Iran Red Crescent Investment Company, affiliated with the Iranian Red Crescent Organization
• Member of the Board of Directors of Toos Taymaz
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Toohid Golmakan Men’s Retirement Home
• CEO of Asa Toos Food Products

Masoud Khojasteh Bagherzadeh

• CEO and Chairman of the Board of Directors of Toos Taymaz Company
• CEO of Bahar Gostar Pazh Company
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Asa Toos Iranian
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Mashhad Behrouz Food Products
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Asa Toos Food Products
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Cooperative of Small Industries of Khorasan Can and Jam Factories
• Member of the Board of Directors of Narjes Khatoun Chenaran Charity

Taktam Khojasteh Bagherzadeh

• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Mashhad Behrouz Food Products

Atefeh Khojasteh Bagherzadeh

• Member of the Board of Directors of Mashhad Behrouz Food Products
• Member of the Board of Directors of Asa Toos Food Products
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Azhman Framemari Shahr Consulting Engineers

Saeed Khojasteh Bagherzadeh

• CEO of Mashhad Behrouz Food Products
• CEO and Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Khojasteh Charitable Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Asa Toos Food Products
• Member of the Board of Directors of Ferdowsi Industrial Town of Khorasan
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Narjes Khatoun Chenaran Charity
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Asa Toos Iranian
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Toos Taymaz

Mohammad Saeed Ahadian

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Khorasan Press House
• Member of the Board of Trustees and CEO of Khorasan Cultural and Artistic Institute
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Central Foundation for Imam Reza Pilgrims
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Rooyesh Cultural Development Center
• CEO of Danesh Pooyan Toos

Mahdavi Kani and Bagheri Kani Families

Brothers Mohammad Reza Mahdavi Kani and Mohammad Bagher Bagheri Kani were powerful politicians central to the Islamic Republic’s power structure. The marriage of Mesbah al-Hoda, one of the sons of Mohammad Bagher Bagheri Kani, a member of the Board of Trustees of Imam Sadiq University, to Hoda, the daughter of Seyyed Ali Khamenei, solidified the family’s political and economic writ. Mesbah al-Hoda Bagheri is a professor at Imam Sadiq University. Mohammad Amin Bagheri Kani (Hoda Khamenei’s brother-in-law) also teaches at Imam Sadiq University. Ali Bagheri Kani (Hoda Khamenei’s other brother-in-law), who also graduated from Imam Sadiq University, was previously the Director-General for Central Europe at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He served as the Deputy Secretary of the Supreme National Security Council for Foreign Policy and International Security for a period and currently serves as an advisor in this council. In the 2013 election, Ali Bagheri Kani was the head of Saeed Jalili’s election headquarters.

During his lifetime, Mohammad Reza Mahdavi Kani was one of the five clerical members of the Islamic Revolution Council and the third Chairman of the Assembly of Experts. During his presidency of the Assembly of Experts, Mahdavi Kani appointed his son-in-law, Ebrahim Ansariyan (brother of the famous Sheikh Hossein Ansariyan), as the head of his office. Mahdavi Kani was also a member of the Board of Trustees and the President of Imam Sadiq University. Before his death, Mahdavi Kani divided the important positions of Imam Sadiq University among his relatives, including his daughters, sons, grandchildren, and sons-in-law. For example, Qodsiah Sorkhei, Mahdavi Kani’s wife, is the head of the Sisters’ Campus of Imam Sadiq University. After Mahdavi Kani’s death, his brother, Mohammad Bagher Bagheri Kani, served as the President of Imam Sadiq University for a time. It should be noted that Mahdavi Kani’s son, Mohammad Saeed, is the son-in-law of the Head of the Martyrs Foundation, Seyyed Mohammad Ali Shahidi Mahallati, and Mahdavi Kani’s grandson, Farid Mirlohi, is the son-in-law of Alireza Panahian, a cleric close to Seyyed Ali Khamenei and an advisor to the Head of the Leader’s Representation Office in Universities.

Mohammad Bagher Bagheri Kani

• Former Member of the Assembly of Experts
• Former President of Imam Sadiq University
• Head of Imam Sadiq Schools

Mesbah al-Hoda Bagheri Kani

• Member of the Board of Directors of Islamic Culture Publishing Office
• Imam Sadiq University, Faculty of Management and Islamic Knowledge

Ali Bagheri Kani

• Diplomat in Nuclear Negotiations
• Director-General for Central Europe at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs
• Deputy Secretary for Foreign Policy and International Security at the Supreme National Security Council
• Advisor to the Supreme National Security Council
• Manager of Saeed Jalili’s Election Headquarters in 2013

Mohammad Reza Mahdavi Kani (1931-2014)

• Member of the Second, Third, and Fourth terms of the Expediency Discernment Council
• Chairman of the Assembly of Experts
• President of Imam Sadiq University
• Secretary General of the Combatant Clergy Association

Qodsiah Sorkhei

• Head of the Sisters’ Campus of Imam Sadiq University
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Iranian Scientific Association of Family Jurisprudence and Law

Sediqeh (Maryam) Mahdavi Kani

• Vice Chairman of the Iranian Scientific Association of Family Jurisprudence and Law
• Deputy Head of the Sisters’ Campus of Imam Sadiq University
• World Union of Muslim Women

Ebrahim Ansariyan (Husband of Sediqeh Mahdavi Kani)

• Former Head of the Office of the Chairman of the Assembly of Experts
• Credit Cooperative of Ministry of Foreign Affairs Employees
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Consumption and Services Cooperative of Ministry of Foreign Affairs Employees
• Treasurer of Ghadir Velayat Alavi Charity
• Member of the Board of Directors of Imam Sadiq Educational Complex
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Louh Zarrin Jame’ Commercial Company, affiliated with Jame’at al-Imam al-Sadiq Holding
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Islamic Services Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Association of Supporters of Seminary Development

Zohair Ansariyan

• Head of Selection at Imam Sadiq University

Zoha Ansariyan

• Sisters’ Campus of Imam Sadiq University

Mohammad Saeed Mahdavi Kani

• Member of the Board of Trustees of Imam Sadiq University
• Member of the Board of Trustees of Jame’at al-Imam al-Sadiq Holding
• Member of the Board of Trustees of Imam Sadiq University Credit Institution
• Inspector of Taher Iran Company, affiliated with Jame’at al-Imam al-Sadiq Holding

Mahdieh Mahdavi Kani

• Head of Selection at the Sisters’ Campus of Imam Sadiq University

Seyed Mostafa Mirlohi (Husband of Mahdieh Mahdavi Kani)

• Member of the Board of Trustees of Imam Sadiq University
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Jame’at al-Imam al-Sadiq
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Taher Iran, affiliated with Jame’at al-Imam al-Sadiq Holding
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Khazar Steel Melting Complex, affiliated with Jame’at al-Imam al-Sadiq Holding
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Nakhiran Spinning and Weaving, affiliated with Jame’at al-Imam al-Sadiq Holding
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Imam Sadiq Educational Complex
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Rahjoyan Rah Emam Hadi Institute
• Member of the Board of Trustees of Sardar-e Jangal Rasht Higher Education Institute
• Member of the Board of Trustees of Toloo-e Mehr Higher Education Institute
• Member of the Board of Directors of Ghadir Velayat Alavi Charity
• Member of the Board of Directors of Safiran Sobh Rooyesh Institute
• Member of the Board of Directors of Mehdi Jan Weaving
• Alternate Member of the Board of Directors of the Islamic Services Foundation
• Alternate Member of the Board of Directors of Andisheh Yaran Mohseni
• Alternate Member of the Board of Directors of the International Ghadir Foundation

Loulachian Family

Meysam Khamenei married the daughter of a religious merchant from Tehran, Mahmoud Loulachian. Loulachian is one of the founders of Imam Mohammad Baqir Seminary and the Chairman of the Board of Directors of Dar-e Rah-e Haqq Institute. He also enjoys many privileges in the Islamic Republic system due to his kinship with Seyyed Ali Khamenei. Hossein Loulachian, Meysam Khamenei’s brother-in-law, is the CEO of Kowsar Cultural Foundation and a board member of the Tariq al-Quds Jonoub Interest-Free Loan Fund. Hossein Loulachian is an eulogist at the Leader’s Office mourning ceremonies.

Meysam Khamenei’s other brother-in-law, Alireza Loulachian, was the CEO of Tasnim Noor Institute, affiliated with the Islamic Development Organization, for 14 years. The Islamic Development Organization is one of the institutions covered by Seyyed Ali Khamenei’s office. Alireza Loulachian, along with Meysam Khamenei, is a board member of the newly established Rahpouyan Sepehr Foundation, which operates “to achieve the goals desired by the Supreme Leader and the system of the Islamic Republic of Iran in all social, cultural, health and treatment, environment and natural resources, construction and development, technology, international affairs, infrastructure, sports, and tribal fields.” Meysam Khamenei’s brother-in-law (by marriage to his wife’s sister), Mohsen Chini-Foroushan, has a history of management at the Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults (Kanoon-e Parvaresh-e Fekri-ye Koodakan va Nojavanan), Hamshahri Institute, Islamic Culture Publishing Office, and membership in the Supreme Council of Research and Educational Planning for Textbooks.

Mahmoud Loulachian

• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Dar-e Rah-e Haqq Institute
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Tariq al-Quds Jonoub Interest-Free Loan Fund
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Islamic Education Society
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Mosque Builders’ Philanthropists Association
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Kowsar Cultural Foundation
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Fajr Clothing Foundation
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of the Islamic Culture Publishing Office
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Trustees of the Iranian Anti-Smoking Association
• CEO of Ershad va Refah Imam Sadiq Charity Foundation, affiliated with Dar-e Rah-e Haqq Institute
• CEO of Eskan Yavar Company, affiliated with Dar-e Rah-e Haqq Institute
• Member of the Board of Directors of the Cultural Publications of the Headquarters for the Establishment of Prayer
• Member of the Board of Directors of Mahdi Mow’oud Cultural Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of Sadiq Pardisan Culture Creators
• Member of the Board of Directors of Nahj al-Balagha Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of Enfaq Thulth Charity
• Member of the Board of Trustees of the Association of Supporters of Seminary Development (Al-e Mohammad (PBUH) Donation Association)
• Founding Member and Executive Board Member of the Philanthropists’ Association of Astan and Dar al-Hadith, affiliated with Astan Abdul Azim
• Member of the Board of Trustees and Board of Directors of the International Ghadir Foundation
• Founder of Imam Mohammad Baqir Seminary
• Member of the Popular Front of Islamic Revolution Forces (JAMNA)

Hossein Loulachian

• CEO of Kowsar Cultural Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of Tariq al-Quds Jonoub Interest-Free Loan Fund
• Member of the Board of Directors of Eskan Yavar Company, affiliated with Dar-e Rah-e Haqq Institute
• Member of the Board of Directors of Ershad va Refah Imam Sadiq Charity Foundation, affiliated with Dar-e Rah-e Haqq Institute
• CEO of Siyahat Ferdows Iranian Company, a subsidiary of Ershad va Refah Imam Sadiq Charity Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of Mashhad Sadiqi’yeh Hotel, a subsidiary of Siyahat Ferdows Iranian Company
• Member of the Board of Directors of Qom Sadiqi’yeh Hotel, a subsidiary of Siyahat Ferdows Iranian Company
• Member of the Board of Directors of Tondar Parts and Service Distribution
• Vice Chairman of the Board of Directors of Tittow Toys, Entertainment, and Stationery
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Yavar Sanat Parnian
• Member of the Board of Directors of Kowsarieh Tehran Seminary
• Eulogist at the Leader’s Office

Alireza Loulachian

• Member of the Board of Directors of Kowsar Cultural Foundation
• Member of the Board of Directors of Rahpouyan Sepehr Charitable Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Tarh-e Naqsh-e Ilia
• Former Member of the Board of Directors and CEO of Tasnim Noor Institute, affiliated with the Islamic Development Organization
• Member of the Board of Directors of Kish Institute of Science and Technology
• Member of the Board of Directors of Tariq al-Quds Jonoub Interest-Free Loan Fund

Mohsen Chini-Foroushan

• Former CEO of the Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults
• Representative of the Minister of Education on the Board of Directors of Fajr Clothing Foundation
• Member of the Board of Trustees of Ayin-e Roshan Cultural Foundation
• Chairman of the Board of Directors of Offset Company
• Member of the Board of Directors of Ershad va Refah Imam Sadiq Charity Foundation, affiliated with Dar-e Rah-e Haqq Institute
• CEO of Islamic Culture Publishing Office
• CEO of Hamshahri Institute
• Member of the Board of Directors of Payam-e Hamshahri Company
• Former Chairman of the Board of Directors of Tasnim Noor Institute, affiliated with the Islamic Development Organization
• CEO of Persia International Film Institute for Children and Young Adults
• Member of the Board of Directors of Roshangaran Elm va Honar Institute
• Member of the Supreme Council of Research and Educational Planning for Textbooks
• Member of the Supreme Council of the Parents and Teachers Association
• Member of the Supreme Council of Art Center Policymaking
• and …

Kharazi Family

The marriage of Seyyed Masoud Khamenei to Sousan Kharazi created another influential clan in Iran’s power structure. Masoud’s father-in-law, Mohsen Kharazi, was a member of the Assembly of Experts and the Society of Seminary Teachers of Qom before his death. Mohammad Baqer Kharazi, Masoud Khamenei’s brother-in-law, is the Secretary General of Hezbollah of Iran.

Mohammad Sadeq Kharazi, Masoud’s other brother-in-law, held important positions, such as Deputy Head of the War Propaganda Headquarters in the Supreme Defense Council and Member of the Central Council of the War Support Headquarters (at the age of 20), Member of the Supreme Council of National Defense (at the age of 22), Advisor to the CEO of the Islamic Republic News Agency (at the age of 23), Advisor to the Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance (at the age of 25), Representative of the Islamic Republic to the United Nations (at the age of 26), and Iranian Ambassador to France. He also owns Hermes Publications and Hafez Shiraz Non-Profit University.

The post Iran’s Invisible Supreme Leader appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

A grand, three-day funeral ceremony for the former Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic is planned for the middle of Muharram, first month of the Islamic lunar calendar (beginning June 16 this year), with foreign dignitaries joining domestic devotees in attendance. Additional ceremonies will follow in the holy city of Qom and finally in Mashhad, where the late Ayatollah Ali Khamenei will be buried at the Imam Reza Shrine.

Preparations for the events are being led by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), sending a clear message to both the Iranian people and the world at large. “It is not just about planning a funeral,” an economist affiliated with the University of Tehran’s Institute for Economic Studies and Research told Resanegar, Tehran Bureau’s economic unit. “This ceremony provides a mechanism for reinforcing the IRGC’s position of power.”

After engineering Mojtaba Khamanei’s succession to the post of Supreme Leader, demonstrating its readiness to extract fees from ships transiting the Strait of Hormuz, and solidifying its control over foreign policy, the IRGC is emerging from the war with the United States and Israel possessed of greater capacity than ever to direct Iran’s fortunes. 

A few months ago, the corps was facing open criticism for its opaque, yet immense role in Iran’s economy, fueled by years of discontent—not least among its rivals within the regime. Emboldened by the war and Ali Khamenei’s sudden demise, the IRGC has altered the equation and positioned itself to play a more visible role in both business and political decision-making. Alongside its assertion of control over the Khamenei commemorations, another clear sign is the shift in the leadership of Iran’s international negotiating team. Before the war, such delegations were headed by Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi; the current negotiations with the Trump administration, however, are being led by Mohammad Bagher Ghalibaf. His position as Majles speaker is less relevant than the fact that he served for two decades in the Guards, ascending to the position of commander of the IRGC Air Force.

Complementing its accumulation of political power and vast network of companies and often cloaked holdings, the IRGC also enjoys special dispensation to feast from the nation’s coffers. While 20 percent of oil revenues are allocated directly to the armed forces, the Guards also have privileged access to the National Development Fund, a sovereign wealth fund created by order of Ali Khamenei and financed by Iran’s oil revenues—likewise 20 percent of the total under the 2026–27 Majles budget. This arrangement has further entrenched the security establishment’s ability to exploit the country’s most important source of wealth.

The IRGC’s 47-year rise to dominance has not gone unchallenged. During the 2010s, in particular, as the Guards’ control over national security policy tightened and its sprawling business and financial structures encompassed an ever larger part of the Iranian economy, multiple figures in the regime sought to check its power—including more than one who had played important parts in its expansion.

“Neither sound economics nor privatization”

When Mahmoud Ahmadinejad took office as the Islamic Republic’s sixth president in August 2005, he was known to have long been closely aligned with the IRGC—to the extent that there were widespread, though erroneous, reports that he had been a member. He launched a sweeping, so-called privatization campaign among whose greatest beneficiaries was Khatam al-Anbiya Construction Headquarters, the Guards’ massive engineering firm. In 2006 alone, Khatam al-Anbiya landed over $7 billion in contracts across sectors from transportation to oil and gas. As a rift grew between the Supreme Leader and Ahmadinejad during his second term as president, he also began to rebuke the IRGC, in particular for its shadowy economic activities. At a government conference in July 2011, he referred to powerful actors surreptitiously moving goods through ports while avoiding customs supervision as the regime’s “smuggler brothers“—a reference to the Guards so thinly veiled that IRGC commander-in-chief Mohammad Ali Jafari felt compelled to reject the allegations. 

Not unlike Ahmadinejad, Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, who served as president for eight years in the aftermath of the war with Iraq and first opened the door for the Guards’ involvement in economic activities, reportedly came to regret it. When he took office in August 1989, the IRGC was still a relatively new institution. Many of its members were young, highly motivated cadres who, during the war, had been involved not only in combat operations but also in extensive engineering, logistical, and reconstruction work, developing impressive operational capabilities. Rafsanjani thus gave the Guards a lead position in rebuilding the country’s war-damaged infrastructure. As a result of this decision, the IRGC would gradually transform into a massive state-backed contractor and, over time, a formidable competitor—and obstacle—to the private sector. According to an account published by the Saham News website, in an April 2013 meeting with a group of associates encouraging him to run again for the presidency, he rued how the Guards had gone far beyond the rebuilding mission he gave them and said that “now the IRGC has the economy, foreign and domestic policy in its grip and is not satisfied with anything less than the entire country.”

The following year, in December 2014, Ahmadinejad’s successor, Hassan Rouhani, then in office for four months, implicitly criticized the transfer of state-owned companies to the IRGC while addressing an anti-corruption conference attended by the heads of all three branches of government, saying, “If you gather intelligence, guns, money, capital, websites, newspapers, and news agencies all in one place, it would even corrupt Abu Dharr and Salman” (companions of the Prophet Muhammad renowned for their probity). While many observers regarded this as an obvious reference to the corps, IRGC chief Jafari insisted that “the president’s relationship with the Revolutionary Guards is very good” and that Rouhani’s remarks were not directed at them.

In October 2015, the Islamic Republic agreed to a nuclear deal (the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action, JCPOA) that left in place broad US sanctions against the IRGC and many of its affiliated business entities—suggesting that the larger the Guards’ role in the national economy, the more vulnerable that economy would continue to be. Rouhani, having won a second term in office in the May 2017 elections, now launched a concerted political effort to rein in the Guards’ economic sway. This campaign culminated in a widely reported speech referencing Ahmadinejad’s privatization campaign to an iftar banquet on June 22, 2017, that drew an explosive reaction. “We handed part of the economy from a civilian government to a government with guns; this is neither sound economics nor privatization,” the president declared. This time the Guards’ response was fierce. Jafari publicly castigated Rouhani, charging that “a government without a gun is humiliated and ultimately forced to surrender.” In a meeting the following month, Jafari, Qasem Soleimani, and other senior IRGC leaders directly excoriated the president. Aerospace Force commander Amir Ali Hajizadeh reported that they told Rouhani, “If you say these things, it will not be tolerated. You object every day. Defending the revolution, and the nation, and the system, and the Leadership, is our red line. Do not assume you’ll always be able to say these things, and we’ll be silent.”

Rouhani evidently continued his campaign more quietly. In January 2018, just a few weeks after massive protests had shaken the Islamic Republic, his defense minister, Amir Hatami, announced that the Supreme Leader had issued a directive to the General Staff of the Armed Forces ordering the divestiture of non-military business enterprises. IRGC commanders dismissed the announcement, asserting that all of their business dealings were military related, and Trump’s withdrawal from the JCPOA in May 2018 weakened Rouhani’s position to the point that he was effectively sidelined for most of his second term. Nonetheless, in October 2018 the IRGC’s Sepah Cooperative Foundation divested its shares in the Telecommunication Company of Iran (TCI) and Mobile Communications Company of Iran (MCI; also known as Hamrah-e Aval). Since then, there has been little to indicate that anyone in the regime cared to expend political capital trying to reel back the Guards’ economic activities—until early this year, when an old idea was revived and repurposed with exactly that aim.

The merger idea

On the afternoon of March 22, 1989, Tehran’s northern Jamaran neighborhood received a frequent visitor, one who arrived this time with a particularly important agenda. Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, who had served as commander-in-chief during the final months of the Iran-Iraq War, arrived at the residence of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the founder of the Islamic Republic, carrying a folder of documents laying out a consequential proposal.

Few enjoyed the trust of the leader of the Islamic Republic as Rafsanjani did. As he later described in his memoirs, he raised the issue of the dual structure of Iran’s armed forces and the high costs associated with maintaining parallel organizations and overlapping military units, arguing for the merger of the IRGC and the Artesh, Iran’s regular military. The Guards had been officially founded on May 5, 1979, per a Khomeini decree, to “fulfill the momentous task of the Islamic revolution”—an ideological enforcement mission he did not trust to the Artesh, whose officer corps was a legacy of the Shah. Iraq invaded a year and a half later, and the IRGC became essential to Iran’s defense.

Khomeini accepted the proposal in principle but was concerned that merging the Guards and the Artesh would provoke resentment among their personnel and trigger clashes between the two forces. He stated that while he did not object to the idea of the merger, the timing was not right.

Khomeini’s lack of opposition to the concept was enough for Rafsanjani to pursue it by establishing a merger committee headed by Abdollah Nouri, who would later serve as interior minister under both Rafsanjani and Mohammad Khatami. Khomeini did not live long enough to see its outcome. He died on June 4, 1989, just two months after the meeting in Jamaran, and—thanks to a selection process manipulated by Rafsanjani—was succeeded by Ali Khamenei, then in his eighth year as Iran’s president.

Unlike Ayatollah Khomeini, who had no military background and largely entrusted national security affairs to Rafsanjani, Khamenei began his career in the newly established Islamic Republic as deputy minister of defense and went on to serve as acting commander of the IRGC. He resigned from that position in February 1980 to run in the first parliamentary elections under the new regime, ultimately winning a seat and becoming chairman of the Majles’s Defense Committee.

His military background and maintenance of close ties with IRGC commanders led the new Supreme Leader to take a continued personal interest in national security matters. In his first days after taking office, he ordered the dissolution of the IRGC-Artesh merger committee and declared the anticipated union unnecessary, tasking the General Staff of the Armed Forces with establishing a clear division of everyday responsibilities and strategic missions between the two institutions.

During Ali Khamenei’s tenure as Supreme Leader, the IRGC’s authority and scope of responsibilities steadily grew—first on now President Rafsanjani’s initiative, later owing to the Supreme Leader himself, who saw the Guards as his essential power base against the reform movement after Khatami became president. Among the earliest examples was the Guards’ consolidation and expansion of the Basij militia, and then its internal deployment against Iranian citizens during the Mashhad riots of 1992 and Qazvin unrest of 1994. The IRGC’s political presence grew as well. As the share of Majles seats won by clerics dwindled from a high of 55 percent in 1984 to less than 15 percent in the early 2000s, former Guards began to enter the legislature in growing numbers—first slowly, then with a rush in 2004 when many reformist incumbents were disqualified. With greater numbers came greater influence: by 2020, former IRGC or Basij members comprised a majority of the parliament’s presidium and held at least 16 committee chairs or similarly powerful positions. The wall between Guard and government service is thin at best, and many of these legislators will return to active duty as soon as they exit the formal political scene.

Under Khamenei and Rafsanjani, the IRGC was also granted a much broader role in economic affairs. Its budget expanded significantly, and it inaugurated a vast network of subsidiary businesses, including the Khatam al-Anbiya conglomerate—which itself owns at least a half-dozen engineering subsidiaries and a controlling stake in the country’s largest shipbuilding company, among many other interests—and an array of financial and credit institutions. Through Khamenei and Rafsanjani’s support of the Guards’ economic activities, the IRGC grew into a pillar of Iran’s shadow economy.

“Costs borne by the public” 

After Rafsanjani’s failed bid in 1989, there is no evidence that an Artesh-IRGC merger received serious consideration in regime circles for the next three-and-a-half decades. That changed—though for reasons much different than organizational efficiency—after January 28, 2026, when the European Union placed the IRGC on its terror list, significantly expanding a global sanctions program that targets the corps’ assets and revenue streams. Due to the IRGC’s outsized role in the shadow economy, the international pressure threatened Iran’s economic system as a whole.

Just nine days after the EU decision, Jomhouri-e Eslami newspaper—founded as the mouthpiece for the Islamic Republic Party, Iran’s sole ruling party under Khomeini, and whose views generally echo those of the regime’s conservative clerical core—published a front-page editorial championing “cohesion” and “unity, efficiency, and strength in the country’s defense structure.” Merging the IRGC and the Artesh was the only solution to save Iran’s economy, according to the editorial—an argument with special significance given that Ali Khamenei had been the paper’s license holder since its founding in 1979, according to the current managing editor.

Explicitly invoking Rafsanjani’s decades-old effort to merge the Guards and Artesh and Khomeini’s lack of objection to the idea, the newspaper blamed a systemic “misalignment of institutional roles“ for a “significant part of our problems today, from the economy to foreign policy.” It described the IRGC as entering “fields for which it was neither designed, nor equipped to handle the consequences,” and in response advocated “a rational consolidation of power and the return of each institution to its defined legal mandate.” 

“Such a return to the logic of law and institutional division of labor could both facilitate the containment of a formidable enemy and reduce the accumulated costs borne by the public,” the editorial stated.

Jomhouri-e Eslami’s advocacy of an Artesh-IRGC merger might have served as a prelude to consequential deliberation over the prospect in policy-making circles. Then the war changed almost everything.

An unchallenged protagonist

The United States and Israel attacked Iran on February 28, 2026. Regardless of their stated objectives, the ensuing war has so far had one unmistakable effect on the power dynamics within the Islamic Republic. The IRGC, which had been sanctioned by the EU as a terrorist organization for the first time a month before the war and whose economic activities and institutional autonomy were being called into question by a regime mouthpiece very close to the Supreme Leader, has now become the main actor on the Iranian stage.

“Current political and military conditions suggest that everything is effectively in the hands of the IRGC. The Guards appear to be making the key decisions,” the University of Tehran economist, who spoke on condition of anonymity due to safety concerns, told Resanegar. “The most likely scenario is that the Islamic Republic will remain, with the difference that the IRGC’s presence in the economy will be strengthened as a result of the two recent wars.”

After Trump withdrew from the JCPOA in 2018, there was still popular sentiment in favor of curtailing the Guards’ power. They were able to deflect it with significant support from Ali Khamenei, who never made a single public statement about the divestiture directive announced in his name. While the Guards’ institutional position was strengthened, the Supreme Leader retained ultimate authority, with “both oversight of the decision-making process and the ability to control and contain the IRGC,” a veteran security analyst, political scientist, and former University of Tehran faculty member told Resanegar.  

Khamenei’s assassination meant the elimination of that oversight, said the analyst, as the succession of his son, Mojtaba Khamenei, to the post of Supreme Leader was entirely orchestrated by the IRGC. “The succession crisis in the Islamic Republic could not have been resolved so easily without IRGC involvement,” explained the security analyst, who also spoke on condition of anonymity. “It can therefore be said that, in the new configuration of the Islamic Republic, the IRGC has gained a far more important, prominent, and influential role.”

In the absence of any restraint Ali Khamenei might have imposed, the war also freed the corps to flex its muscle in the Strait of Hormuz. While the US blockade has temporarily thwarted the IRGC’s profitable protection racket in the strait, Majles representatives closely aligned with the Guards have introduced a bill under a fast-track, “triple-urgency” mechanism that envisions permanent transit tolls and a new legal framework for the waterway that would make the IRGC the strait’s de facto gatekeeper, dramatically expanding both its revenues and geopolitical influence. “Who would actually collect those fees?” the economist asked rhetorically. “Customs authorities? No—everything would have to be coordinated through the IRGC.”

The conflict has reinforced the Guards’ primacy in foreign policy more broadly. When President Masoud Pezeshkian attempted to reassure Arab neighbors early in the war, military officials swiftly overrode his message with threats of regional escalation. The incident highlighted how, in the new order brought on by the conflict, the IRGC has become the ultimate arbiter of Iran’s external messaging, relegating civilian leaders to a largely symbolic role.

“On the third day of the war, President Pezeshkian apologized to the Gulf states. Five minutes later, Khatam al-Anbiya issued a statement effectively retracting his remarks,” the economist said. “This means that the decision-maker is none other than the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.”

He described one of the war’s first major consequences as the normalization of the Guards’ economic role. “If yesterday the IRGC was the emperor of Iran’s hidden economy, today it is becoming the central authority within the formal and visible economy,” he said, foreseeing “that no major protocol or policy will be written from this point forward without the IRGC playing a role. Everything will require its approval and coordination.”

Many hopeful observers expected the 2026 war to debilitate the Islamic Republic or even precipitate its collapse. Instead, the conflict appears to have facilitated a large-scale transfer of power from the Supreme Leader’s office and broader clerical establishment to the security apparatus. If the current trajectory continues, the war may be remembered as the event that, far from bringing down the Islamic Republic, consolidated the IRGC’s dominance over it.

The post Not Satisfied With Less Than the Entire Country: The IRGC’s Rise appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

According to rumors circulating in Tehran in recent weeks, Mehdi Khamoushi, head of Iran’s Endowments and Charity Affairs Organization, is set to be named as chief of staff to Mojtaba Khamenei, Iran’s newly installed Supreme Leader. Already a member of the board of trustees of the Islamic Revolution Cultural Research Institute, responsible for preserving and publishing the works of the late Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, Khamoushi also has a close familial connection with one of Iran’s oldest surviving political organizations.

Taghi Khamoushi, Mehdi’s father, was for decades one of the leading figures of Motalefeh (the Islamic Coalition Party). Founded in 1963 with roots in the traditional bazaar merchant class, Motalefeh was closely aligned with the clerical establishment that helped bring the Islamic Republic to power in 1979. In the Iranian political context, Motalefeh is a foundational coalition of principlists (osoolgarayan)—ultraconservative supporters of whoever holds the office of Supreme Leader and the doctrine of Velaayat-e Faghih by which he exercises absolute authority.

The party’s religious, traditionalist, and bazaar-based members played a significant role in Iran’s economy from the outset of the 1979 Revolution and controlled a substantial share of the country’s non-oil exports during the Islamic Republic’s early decades. Under the reformist government of Mohammad Khatami, these figures were pushed to the political margins.

As the economic and political power of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) grew during the Ahmadinejad era, Motalefeh was sidelined even further, and it ceased to be a major player in the economy. Mehdi Khamoushi’s rumoured appointment as chief of the Supreme Leader’s Office raised the question of whether he might restore Motalefeh to a position of political influence and economic strength.

This past week, Tehran Bureau’s economic unit, Resanegar, put this question to a veteran Iranian economist affiliated with the Institute for Economic Studies and Research of the University of Tehran. With extensive connections across Iran’s business circles (which overlap considerably with its political circles) and a deep understanding of the country’s markets and commerce, he offers an unusually well-informed perspective on the issue.

In analyzing possible shifts in Iran’s power dynamics over the coming months, he downplays the prospect of Motalefeh having the new Supreme Leader’s ear. Instead, he argues that the IRGC—whose economic grip had become less certain in the years before Donald Trump regained the US presidency—is now positioned to be Iran’s true locus of power. The war that began in late February, he argues, has expanded the Guards’ influence in Iran’s economy and politics alike.

Recently, unofficial reports have circulated suggesting that Mehdi Khamoushi may be appointed head of the Supreme Leader’s Office. While the news has not been confirmed, the decision would not be entirely unexpected. His appointment could be significant for Motalefeh, potentially providing it a bridge back from political marginalization. How much could Khamoushi’s arrival at the Leader’s Office affect Iran’s economy? Meysam Khamenei [Mojtaba Khamenei’s youngest brother] is married into the Lolachian family, another prominent Motalefeh-linked family. Even if power is not distributed among [Ali] Khamenei’s [four] sons, it seems unlikely that Mojtaba Khamenei’s brothers would be left without influence. Could some share of power also return to Motalefeh?

Current political and military conditions suggest that everything is effectively in the hands of the IRGC. The Guards appear to be making the key decisions. Yesterday, I watched footage of President Masoud Pezeshkian meeting with managers from the state broadcaster. It seems they are still holding meetings in secure locations. During the meeting, Pezeshkian said that “we do nothing without the Leader’s permission,” yet he had recently stated that he only met with Mojtaba Khamenei two months after [the Supreme Leader’s appointment]. This suggests that affairs have not necessarily been managed directly through the Leader’s authorization.

Whether power will be distributed among the Leader’s sons, or whether Khamoushi becoming chief of staff would alter economic policy, are questions that remain speculative. If we assume for the sake of argument that Seyyed Mehdi Khamoushi does become head of the office—though there is no confirmed information yet—the real question is how much influence he could have over the economy.

In my view, the Leader’s Office exerts its greatest influence by engineering elections in ways that bring to power individuals who will pursue its preferred economic policies. Until we know their electoral plans and what political strategy they intend to implement, we cannot know what economic program or structure they intend to pursue.

Based on Mehdi Khamoushi’s background, it is difficult to determine whether Motalefeh itself would return. If his thinking resembles that of his father, Seyyed Taqi Khamoushi, then his focus would be on the bazaar—not in the liberal economic sense, but in the traditional jurisprudential sense.

This is a conception of the market that is largely insulated from competition. Motalefeh was among the first groups to oppose the establishment of the Refah chain stores. If they truly supported free markets and limited state intervention, they would not have reacted that way. In reality, they have generally opposed modern market structures unless they themselves are incorporated into them.

Ali Naqi Khamoushi [Mehdi Khamoushi’s uncle] chaired Iran’s Chamber of Commerce for nearly thirty years. If you look at the people around him—for example, one of his close associates, who was known as the “father of Iran’s plaster industry” and owned the Semnan plaster business—you find individuals who never worked to modernize the Chamber of Commerce or attempted to integrate Iran into the global trading system.

They made no meaningful effort to bring Iran into the World Trade Organization. In many cases, they showed little interest in or understanding of such institutions. Their primary concern was practical self-interest: if they were importers, they wanted a lower exchange rate to increase profits; if they were exporters—even of raw materials—they sought higher returns. They were not interested in serious competitors or partners.

Given this, does it seem that whether Motalefeh returns or figures like Babak Zanjani remain influential, Iran will continue to follow the same closed, rent-seeking economic model?

Iran’s economy is fundamentally rent-based. It has never operated on meritocracy. Those connected to power receive a share of economic opportunities.

Everyone seeks access to political power because that is how economic benefits are obtained. This differs from developed countries such as Britain or the United States, where individuals generally become economically successful first and then enter politics in an effort to influence policymaking.

Babak Zanjani himself emerged from this system of rent-seeking. Could figures like him become even more influential?

If the Wall Street Journal report is correct and Babak helped transfer roughly $850 million into Iran through cryptocurrencies, then yes, people like him could gain greater influence.

Their expertise lies in sanctions evasion. As long as sanctions remain in place, such individuals continue to serve a practical function for the system.

Returning to Motalefeh: is it fair to say that the party has been marginalized in recent years, and that Mehdi Khamoushi and a new leadership arrangement could bring it back to prominence?

Motalefeh began losing influence when Mahmoud Ahmadinejad came to power, although the process actually started during Mohammad Khatami’s presidency through efforts to take control of the Chamber of Commerce away from them.

Their supporters fought hard to retain influence. At one point, the election of the Tehran Chamber of Commerce chairman was invalidated and he was removed so that Motalefeh could maintain control. They succeeded temporarily, but eventually lost their position as Chamber elections progressed.

During Ahmadinejad’s administration, they were pushed almost entirely to the margins. Even in the petrochemical sector, cases were opened against some of them and they faced considerable pressure.

Even if Khamoushi became chief of staff, that would not necessarily mean Motalefeh’s return. The traditional bazaar economy no longer exists in the form it once did. There is no old-style economic order to restore, nor can they simply oppose modern distribution networks as they once did.

These individuals are deeply embedded within Iran’s economic system and would likely return with a new image. They have tried to adapt to changing circumstances. Their children are now entering positions of influence, and some of them are even frustrated with Iran’s current economic policies. One of them, whom I know personally, openly supports reconciliation with the United States.

The internet and social media have changed too much. This is no longer the era of Motalefeh.

But doesn’t this network still control a significant portion of Iran’s exports?

Iranian exports have changed dramatically. Traditional exports such as carpets, pistachios, and agricultural products no longer play a meaningful role in the country’s trade balance.

At one time, these products accounted for more than 60 percent of Iran’s non-oil exports. Today they represent less than one percent. Carpets, pistachios, legumes—none of them have the importance they once did.

Today, roughly 70 percent of Iran’s non-oil exports consist of petrochemical products and steel.

Doesn’t that still make them influential in the petrochemical sector?

Not particularly. They have interests in companies such as Amir Kabir Petrochemical and Sadaf, but these do not represent a major share of exports.

The Persian Gulf Petrochemical Industries Holding Company alone accounts for roughly half of Iran’s petrochemical exports. Therefore, it would be inaccurate to say that Motalefeh controls the pulse of petrochemical exports.

Assuming the current political system remains in place, what do you think will be the most important economic change in the coming years?

If the system survives, the most significant change will be continuity in the direction established by the recent conflicts. Iran’s economy will increasingly become an economy dominated by military institutions.

The IRGC and Khatam al-Anbiya Headquarters will expand their influence. Any meaningful change in economic policy would require a change in the IRGC’s outlook.

The Guards will likely gain even greater freedom of action. More state contracts will be awarded to them.

There was an interesting article in Foreign Affairs written by one of the American negotiators involved in the Obama-era nuclear talks. He argued that the nuclear agreement had been structured in a way that effectively discouraged the IRGC from economic involvement. According to him, the Iranian government itself had shown an interest in reducing the IRGC’s role because sanctions targeting the Guards also harmed the broader economy.

But what Trump did effectively reversed that trend and made the IRGC central to the economy once again.

The IRGC will likely gain even more authority. Consider the idea of asserting control over the Strait of Hormuz and collecting transit fees. Who would actually collect those fees? Customs authorities? No—everything would have to be coordinated through the IRGC.

On the third day of the war, President Pezeshkian apologized to the Gulf states. Five minutes later, Khatam al-Anbiya issued a statement effectively retracting his remarks.

Trump ended up giving the IRGC everything it wanted. What he did ultimately strengthened the organization. From now on, the IRGC will operate openly in the economy.

If yesterday the IRGC was the emperor of Iran’s hidden economy, today it is becoming the central authority within the formal and visible economy. I am confident that no major protocol or policy will be written from this point forward without the IRGC playing a role. Everything will require its approval and coordination.

So a return of Motalefeh to power is unlikely?

In this new political landscape, neither Motalefeh nor any other political party is likely to play a decisive role.

Trump made what I would describe as a strategic mistake. The IRGC now sees the situation as a blessing in disguise. A ripe fruit has fallen into its lap, and it has no intention of sharing that fruit with anyone else.

The post “Trump Ended Up Giving the IRGC Everything It Wanted” appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

For over two months, Iran’s streets and squares have routinely been occupied by members of the new jan-fada movement, ordinary citizens who have pledged themselves as the regime’s “devotees unto death.” Crowds of these ardent supporters of the Islamic Republic erect mokeb encampments, modeled after pilgrimage way stations, where they offer free tea and food while asserting ideological control over public space. Staging demonstrations of loyalty to the regime and parading through neighborhoods as they chant slogans, often PA amplified and meant to intimidate, such as “Heydar, Heydar” and “Commander, give the order—whatever you command, we will carry out,” these jan-fada groups do not mobilize spontaneously. They are the product of an entrenched financial architecture designed to manufacture and sustain political allegiance. 

As the destructive effects of the 40-day war sink into the Iranian economy, effects that grow more severe each day due to the US blockade, the state has slashed spending in almost every sphere. Funding for many state-owned companies, such as those in the electricity and water sectors, has been almost completely eliminated. Yet money still flows unabated to a sector with an already outsized budget allocation—propaganda. 

Iran’s latest budget—which was proposed to the Majles in early January and received parliamentary approval on February 17—suggests that the Islamic Republic continues to treat control over ideology not as an accessory to government, but as one of its core functions. According to the 2026–27 national budget (which follows the Persian calendar, extending from March 21, 2026, to March 20, 2027) at least 188 trillion tomans (approximately $1.43 billion USD) in official public spending is directed toward media institutions, religious organizations, ideological outreach, and security-linked cultural bodies. This amount alone is comparable to the combined budgets of the Ministries of Communications, Justice, Culture, and Cultural Heritage, and it omits entirely opaque funding streams underwritten by quasi-governmental “charitable” institutions, or bonyads, that are overseen by officials at the very heart of the regime.

This budget allocation breaks down roughly as follows:

• Media and content production (state broadcasting, news agencies): ~45%
• Religious and ideological institutions: ~20%
• Military-security ideological sectors: ~20%
• Educational and cultural-engineering bodies: ~10%
• International ideological outreach organizations: ~5%

The use of these funds goes far beyond the production of media content. They support the recruitment and training of Iranians for careers of service to the regime, as well the organization and deployment of broad-based operations like the faux-grassroots, “astroturfed” jan-fada campaign and the coordination and promotion, both domestic and international, of political, religious, and military messaging.

The amount of spending on propaganda is notable not only for its volume, but for its durability. Even amid an unresolved war and a financially crushing blockade, there is no indication that disbursements in the propaganda realm have been curtailed. While the regime has made drastic cuts elsewhere, it has left belief-making largely untouched. Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB), long one of the regime’s central ideological instruments, has even seen a marked increase in its already substantial allocation. Having received 29 trillion tomans under the 2025–26 national budget, IRIB’s allotment has ballooned to 80 trillion tomans in the current fiscal year.

Rather than flowing through a single ministry, propaganda funding is dispersed across a sprawling ecosystem of broadcasters, seminaries, cultural foundations, military organizations, and religious institutions. The largest share goes to state media and content production, including Iran’s broadcasting apparatus and affiliated press services, such as the Islamic Republic News Agency (506 billion tomans). A large portion also goes to numerous religious and ideological entities, ranging from the Islamic Development Organization (6.8 trillion tomans, up from 5 trillion last year) to the Imam Khomeini Educational and Research Institute (193 billion tomans for “discourse-building, explanation, and promotion of religious teachings”). Military-security cultural organs closely linked to the Islamic Revolution Guard Corps (IRGC) such as the Foundation for the Preservation of Sacred Defense and Resistance Values (724 billion tomans for “promotion of the Iranian-Islamic lifestyle“) take another sizable chunk.

Aside from domestic messaging, state budget funds also support international ideological outreach through IRIB’s Press TV subsidiary, institutions such as the Islamic Culture and Relations Organization (2.2 trillion tomans), and various bodies dedicated to exporting revolutionary ideology abroad, including Qom’s Al-Mustafa International University. The school has been sanctioned by the United States Treasury as “a recruiting ground for the IRGC-QF” (Quds Force, the Guards’ elite foreign arm). In the 2021–22 fiscal year, it received 487 billion tomans (about $115 million at the time), according to previous reporting by Tehran Bureau. Its allocation this year is almost 1.9 trillion tomans.

This extravagantly endowed structure reveals something deeper than the political importance of a censorship apparatus or messaging discipline. Propaganda functions as an economic sector, employing hundreds of thousands of Iranians, from journalists and filmmakers to clerics and educators. Some are ideologically committed. Many are financially dependent. Either way, the system reproduces itself through material incentives as much as political conviction.

Elite clans and ethereal audits

The propaganda industry is essential to the survival of the political business empires that effectively run the Islamic Republic. Connected through marriage and shared business interests, each of these elite clans fosters connections to high politics, state-funded media, and lucrative industries, placing friends and family members in central positions whenever possible. State-run media is an especially powerful tool. The clans own major news agencies like Tabnak (Mohsen Rezaei) and Fars News (Seyyed Nezalmodin Mousavi) and newspapers such as Hamshahri (Mohammad Baqer Ghalibaf), Khorasan (Mohammad Saeed Ahdian), and Iran (the Khameneis). They use these media outlets, which are mostly funded by taxpayers, to attack their political and business rivals and to dispel reports of corruption. Those with business activities in the media sphere often also run the institutions that control censorship boards and limit press freedom, empowering them to undermine and eliminate critics.

Behind many of these media ventures is the aforementioned Islamic Development Organization (IDO), a propaganda-focused umbrella charity that falls under the purview of the Office of the Supreme Leader (Beyt-e Rahbari). IDO is linked to a vast network of media organizations, including widely read news outlets such as Nasim Online and 90 Eqtesadi. Their ownership structures are intentionally complicated to hide the outlets’ affiliations with the IRGC, Tehran Bureau’s reporting has shown.

IDO’s finances are vetted by Mofid Rahbar, an auditing firm that exclusively services the companies that fall under the Beyt’s purview, along with the bonyads the Beyt also oversees, including EIKO, Astan-e Qods Razavi, and Bonyad Mostazafan (BM). The aegis of the Beyt-e Rahbari means these organizations—designed to enrich the IRGC and other regime insiders—are exempt from tax obligations, anti-corruption codes, and financial reporting rules. 

The propaganda pyramid

As the main funding vehicle of the Islamic Republic’s propaganda machine, IDO sits at the top of a pyramid of subsidiaries that serve as cash cows for the ruling elite. Beneficiaries include the new (nominal) Supreme Leader, Mojtaba Khamenei, who played a major role at Beyt-e Rahbari long before his father’s death and whose family controls a network of influential media outlets, prominent book publishers, and media industry regulators. 

Another clan leader with business ties to IDO is pasta tycoon Reza Motallebi-Kashani, who has common business interests with IDO trustee Seyyed Mehdi Khamoushi. An influential clerical ally of the late Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, Khamoushi has close ties to Ghalibaf and heads the board of trustees of Amir Kabir Publishing House (yet another Mofid Rahbar auditing client). Other former and current Amir Kabir trustees include the late Ali Larijani (former former secretary of the Supreme National Security Council), Mohsen Rafiqdoust (former IRGC minister and BM director), and Mohammad Saeedikia (former BM director and current head of the BM board of trustees).

IDO is one of the organizations instrumental in online censorship and facilitating internet shutdowns, Tehran Bureau’s reporting has shown. Its director—currently Hojatoleslam Mohammad Qomi—sits on the powerful Committee to Determine Instances of Criminal Content. This group, headed by Iran’s attorney general, Mohammad Movahedi-Azad, is in charge of monitoring internet content and blacklisting websites that are deemed inappropriate. 

Aside from controlling internet censorship, IDO has overseen the launch of multiple e-propaganda operations, as well as a start-up that appears well-positioned to thrive in the increasingly repressive digital space that has emerged in Iran amid the current web blackout. In 2020, IDO founded a subsidiary, the Bina Institute, whose articles of incorporation describe its aim to produce “quantitative and qualitative analyses” on a broad range of issues, supported by creating “video clips [and] digital texts,” undertaking “social media activities,” and providing related “services to institutions and organizations.” In the Islamic Republic’s recondite language, this phrasing suggests that Bina was established, in part, to coordinate pro-regime social media accounts. Among its unambiguous remits is to “monitor and evaluate” the regime’s propaganda efforts. 

A notable member of the Bina Institute’s founding board is Seyyed Meysam Seyyed Salehi, who manages Soroush, a domestic messaging app created to replace Telegram, which officials banned during the protests of 2017–18. As the crackdown on international social media usage intensifies, Soroush stands to benefit enormously. Between 2018 and 2020, Salehi was the CEO of Jam-e Jam Institute, which publishes Jam-e Jam newspaper and operates its website. Fariduddin Haddad Adel, brother-in-law to Mojtaba Khamenei, has long been a member of the institute’s board. 

The intricate business connections between Iran’s power brokers and the country’s propaganda-producing organizations help explain why wartime stresses have not fundamentally altered their financial dispensations. The regime can tolerate runaway inflation and crippled industry. But weakening the propaganda apparatus would impact the networks that maintain ideological discipline, rationalize repression, and coordinate regional proxies.

The result is a system in which propaganda is treated less as a tool of persuasion than as infrastructure.

In most countries, propaganda is episodic, activated during elections or major crises. In Iran, it is a permanent, massive state expenditure. Even as its economy crumbles and prospects for a swift recovery dim, the Islamic Republic still maintains that controlling the narrative for a weary audience is worth hundreds of trillions of tomans. And perhaps the chants of the “devotees unto death” that resound within its ideological echo chamber are even loud enough to convince it.

The post Bankrolling Belief appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

At its narrowest point, the Strait of Hormuz is just 21 nautical miles across—so narrow that the sovereign territorial waters of Iran and Oman overlap. The oil that routinely passes through this chokepoint accounts for one-fifth of global consumption; the portions of the world’s liquified natural gas, petrochemicals, and internationally traded fertilizer that make the transit are similar or even greater. The law of the sea must strike a balance here between the rights of the two nations that adjoin the strait and the global community’s need to keep a vital shipping artery open for navigation. Hormuz, as a result, is neither part of the “high seas” nor the exclusive preserve of Tehran and Muscat. This maritime bottleneck—youthful in oceanic terms, about 6,000 years old—thus also presents newly salient challenges to international law.

From the first hours of the war pitting Iranian against US and Israeli forces, images of oil tankers and cargo vessels stalled on either side of the strait have become familiar. As US bombers and Iranian missiles flew over the Persian Gulf to the west of the strait and the Sea of Oman to its east, shipping insurance premiums skyrocketed, making transit of the strait financially infeasible for many. The Islamic Revolution Guard Corps’ declaration in early March that the strait was closed to all but Iran’s own ships brought foreign navigation through the waterway to a near-complete halt. Compared to the prewar daily average of 138 vessels, roughly two ships a day took advantage of the Guards’ subsequent offer to allow passage in return for payment of a toll, before the US blockade shut down the strait almost entirely. All of these developments lead back to one question: Who actually has the right to decide who passes through Hormuz?

Under the 1958 Geneva Convention on the Territorial Sea, which Iran signed but never ratified and whose language it continues to reference, the division of such narrow waterways with different nations on either side is governed by the principle of the median line. According to this rule, unless the two countries agree otherwise, the boundary is a line where every point is equidistant from the nearest points on the baselines of each coast. This effectively splits the strait into two sectors of national sovereignty—every ship transiting Hormuz is always navigating within the sovereign territorial sea of either Iran or Oman.

A maritime highway

For decades, management of passage through the strait has followed this dual logic. The current routing system for vessels in Hormuz is the result of the Traffic Separation Scheme (TSS), which was jointly proposed by Iran and Oman and adopted by the International Maritime Organization (IMO) in 1968. The system was designed specifically to facilitate the safe, rapid transit of goods by establishing organized corridors for the heavy volume of traffic passing through the chokepoint.

Under the TSS, the strait functions like a strictly regulated maritime highway. To speed up transport and minimize the risk of accidents, Iran and Oman agreed on specific directions of travel: ships heading west and entering the Persian Gulf from the ocean would use an inbound lane that passes through Iranian territorial waters, while ships heading east and exiting the Gulf would follow an outbound lane through Omani waters.

Because the tankers and container ships that traverse the strait are so massive—often exceeding 1,000 feet in length—they cannot simply choose alternate routes through the narrow gap. As on a divided land highway, a driver cannot suddenly decide to veer into the opposite lane or drive across the median whenever they please without risking a catastrophic collision. The TSS thus functionally locks ships into a system of designated lanes that relies on the cooperation of the two coastal states.

This technical reality is crucial because it demonstrates that the management of Hormuz is based not on claims of exclusive (or semiexclusive) ownership, but rather on navigation rules, regional coordination, and international recognition. While Tehran and Muscat have been the stewards of this system for decades, its approval by the IMO was never intended to grant them authority to close the waterway, impose arbitrary pricing, or selectively decide which ships are allowed to pass. Indeed, the IMO and the statutes of international law—such as Article 16(4) of the 1958 Territorial Sea Convention and Article 44 of the 1982 United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea—consistently maintain that the right of transit through such a vital channel between international waters is a shared global necessity that cannot be suspended.

Exploiting the “gray zone”

To manage its confrontation with stronger adversaries in the strait, Tehran has developed what the analyst Michael Eisenstadt describes as a “gray zone” strategy—deploying legal ambiguity and strategic indirection to manufacture crises while controlling the pace of escalation and maintaining a veneer of statutory legitimacy. This is not a state navigating a genuine legal dispute in good faith. It is a government using the language of international law as a tool of coercion, selectively invoking whichever framework expands its leverage while discarding the obligations that would constrain it.

The clearest expression of this strategy is terminological. Iranian officials rarely cite the 1958 Geneva Convention by name, yet they reach consistently for its specific legal vocabulary when justifying their actions in the strait. In March 2026, Foreign Minister Abbas Araghchi stated directly that “Iran currently applies the innocent passage regime in the Strait of Hormuz.” The choice of “innocent passage” over the “transit passage” standard enshrined in the 1982 Convention is not casual. It is a deliberate reversion to a pre-1982 legal order that grants coastal states significantly broader authority to regulate, supervise, and, in certain circumstances, prohibit traffic through their territorial waters.

This preference for older statutory language has been codified in domestic law. Iran’s 1993 Act on Marine Areas is the formal architecture of its position, legislation designed to give statutory grounding to its physical control of the strait while sidestepping the obligations of international treaty. The Act selectively borrows from the international frameworks Iran finds useful while discarding those it does not. It adopts the UNCLOS standard of a 12-nautical-mile territorial sea—which, given the strait’s width of 21 miles, allows Iran to claim the entire northern half of the waterway as sovereign territory—while simultaneously omitting the transit passage rights that were the essential global bargain for accepting that broader limit in the first place. Article 5 of the Act formally endorses the 1958 “innocent passage” language. Article 8 grants Tehran the power to suspend passage for national security reasons, a power flatly prohibited under modern international law in straits used for international navigation. Articles 9 and 16 go further still, requiring prior authorization for all foreign warships and purporting to prohibit foreign military activity throughout Iran’s entire exclusive economic zone.

That selectivity is not incidental—it is the strategy. The 1993 Act is its domestic expression; the decision to sign the 1982 Convention without ratifying it is its international one. Signing alongside 88 other states allowed Iran to claim sovereign rights over the natural resources of a maritime area extending 200 nautical miles from its coast. By withholding ratification, Tehran preserved its status as a “persistent objector”—a recognized if contested principle in international law under which a state that consistently and openly rejects a norm during its formation cannot later be held bound by it. In its 1982 interpretive declaration, Iran argued that transit passage is merely a “contractual right” born of a package deal, binding only on states that have fully joined the treaty. This framing carries an additional tactical advantage: since the United States also never ratified UNCLOS, Iran can argue that Washington has no standing to invoke transit passage rights in Hormuz at all.

This strategy is widely regarded by international legal observers as a form of lawfare—the weaponization of legal language to achieve ends that the law itself would prohibit. The critique is pointed: Iran’s position is built on the 1958 framework it claims as its authority, yet Article 16(4) of that same convention explicitly prohibits the suspension of innocent passage through straits used for international navigation. In closing the strait to commerce it has designated hostile and conducting naval mining in one of the world’s most critical waterways, the Islamic Republic is not merely bending the rules—it is gutting the very framework it invokes for cover.

The United States, though it participated in drafting the navigational rules, declined to become a party to the treaty, rejecting its restrictions on deep seabed mining. Nonetheless, it argues that the transit passage regime has become so entrenched in international practice that it has crystallized into “customary international law”—binding on all states, including non-signatories like the US itself. (That Washington demands adherence to a treaty it has never joined is fodder for easy criticism. That it has now responded to Iran’s actions by imposing a blockade which violates recognized maritime law under any formula sets what some legal observers view as a dangerous precedent.)

Oman formally maintains a position somewhere in the middle of this statutory tug-of-war. While Muscat, unlike Tehran, both signed and ratified the 1982 Convention, it hardly adopted a maximalist reading of transit passage. In its “declarations made upon ratification,” Oman expressed concerns much like Iran’s regarding coastal sovereignty and the sensitivity of military vessels’ passage, asserting that foreign warships—along with all ships powered by or “carrying nuclear or other substances that are inherently dangerous or harmful to health or the environment”—must secure advance permission to traverse its territorial waters. There is no record, though, of Oman having even once impeded a vessel’s passage through the strait on this basis.

The law and the reality

Ultimately, Hormuz is neither entirely within nor beyond its two coastal states’ statutory control. The legal rights of Iran and Oman in the strait are real—and restricted. The restrictions stem directly from the unique role Hormuz plays in the global economy. If the strait were an entirely local body of water, the international community could afford its rules to be more localized. However, when a significant portion of the world’s oil, gas, and petroleum derivatives must pass through it, the waterway cannot be governed by the national security logic of a littoral state.

So who does have the right to decide who passes through Hormuz? Iran and Oman exercise sovereignty over their respective territorial seas, but this sovereignty is legally subject to international passage rights. These rights were established to ensure that a chokepoint of global importance could not be transformed into a single government’s lever of political pressure or weapon of war. This much is true: According to well-established, long-observed, explicitly articulated maritime law, any civilian vessel from anywhere on Earth has the right to pass through Hormuz under any circumstance. The current conflict, however, has demonstrated that this legal regime is not nearly robust enough to withstand the combined pressure of bombing, mining, drones, blockades, seaside arms, and the assertion of raw power, whether that of would-be regional heavyweight or planetary hegemon.

In 2026, the Strait of Hormuz is an arena neither for the realization of absolute Iranian sovereignty, nor for the cost-free triumph of the American-endorsed (if still unratified) principle of “freedom of navigation.” What has become clear is that the legal architecture intended to create a balance between coastal states, global commerce, and the rights of passing ships is more fragile than had been widely imagined. With the strait, as with so many other flashpoints of the international order, the law still commands rhetorical respect, but it no longer rules the waves.

The post Pick Your Own Sea Law: Iran’s Creative Hormuz Claims appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

January’s uprising that saw mass protests across Iran was sparked by people from little-known cities, from neighborhoods with power outages, water scarcity, and overcrowded housing. In the old 1979 revolutionary playbook, they would have been “the oppressed” (mostazafan), the underprivileged masses the clerical regime promised to elevate from poverty and social marginalization. In recent years, as the economy crumbled and destitute Iranians grew increasingly angry at the government for their economic woes, the regime began referring to them as arazel obash. 

Translatable—loosely—as “thuggish rabble,” arazel obash is a term state-aligned media frequently use to describe citizens detained for crimes ranging from drug and alcohol consumption to insurgency. Originally used as a pejorative for alleged perpetrators from poorer areas, arazel obash is now being used to justify the extrajudicial arrest of any dissident, including those from upper-class backgrounds.

Recent media reports show a consistent pattern of officials applying the label to protesters and those accused of unrest-related activity in the January massacres. On January 23, Jahan News reported the arrest of 16 “arazel obash” in connection with “terrorist incidents” in Tehran, alleging involvement in arson attacks on vehicles and assaults on law enforcement. Similar framing appeared across multiple outlets: Mehr News on February 18 described the arrest of 34 “rioters, [arazel] obash and street terrorists,” while Khabaronline reported on February 6 that a mixed group of detainees—including “arazel obash,” alleged members of the MKO cult, monarchists, and others—were arrested in East Azerbaijan province. On February 26, Fars News similarly referred to individuals accused of throwing Molotov cocktails during protests as “arazel obash.” 

This language is reinforced by a broader state narrative that recasts protests as organized terrorism. An IRIB report on January 25 described detainees in Semnan as “terrorist agents” seeking to turn Iran into Syria, while Mehr News three days later video labeled protest activity “street terrorism.” Officials have echoed this framing: On February 18, the IRGC intelligence chief characterized the January protests as the largest terrorist operation against the Islamic Republic since 1979, alleging coordination between foreign-backed groups, social media networks, and domestic “arazel obash,” whom he compared to organized crime enforcers from the 1953 coup era. 

Commentary in pro-government outlets has amplified this line. In a January 31 article for the state-affiliated Iran Diplomacy website, Seyyed Hojjat Seyyed Esmaili, a former MKO member who is now prominent in the security apparatus, asserted that “arazel obash terrorists” were being used as proxies by the United States and Israel following their “defeat in the recent 12-day military conflict” (of June 2025). Less than two weeks later, a February 13 ANA News column claimed that “terrorists and mercenaries” had hijacked popular protests.

At the same time, the arazel obash label has been leveraged in well entrenched policing strategies. A June 8, 2024, report by Donyay-e Eqtesad noted proposals to use ankle monitors to track arazel obash, while police reported a 120 percent increase in firearm use against them last January. Under the rubric of “Tarh-e Eqtedar” (Operation Authority), launched in March 2023, security forces have carried out mass raids across Tehran neighborhoods—dozens of locations at a time—detaining hundreds of individuals. While arazel obash were the declared target of the operation, Tarh-e Eqtedar has aimed to neutralize protesters from a wide range of backgrounds. Raids have taken place not only in poor and working-class areas such as Nazi-Abad, Nezamabad, Yaftabad, and Fallah, but also middle-class neighborhoods like Tehranpars.

Inventing and expanding the arazel obash

Unpacking the arazel obash trope is key to understanding the trajectory of civil unrest in Iran and the official response to it. In the gruesome massacres perpetrated by the regime a month before the current international conflict, “thugs” appeared on both sides of the barricade: They were the drug dealers administering backstreet pain relief to wounded protesters, as well as the head-cracking thugs dealing the fatal blows. Tracking the official use of the term arazel obash helps show how the Islamic government’s policies squeezed the life out of the urban poor, whose downtrodden image was once used to rally support for revolutionary ideology.

The correlation between the regime’s use of “arazel obash” and the diminishing status of working-class men in post-revolutionary Iran was observed by scholar Shahram Khosravi, who in a 2017 paper examined the “shift in the symbolic position of working-class men” in the Islamic Republic “from veneration in the first decade of the revolution to condemnation three decades later.”

Khosravi described the regime’s rhetorical shift from its early claims that it was establishing the “rule of the mostazafan“ to the use of arazel obash in describing the working-class poor. In the years following the 1988 end of the Iran-Iraq War, the regime’s economic interests became increasingly aligned with the middle and, particularly, upper classes.

Early official usage framed arazel obash narrowly as violent street offenders. A January 15, 2000, directive by judiciary chief Seyyed Mahmoud Hashemi Shahroudi demanded “violent and swift action against arazel obash” by the courts, instructing them to refrain “from any leniency or delay in sentence enforcement” toward such “violent and hooligan elements,” who disturbed public order through alcohol consumption, knife attacks, and street fights.

Reporting throughout the 2000s reflects this framing, with arazel obash commonly associated with drug dealing, mugging, and public disorder.

It is no accident that the term arazel obash gained traction during the Ahmadinejad era. Faced with a crisis of legitimacy following the disputed 2009 presidential election, the regime attempted to deflect the ire of the Green Movement, whose supporters were mostly middle and upper class, by casting itself as a protector of property owners’ interests against crime and disorder. 

The regime found useful scapegoats among poor urban men, labeling them in propaganda as thieves, extortionists, drug dealers, and rapists. In a society increasingly driven by profit and neoliberalism, working-class men were now seen as failures and a burden, according to Khosravi. While their economic deprivation once dovetailed with the image of a downtrodden, self-sacrificing hero of the 1979 revolution, poor working-class men now exist outside a system that venerates consumerist entrepreneurs and thus pose a risk that warrants repression. “The masculine ‘other’ is not only poor,” Khosravi wrote. “He is often an immigrant from the provinces, belongs to an ethnic minority, and is regarded as uncultured.”

The effect of the working class’s marginalization is amplified by an economy in which millions of Iranians have fallen into poverty in recent years, Khosravi added. “The policing and punishment of the urban poor has escalated in tandem with increasing economic precarity among Iranians, particularly young people,” he wrote. “Every year more Iranians are classified as poor.”

In the years immediately preceding the 2026 uprising, law enforcement intensified surveillance and arrests under the arazel obash label. Last October, Borna News quoted Baharestan’s municipal police chief reporting a 140 percent increase in arazel obash detentions thanks to constant monitoring and preemptive arrests, while an official in the city of Quds cited a 19 percent rise days later.

Following the January 2026 protests, the term reached its most expansive—and politicized—usage, with state media and security agencies routinely casting detained protesters and dissidents as arazel obash. Across the past two-and-a-half decades, the term has shifted from a descriptor of street-level criminality to a flexible category encompassing both informal, violent enforcers of the interests of the state and, crucially, almost any of its political opponents.

Hooligan history

The nebulous use of arazel obash has allowed the regime to apply it to anyone it finds threatening or expendable. However, the vivid descriptions of tattooed, machete-wielding legbreakers that regularly appear in government statements allude to a figure from a widely recognizable underclass.

At its core, the arazel obash is an updated, vilified version of a gangster-like persona with deep roots in Iranian culture. Dating back to the looti wrestling culture of the Qajar era, a subculture of men who lived outside the law was closely tied to pahlavani traditions associated with the traditional zoorkhaneh (house of strength) gymnasium, and was often rooted in the “south of the city” (jonoob-e shahr)—the working-class areas of south Tehran. During the Constitutional Revolution and into the reign of Reza Shah, this subculture was also associated with the javanmard—a figure defined by chivalry, loyalty, and the protection of the weak, though this ideal often coexisted with more ambiguous or coercive forms of local power.

With the expansion of centralized law enforcement and a modern judicial system in the 20th century, this social group—whose authority had partly depended on informal systems of protection and physical force—became increasingly marginalized. The pahlavani culture was succeeded, in part, by the lati¹ and jaheli² subcultures. Participants in these subcultures sometimes acted as freelance extortionists (demanding money from people and businesses in exchange for protection), sometimes operated in concert with criminal groups, sometimes supported clerical networks against the state, and sometimes aligned with the state against its opponents. Their identity became tied less to a fixed moral code and more to shifting loyalties and patronage. Still, the machismo and “Godfather-style” code of honor associated with lats and jahels inspired a 1970s genre of Iranian popular cinema (filmfarsi) in which they were portrayed as morally complex antiheroes or “champions of the people.”

The lats’ relationship with the state has often been ambivalent. Their role in neighborhood control largely disappeared with the organization of formal security forces in the 20th century, while the 1979 revolution dismantled whole swaths of the urban economy—such as nightlife and various informal markets—on which many depended. Their lifestyles were further crushed by the economic policies of the Islamic Republic, which flip-flopped on key policies around land redistribution and infrastructure support in the poor neighborhoods where they lived. 

Meanwhile, elements of this subculture were periodically co-opted by power structures, whether by clerical networks, local authorities, or security forces. Their position has thus oscillated between marginalization and instrumentalization, depending on the needs of the state.

Both sides of the barricade

Even as the regime tracks down dissidents under the guise of protecting the public against arazel obash, it enlists members of the same underclass to do its dirty work. During the massacres, social media users widely circulated the image of a young man with neck tattoos at a Sharif University protest in Tehran. He appears to have a metal rod tucked under his arm and is playing the senj (hand cymbals) to stir up the Basij as they prepare to confront demonstrating students. The photograph gained attention precisely because the man’s presence among the paramilitary force is an eyesore. Regime-aligned fundamentalist groups like the Basij view tattoos as unholy, suggesting the young man is hired muscle rather than a card-carrying militia member. 

The co-optation of members of the urban lower socioeconomic classes into the security apparatus is a practice dating back to the foundations of the Islamic Republic. In this period, many young men who a couple decades later would be labeled arazel obash were recruited into the early “revolutionary committees” and eventually merged into the police force. Many others joined the IRGC and other state security organizations. 

In the aftermath of the 2009 Green Movement, IRGC figures acknowledged recruiting individuals labeled as arazel obash into the Basij to suppress protests. In a 2016 interview cited by Ensaf News, Quds Force commander Hossein Hamadani described identifying and monitoring thousands of such individuals and later incorporating them into operational units, arguing that those “accustomed to knives and machetes” were effective in confronting demonstrators. 

There were also efforts by other arms of the regime to absorb or redirect this population: Jahan News reported on June 25, 2011, that cleric Mohammad Reza Shams-Abadi was recruiting arazel obash in Qom through state-supported religious programs, including subsidized trips intended to attract and retain them.

By the mid-2010s, the label had also been operationalized in municipal governance. A June 18, 2016, report by ISNA indicated that Tehran municipality units were recruiting arazel obash into enforcement bodies such as the Obstruction Removal Unit (Shahrban) to clear street vendors—and sometimes to act as muscle for broader, extralegal crackdowns. 

At the same time, public understanding of the term appeared increasingly shaky. Field reporting by Ensaf News on June 2, 2020, found that residents in Tehran neighborhoods such as Abdolabad and Shademan could not clearly define arazel obash, with many questioning whether such a group meaningfully existed.

As the middle classes spiral into poverty after years of economic mismanagement, a descent only hastened by the current conflict, entire social strata are at risk of being recast as arazel obash—and thus becoming that much more vulnerable to the regime’s war on its own people.

Writing in 2017, Khosravi cited police statistics suggesting that 95 percent of all arrested arazel obash are younger than 25 and many are from south Tehran, yet “it is not clear on what specific charges these men are being arrested.” 

“In the absence of a clear legal definition,” Khosravi warned, “anyone can be arazel obash.” 

The post Naming the Enemy Within appeared first on Tehran Bureau.

The Iranian regime’s rollout of a new “tiered internet” system threatens to leave the World Wide Web inaccessible to millions of Iranians who are unable to afford it, transforming internet access from a fundamental (if often impaired) utility into a restricted privilege.

As Iran’s internet blackout reaches its 56th day April 24—a blackout from which thousands of regime members and their cronies have been exempted—the government is reintroducing limited online access to a wider pool of whitelisted institutions and individuals. Basic access to the global web is no longer assumed, but reserved for approved users. The new framework rations internet access according to security priorities, political compliance, and wealth. It leaves most Iranians confined to a tightly surveilled domestic network, while maintaining global access involves paying far higher prices for approved service or for the circumnavigation tools needed to bypass government restrictions. 

Iran’s previous approach was to keep the public connected to the “filternet,” the global internet with heavy censorship, involving an ever-expanding blacklist of websites blocked to almost everyone in the country. Ordinary Iranians accessed the internet through broadband and mobile phone contracts, bypassing censorship using VPNs, whose costs have risen astronomically since January. 

As for the country’s elites, a limited number of “white SIM” cards are issued to approved individuals, giving them unfettered internet access. To acquire such SIM cards, government officials and other pro-regime figures including journalists and company owners must provide their business licenses and identity details for processing through an opaque vetting system before gaining approval. Unlike standard users, those with white SIMs—numbering somewhere in the tens of thousands—may freely access platforms such as X and Instagram on their mobile phones. 

Meanwhile, the regime has been quietly building out its own domestic intranet, the National Information Network (NIN). During the shutdown, this infrastructure replaced the “filternet” as the default connection for the public, effectively blocking access to the World Wide Web. This censored-internet model is a new, “discriminatory architecture,” according to Filterbaan, an internet freedom watchdog group, “with the majority of users being kept solely within Iran’s restricted, highly surveilled, and tightly controlled NIN.” 

Multiplying classes of privilege and control

After nearly two months of blackout, in which only the small number of Iranians with white SIM cards were able to access the internet, the regime is now rolling out a secondary form of privileged access. Known as “Internet Pro” or “Stable Internet,” the service was described by Information and Communications Technology Minister Sattar Hashemi in a Shargh Daily op-ed on April 14. 

The “tiered” system of Internet Pro allows approved individuals and institutions varied access to censored websites based on their level of vetting. YouTube, for example, may be available to a regime-affiliated business with a high level of clearance, while a student accessing the platform through their university account might only be able to access Google and Google Scholar. 

Behind the scenes, a lucrative market has emerged. Those with the right connections are able to sell global internet access at high margins. Though they are referred to as “VPNs,” the products are actually Internet Pro packages that come with a data cap, at a cost of around $2.50 per gigabyte, according to sources inside the country. The types of global internet websites accessible through these blackmarket data packages vary, so buyers still require a second, classic VPN to fully bypass censorship. Since January, the cost of a classic VPN had been as high as 800,000 toman per GB, an IT expert said.

“They are making a killing, selling internet by the gigabyte,” an Iran-based information technology expert told Resanegar, Tehran Bureau’s economic unit, describing a system dependent on privileged infrastructure and insider access. 

Over time, the market “has matured and is starting to resemble an established business” as more suppliers join in and prices gradually converge, they added. But, as access to Internet Pro becomes available to a wider group of privileged users, there is growing concern about the prohibitive cost of access, which can easily surpass the average day laborer’s monthly wage. 

“If you were to use 10–15 GB per month, the cost would equal the base salary of a government job,” said the IT expert, who reported spending the equivalent of around $200 on less than 50 GB of usage over the past two months.

An additional hurdle to access is the payment system. As the value of the rial plummets, internet service providers require payments in US dollars through cryptocurrency wallets. Due to sanctions and exchange restrictions, these transactions are unattainable for a majority of the public. “That’s where this market is now. If you don’t have crypto, you simply can’t connect,” the IT expert said. “A small number of people get internet; the rest essentially do not have access.” In other words, as the source put it, “an ideal model for the regime.”

As a consequence, much of the population has effectively vanished from the digital sphere. “There is a very large group that is completely cut off … they have disappeared,” said the IT expert, arguing that those unable to afford the cost of access are simply no longer heard. In contrast, those with privileged access remain visible. “You can easily spot [the white SIM users] on X and they are all aligned with the government.”

Exorbitant costs for access

In practice, Internet Pro represents a controlled expansion of access—but only for specific professional sectors. According to the IT expert, eligibility is limited to:

• Registered companies and businesses
• Startups and technology professionals
• Traders and transportation companies
• Academic and research institutions

Physicians may also be included, with some already receiving activation messages, according to ShayaNews, an Iran-based news website. Freelancers and individuals without formally recognized employment in approved sectors are excluded from applying, said the IT expert.

The InternetPro service is available exclusively via SIM cards and does not extend to home internet connections. Its price is roughly three times what Iranians were used to paying for home internet, portending another significant barrier to access. While standard domestic internet access is priced at approximately 8,000 tomans per gigabyte and largely restricted to local websites, Internet Pro packages are considerably more expensive.

• Irancell offers a one-year, 50GB international package for around 2 million tomans.
• Rightel provides a similar package priced at 2,176,000 tomans, available to registered businesses upon formal request.
• Hamrah-e Aval (MCI) charges approximately 40,000 tomans per gigabyte, amounting to roughly 2 million tomans for 50GB, targeting business owners and university faculty.

Access also requires identity verification and administrative approval through telecom operators, further limiting availability. According to ShayaNews, the new system has significantly reduced or entirely blocked ordinary users’ access to the broader internet. Instead, NIN users are largely confined to a limited set of “whitelisted” websites approved by authorities.

Even these restricted services, however, appear unreliable. Social media users and local reports indicate that access to whitelisted sites is inconsistent, with frequent outages, slow speeds, and disrupted connections. In addition, users of the Internet Pro package are only allowed to use 5 GB of data per 24 hours, the IT expert said. 

Domestic social’s “worn-out coat”

Meanwhile, businesses whose marketing strategies depend on major social media platforms are being pushed onto domestic alternatives as global services become inaccessible. Many have migrated from WhatsApp to local apps like Bale or Eitaa out of fear that, without any social media capacity, they would lose their customers entirely. “It is like a worn-out coat in winter,” the IT expert said. “It is better than nothing.”

Despite the visible economic damage, the system shows little sign of reversal, the source said. “Unfortunately, I think they can keep going like this, because they simply don’t care.”

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