Iran International
"The contrast between the defiance projected on X by Iran’s Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei and his appearance in two recent video addresses—broadcast from what appears to be a bunker—could hardly be starker."
Since Israeli strikes began on June 13, Khamenei has appeared diminished: a man seated under dim lights, speaking slowly beneath a loosely worn black turban, behind him a photo of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini clumsily clipped to a curtain.
His words aim to project resolve. But his faltering speech and visible frailty suggest something closer to strain.
In this setting, it is hard to reconcile the figure onscreen with the one who just days ago promised “an imminent conquest” and warned that “life will definitely become bitter for the Zionists.”
From defiance to disconnect
That gap—between rhetoric and reality—mirrors a broader disconnect.
While his social media account issues bold threats and AI-generated images of missile strikes, the scenes unfolding in Iranian cities tell a more uncertain story: smoke over Tehran, civilians fleeing, supplies dwindling, and a propaganda machine scrambling after its own headquarters was reduced to rubble.
Very few know the Supreme Leader’s location.
As of June 17, officials have been instructed not to use electronic devices to avoid detection. Some believe Khamenei has already been moved—perhaps through tunnels to a station outside the capital, then to Mashhad, his stronghold.
On Tuesday, Trump claimed he knows Khamenei’s exact location but said he has not decided to kill him—“for now.”
Even among insiders, communication is limited. Those managing his online posts may be working from past speeches or assumptions, unable to consult him directly.
“The Islamic Republic’s Armed Forces will deal heavy blows to the evil Zionist enemy,” read a June 14 post, as drone strikes and salvos filled Iranian skies.
A nation fractured, a reckoning in sight
But for many Iranians—whatever their politics—these slogans ring hollow.
The violence has not unified the country. Instead, it has laid bare deep divisions. Online, ideological arguments rage.
In official media, unity is scripted. Reformist figures—including former Presidents Mohammad Khatami and Hassan Rouhani, and ex-Majles Speaker Mehdi Karroubi—have been pressured into voicing support.
Yet even some longtime critics of the Islamic Republic are emotionally torn. Patriotism runs deep, and the sight of foreign attacks on Iranian cities—especially when cheered abroad—has stirred feelings of alienation.
Many who despise Khamenei feel repulsed by those who appear to welcome the war.
On June 13, Khamenei’s account wrote, “The Zionist regime will not escape safely from the heinous crime they’ve committed,” making no distinction between military and civilian targets.
Some fear Israeli responses may blur the same lines.
Phone calls between Tehranis and relatives abroad oscillate between cautious hope and grim resignation. Some believe this crisis may trigger change. Others, like London-based journalist Amir Soltanzadeh, lament the world's indifference.
“Iran came under military attack, Trump ordered the evacuation of Tehran, and yet no one in the world protested,” he posted on X. “There were no demonstrations, not a single line written in Arab or Western media. That’s how hated the Islamic Republic is.”
But many Iranians don’t experience that hatred in the abstract. They live its consequences—trapped between a regime that claims to speak for them and a world that often struggles to see them at all.
Hosseinnejad, a nail technician from Eslamshahr south of Tehran, vanished on her way home late last month, and her body was found days later riddled with stab wounds.
Police later arrested the man driving her, whose account of the murder varied from an altercation over payment to his alleged gendered slur that she had been "shameless", according to Iranian media citing police.
Voice messages and texts sent to Iran International's submissions line point to a deep well of shared trauma and anger in the male-dominated theocracy.
“I was nearly abducted in broad daylight,” one woman said. “I ran into a stranger’s house because I had no other way to escape. And this wasn’t even a remote place—this was a residential street.”
Dozens of accounts tell similar stories. One woman said her Snapp ride-hailing driver changed course three times, laughing when she protested. Another described how a man posing as a Tapsi driver sexually assaulted her on a highway outside Isfahan.
Snapp and Tapsi are Iran’s two leading app-based ride services modeled on Uber.
“These stories have always existed,” another woman said. “What Elahe’s death has done is rip the veil off.”
Hosseinnejad’s body was released under heavy security and buried without a public funeral.
Systemic fear and silence
In the messages submitted to Iran International, women described persistent sexual harassment in taxis, parks, workplaces and schools.
Some said they were assaulted while taking rides, others while walking to university or boarding a bus.
One woman described sitting quietly in a shared car when the driver suddenly pulled over and exposed himself. “I kicked the door open and ran,” she wrote. “But for weeks, he called me from different numbers, threatening to find me.”
“I went to file a complaint, and they asked if I had a witness,” another woman wrote. “I said if I had one, I wouldn’t be in this situation. They told me to drop it if I cared about my reputation.”
Several others shared versions of the same response: authorities demanding impossible evidence, mocking victims or advising them to stay quiet.
“The law is not on our side,” said another woman. “If something happens to you, they treat you like the criminal.”
Ride-hailing platforms in focus
Snapp and Tapsi, Iran’s dominant ride-hailing apps, came under renewed scrutiny following Hosseinnejad’s death.
Many contributors noted that both apps have faced growing criticism for weak driver vetting and limited response to complaints.
“I was 18, and the driver kept making crude comments,” one woman wrote. “When I reported him to Snapp, they told me they’d investigate. Nothing happened. He kept calling me from different phones.”
In several cases, riders said drivers had pressured them to adjust their clothing or implied they could be dropped off mid-trip to avoid fines under Iran’s hijab regulations.
“I wore my scarf just to avoid trouble,” wrote one student. “But the way they looked at me … it was like they were waiting for an opportunity.”
The cost of inequality
Women who contacted Iran International repeatedly returned to one point: gender-based inequality under the law.
“I don’t want revenge,” one woman said of Hosseinnejad’s accused killer. “I want justice. But how can there be justice when our lives are worth half as much under the law?”
Under Iranian law, murder is punishable by death, but when a man kills a woman, the victim’s family must first pay half the standard blood money—set annually by judicial authorities—to the killer’s family before an execution can take place. Activists say this devalues women’s lives and deters families from pursuing justice.
Elahe Hosseinnejad’s story has ignited anger—but also a grim sense of recognition. “She did everything right,” one woman said. “She worked, cared for her family, shared her beliefs—but still, she ended up dead."
That’s what terrifies us most.”
