In recent weeks, public anger inside Iran has crossed a critical threshold. What once focused on state institutions has begun to target cultural figures, reformist intermediaries, and even celebrated political prisoners—an unmistakable sign that the regime’s system of privilege, or what many Iranians perceive as regime-affiliated privilege, is no longer merely resented but openly rejected.
The shift became visible after controversy surrounding so-called “white SIM cards,” which allow unrestricted internet access. When X (Twitter) enabled the identification of account locations, many Iranians discovered that journalists, artists, and regime-adjacent figures appeared to enjoy uninterrupted access, while ordinary citizens remained subject to filtering, throttling, and periodic shutdowns. The episode crystallized a long-held suspicion: Iran operates a two-tier system of digital citizenship, one for insiders and another for everyone else.
Backlash quickly expanded beyond state officials to include public figures previously insulated by cultural capital or moral standing. At the same time, artists were criticized for seeking official authorization for their albums. Others were scolded for appearing alongside media personalities closely associated with the establishment. Even prominent human rights activists were not spared scrutiny when perceived as benefiting from the system they publicly criticize.
This widening circle of distrust reflects a deeper transformation in public sentiment. Iranians are no longer asking who opposes or criticizes the regime rhetorically; they are asking who benefits from it materially.
That skepticism reached an unprecedented level when a Nobel Peace Prize laureate and political prisoner was reportedly shouted at—and even struck with a stone—during a public gathering. The outrage stemmed not from her imprisonment, but from a perception that she was attempting to position herself as the symbolic voice of public mourning for a human rights lawyer believed to have been killed by the state. For years, segments of Iranian society have quietly questioned reports of special treatment she allegedly received in prison, particularly when contrasted with the harsh conditions endured by countless anonymous detainees who lack visibility, furloughs, or international advocacy.
Whether these perceptions are entirely accurate matters less than the fact that they now resonate widely. In authoritarian systems, legitimacy often rests not on fairness but on the management of inequality—so long as privilege remains opaque, resentment can be contained. Once privilege becomes visible, however, it corrodes trust not only in the state but in all those perceived to orbit its benefits.
The Islamic Republic has long relied on such a rentier strategy. Selective access, protection, and opportunity are distributed to loyalists and useful intermediaries in exchange for compliance or quietism. For decades, this model sustained a fragile equilibrium. Today, it appears to be failing.
Iranian protest movements over the past decade show a population increasingly disillusioned with the political theater of reformists versus principlists. Elections are widely seen not as mechanisms for change but as rituals designed to reproduce legitimacy. Reformist leaders who once mobilized public hope are now broadly viewed as having failed to deliver meaningful reforms despite more than twenty years of popular support.
This disillusionment is not abstract. It is shaped by lived experience: the persistence of repression, the visibility of corruption, and the growing clarity that factional competition does not alter the regime’s core structure. As economic hardship deepens and privilege becomes more apparent, distinctions between reformists and hardliners appear increasingly cosmetic.
Within this context, Narges Mohammadi’s known ties to reformist networks have fueled public suspicion that influential actors—both inside Iran and among Iranian intellectual circles abroad—may again attempt to redirect demands for fundamental change into limited reforms aimed at preserving the existing system. There is growing concern that figures with moral authority, particularly political prisoners, could be elevated as symbolic leaders to soften or dilute calls for regime change.
For many Iranians, this represents a familiar and unwelcome pattern. Past cycles of protest were repeatedly deflected by promises of gradual reform, national reconciliation, or elite moderation. Each time, structural power remained intact while public expectations were reset downward. The result is not merely disappointment, but a hardened cynicism toward intermediaries of any kind.
This explains the increasingly unforgiving tone of public discourse. Sympathy no longer flows automatically to those with reputations, credentials, or past sacrifices. Instead, legitimacy is measured against a single standard: whether one benefits from the system, directly or indirectly. In such an environment, moral ambiguity collapses. Neutrality is interpreted as complicity. Reform is seen as delay.
Importantly, the growing rejection of reformist narratives does not necessarily signal ideological radicalization. Rather, it reflects a narrowing of perceived options. When electoral participation, elite advocacy, and incremental change are all seen as ineffective or deceptive, more disruptive forms of transformation begin to appear not desirable, but unavoidable.
This is the paradox confronting the Islamic Republic today. By selectively rewarding loyalty and visibility, it has eroded the credibility of the very figures once capable of mediating between state and society. Cultural icons, journalists, and political prisoners—long regarded as voices of dissent or moral critique—are now increasingly viewed with suspicion when indications of proximity to power or perceived benefit from the system emerge. The regime’s strategy of managed privilege has not stabilized dissent; it has redistributed it.
Authoritarian systems can survive inequality, repression, and even periodic protest. What they struggle to survive is the collapse of trust in intermediaries. When the public no longer believes that anyone within the system can represent their interests honestly, the space for gradual reform disappears.
Iran appears to be approaching that moment—not because revolutionary sentiment is universally embraced, but because alternatives are widely perceived to have been exhausted. When privilege becomes undeniable and reform implausible, anger no longer seeks accommodation; it seeks resolution.