On The Ground In Iran: The Islamic Revolution And Faithful Resistance
(ANALYSIS) I am in Iran. The president has died. And they think I did it.
Or at least that is what it felt like on Sunday evening, May 20, when news came that Ebrahim Raisi’s helicopter was forced to make a “hard landing” in the rugged mountains near Tabriz.
We were to meet in the lobby at 7:30 p.m. sharp for dinner with the president at the elegant Golestan Palace, but the somber faces and expressions of consternation made it clear that something was terribly wrong.
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“The helicopter of our beloved president took a hard landing, and we do not know the situation.” Heavy fog had set in on the flight path from Azerbaijan back to Tehran, and there was no news of survivors. “Our apologies. We will cancel tonight. Remain in prayer for our beloved country.”
Over the next 24 hours, the country collectively held its breath as reports gradually emerged of Raisi’s demise, along with Foreign Minister Hossein Amirabdollahian and six others. In a land fed by the blood of martyrs, suspicions turned quickly to foul play.
“If there were three helicopters, why did only the president’s crash?”
The foreign enemy has its ways with technology and subterfuge.
“If the weather was so bad, then why did the military allow them to fly?”
The enemies on the inside who oppose the revolution are jealous of the president’s success and ascending power. Iranians see themselves in an existential battle against surrounding Sunni regimes and their Western backers, as instigated by their archenemy Israel.
Rumors spread, and stories grew. Would there be an uprising? Would a violent mob come looking for a scapegoat? Would our international delegation be held and questioned? Following the tit-for-tat strikes with Israel in the previous weeks, the world was watching for Tehran’s response. It was a time when anything could happen, and the events of the next few hours could have terrible consequences for us now held at the Enghelab Hotel.
I was in Tehran at the invitation of the president, but really of his wife, professor Jamileh Sadaf Alamalhoda. It was a conference convened at University of Tehran as an effort to spread Iranian influence internationally in higher education. She made quite a splash at the United Nations the previous week by insisting the women in Iran are not oppressed, and that they represent an alternative picture of dignity and success for the family unit.
I met with Jamileh on the first day of the conference, which was to be the first of three meetings, but she did not want to talk about women’s rights, or the recently mandated use of headscarves. At the top of her list was the protests embroiling American universities.
Cloaked in a black chador, the national symbol of modesty and piety, she said, “Don’t you see that the blood of the children of Gaza is a mercy to your people?” Look at the protests. The youth are awakening. They are turning from the hardness of materialism. Students will see that we are the only ones defending the cause of the Palestinians and of all who suffer injustice in the world. “The blood of the innocent touched your conscience.” Look at Mary weeping over Jesus.
Think of Zaynab crying for Hussein. In their sacrifice was our salvation, and now we see it again. “America is divided, and the young are finding their voice.” Whatever criticisms might legitimately be directed at these campus protests, and I think there are many, she did not hesitate in affirming their merit.
I was not surprised by the spiritual nature of the conversation, but I was taken aback by the strength and confidence of Jamileh Sadaf. Always shrouded in the black chadar, she is the symbol of the ultra-conservative movement. It would be a mistake to attribute her status only to her husband — or even to her father, Ayatollah Ahmad Alamolhoda of the Combatant Clergy Association, and senior leader at Imam Reza’s shrine in Mashhad, the epicenter of Shiite spirituality. Her prominence is a calculated recognition that as go the women, so goes the revolution. Political participation is at an all-time low. The sanctions have hamstrung the economy, the currency is devalued and Iran is a pariah state.
Wars are expensive, and exporting the revolution has taken its toll. National protests, like those following the deaths of Mahsa Amini in 2022 and Armita Garawand in 2023, have brought women and university students to the streets in record numbers in opposition to the theocracy.
Raisi was being groomed as the next Supreme Leader, and for the first time there would be a dynamic partnership — one seldom seen in the political world — a husband and wife pulling together.
On the morning after the crash, I asked our hosts about their concern.
“There are enemies far and near,” they said. “Enemies of Raisi?” I asked.
“No, enemies of the revolution,” was the reply.
My ill-informed misconceptions required correction. It’s not the Iranian revolution, they explained; it’s the Islamic revolution. The revolution did not end in 1979; it’s now in the third wave with more to come. And Ayatollah Khamenei is not supreme leader of the Republic of Iran but rather supreme leader of the Islamic Revolution. Sure, it began in Iran, but this is a universal movement to usher in the arrival of the hidden imam (Vali-e-Asr) and the culmination of history. Overlook this, and you miss the dynamo of Iranian expansionism.
Khomeini is the patron saint of the revolution. His picture is in every café and on murals everywhere. Passengers arrive at Khomeini airport in Tehran, and his shrine is at the city gate. Khamenei, the successor, is always pictured in conjunction with Khomeini. He is the reflection, the shadow, and carries the mantle of sovereignty. Continuity is everything. Khamenei is the Supreme Leader of the theocracy; Iran is the model state, and revolution is their motto.
Backed by the council of senior clerics, Khamenei determines the key positions of military and state, and his authority extends beyond borders to the Shia communities in Yemen, Lebanon, Iraq, Bahrain and to the to the minority and yet large Shia populations in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, India, Malaysia and Indonesia. For centuries there was a balance held between the religious leadership and the regent, but this has been overturned, and the mullahs have prevailed. The concern is whether the stability will hold and if the system — the jurist guardianship (velayet-e faqih) will endure.
I spoke with one young woman at a café about the situation, and her words were insightful. Her head was covered, as per the norm, but she began the conversation by saying, “I’m not religious.”
She went on to explain, I am unhappy with people telling me what to do. I get an education, but then am told what to think. They really don’t know religion, only rules and power.
“Religion is love. We are Persian, the people of the poets.” The more they demand, the less I want to obey. I just want to leave this place. “Where do you want to go?” I asked.
“Anywhere but here,” she replied.
On my final day in the country, I visited the shrine of Imamzadeh Saleh in the north of Tehran. It was midday on a Tuesday, and the mosque was packed. Men and women streamed past the portraits of martyrs into the tile-domed enclosure.
“People are obviously very devout,” I asked my companions, “so why not allow a woman, or her family, to decide on whether to cover?” He shot back a textbook response, “It is the law of Islam. The religious leaders have said this is required by Islam.” Does that not differ with other Islamic countries?
“In Iran we are Shia. We have a living tradition, where leaders interpret the requirements of religion for this time.”
The supreme leader has determined that this is what Islam requires, and Parliament has voted this into law. End of story.
But is it? As I boarded the airplane, I witnessed the similar ritual I observed upon my arrival. In Iran you wear the veil, but once the door closes these are removed and tucked away. I noticed similar dissent by many women on the streets, buses, and in cars — heads uncovered, but the veil draped safely nearby. Noticing my observing glances, men and women smile sheepishly, with a look of the young who have played along in a charade for their elders. Things are not simple. There is tradition, there is continuity, and there is change. As Sohrab Ahmari reflected, “Rare is the Iranian who hasn’t been nursed on 2,500 years of grievance.”
The “long chain of humiliations” is real, but the story is not over. The tensions are real between the old and the new, family and freedom, and the enduring hope that one day all will be well. Parvin E’tesami (1907-1941), Iran’s most famous female poets — and one known to be recited by Khamenei himself — reflected on the slow but upward journey in a poem that would likely ring true to women everywhere. She awaited a time when hope and history will rhyme (to use Seamus Haney’s phrase), but until then there is protest, and the many, many — often subtle — forms of faithful resistance:
Formerly a woman in Iran was almost non-Iranian.
All she did was struggle through dark and distressing days.
The light of knowledge was kept from her eyes.
Her ignorance could not be laid to inferiority or sluggishness.
The field of knowledge yielded abundant fruit,
but women never had any share in this abundance.
Walk on the straight path, because on crooked lanes
you find no provision or guidance, only remorse.
Hearts and eyes do need a veil, the veil of chastity.
A worn-out chador is not the basis of faith in Islam.
I would like to return to Iran. It is a beautiful place and home to a majestic people. I want to see how these conversations proceed, and until then I “remain in prayer for the beloved country.”
Dr. Charles Ramsey is a Religious Freedom Institute Senior Fellow and Resident Scholar at Baylor University's Institute for Studies of Religion.