Mounting education costs in Iran are forcing growing numbers of children from low-income families out of school and into the workforce, a labor activist warned, as families say even public schools are demanding fees despite constitutional guarantees of free education.
“Turning education into a commodity has deprived many working-class children of their right to study,” labor activist Maziar Gilaninejad told labor news outlet ILNA.
He cited official figures and media reports showing steep increases in school-related expenses, including a 30% rise in stationery prices, costs of about 3.5 million rials (about $35) for basic supplies for one elementary student, and reports of 750,000 children leaving school due to poverty.
He added that the result is “a direct link” between rising dropouts and the growth in child labor, with many minors pushed into hazardous workshops to support their families.
“The reality is families need their children’s wages as much as they cannot afford school fees,” he said.
Parents have echoed the concerns. Earlier this month, Iran International reported that families are often asked to pay “voluntary” enrollment fees or provide unpaid labor, such as cleaning classrooms, to secure places for their children. In some cases, schools have withheld report cards until payments were made.
University tuition has also surged, with students reporting fees doubling at some institutions in recent semesters.
“Education is becoming an exclusive path for the wealthy,” Gilaninejad said, citing data that the top 3,000 scorers in this year’s university entrance exam came almost entirely from affluent families.
Article 30 of Iran’s constitution guarantees free education, but Iran spends just 2.93% of GDP on education, well below the global average of 4.4%, according to the Global Economy data service.
Gilaninejad said neglecting this obligation risks producing “a generation systematically sidelined from opportunity” and perpetuating cycles of poverty.
“My teacher wanted me to take off my clothes,” said Farid, a survivor who spoke to the reformist Shargh newspaper under a pseudonym.
The paper’s reporter collected detailed, often graphic recollections from men who described being touched, groped or coerced into sexual acts in settings where they expected safety.
Amir-Ali, now 32, recalled a taxi ride in which a passenger repeatedly pressed his body close and then placed a hand on his thigh. He said he felt powerless, ashamed and unable to tell friends or family.
“I didn’t speak to anyone — I thought I’d be mocked,” he told the reporter.
Majid described being molested on a crowded metro: the man next to him repeatedly adjusted his hand until the touching became unmistakable. He said he moved away without protest because embarrassment and fear made him freeze. “It was so strange and scary,” Majid added. “I just wanted to get off at the next stop.”
Far more sustained abuse appears in other accounts. Javid recounted grooming and repeated sexual exploitation by a 25-year-old assistant coach at a youth football class. He says the coach showed explicit videos, demanded sexual acts and pressured boys to comply, leaving Javid depressed and withdrawn for years.
Some victims described telling only a single friend or, in a few cases, later raising the matter in therapy — and even then withholding details.
Another survivor, Sepehr, said a close relative forced him into sexual acts from the age of ten and that he has only ever disclosed the abuse in psychotherapy. He feared family fallout and shame: “I was scared that people in the family would find out,” he told Shargh.
Shame, silence and long-term harm
The dominant theme is shame, according to psychologist Parisa Pouyan, who works on social-harm issues.
“They often feel their masculinity and sexual identity are questioned; for many, the violation is deeply humiliating,” she added. Pouyan warned that the silence compounds harm: survivors commonly suffer depression, social withdrawal and difficulties forming intimate relationships long after the assaults.
Legal advocates say institutional barriers deepen invisibility. Although Iran’s statutes do not formally distinguish male and female victims, “in practice, the numbers and the follow-through are very different,” Monica Nadi, a lawyer experienced in social-harm cases, told the paper.
She pointed to stigma, a lack of male-oriented support services and the legal difficulties of proving sexual crimes — lost physical evidence, absent witnesses and delayed reporting — as reasons why men rarely pursue judicial remedies.
Settings and system failures
Shargh’s investigation found incidents in boys’ schools, sports clubs, family homes, barracks, prisons, taxis and metro cars.
Several interviewees said suspected perpetrators were later moved between institutions rather than removed from positions of authority after being exposed for their harassment, risking further abuse.
The paper’s reporting calls for targeted steps: breaking cultural taboos, expanding counselling and support services for male survivors, training educators and staff, and improving mechanisms for reporting and evidence collection.
Survivors and experts warned that without systemic reform, many victims will continue to carry trauma in silence and cycles of abuse may persist.
Under Shi'ite law, a man can have four permanent wives simultaneously and any number of temporary wives. He needs his first wife’s consent for additional permanent marriages, but not for temporary ones.
Women, by contrast, can only enter one temporary marriage at a time and, after termination, must wait at least 45 days before remarrying to establish paternity if pregnant.
“I don’t know a single woman around me who would agree to a temporary marriage, unless she is involved with a married man and wants to protect herself from being charged with adultery if discovered,” said Taraneh, an art teacher in Tehran.
“In these cases, it’s more a formality than religiosity. Just like an affair, they hide it from everyone, even their family and friends.”
Taraneh explained that stigma is deeply rooted. The longstanding association between temporary marriage and prostitution, she said, reinforces secrecy and social judgment, especially against women.
“But in some poorer rural areas I’ve visited, it is somehow more common for widowed or divorced women who are unable to financially support themselves to marry temporarily with men whose wives will not allow them to officially take second wives,” she added.
“However, even these are normally longer-term and not publicized. Everyone considers very short-term temporary marriages shameful because of the money involved."
Temporary marriage in Shi'ite Islam
Under Shi'ite Islamic law, temporary marriage, known in Persian as sigheh or mut‘ah, is a marriage contract with a set duration. The term may last from a few hours to several years, depending on the agreement.
The contract is usually verbal and consists of the man and woman (or their representatives) reciting a formula (sigheh) that specifies the agreed duration and a predetermined dowry (mahr). Witnesses are not required for it to be valid.
Since 2013, temporary marriage has been legally recognized in Iran, though registration is only required if a child is conceived.
If registered or witnessed, temporary marriage allows recognition of children and provide some legal security to women. Once the term ends, the marriage automatically dissolves without requiring divorce proceedings.
Children are legally recognized, with inheritance and custody rights, though complications often arise if the marriage is not officially registered.
Unlike permanent marriage, a woman in temporary marriage is not entitled to alimony after expiration and has no right of inheritance from her temporary husband.
Widows and divorced women may enter temporary marriage without paternal consent. Unmarried girls, however, need their father’s approval, as in permanent marriage. The minimum legal age for girls is 13, fueling concern about child marriage in poor areas.
Sunni Islam does not recognize temporary marriage.
Sex trade in disguise
Islamic jurists describe temporary marriage as a legitimate solution to sexual needs and a safeguard against prostitution.
Although prostitution is explicitly criminalized and punishable in Iran, sigheh still enjoys legal backing, and its broad interpretations have created a religious-legal loophole that paves the way for exploitation.
The sex trade often operates under the guise of temporary marriage. This is especially visible in religious cities such as Mashhad and Qom, pilgrimage hubs where millions travel each year.
Since its legal recognition, numerous social media channels have openly advertised temporary marriage, offering arrangements from “one-hour to longer terms,” for fixed fees.
Even clerics who accept the principle of sigheh criticize this trend. They argue that it normalizes polygamy or masks prostitution.
“Can you believe that some ignorant, clueless people have set up [Telegram] channels to promote polygamy and temporary marriage? They claim they are reviving the Prophet’s tradition!" wrote cleric Ehsan Ebadi on X.
"Curse on you—you have understood neither the Prophet, nor Islam, nor the philosophy behind these rulings. All you are doing is tarnishing the image of religious people."
Javan newspaper, affiliated with the Revolutionary Guard, reported on September 20 that the growth of online channels and pages under the titles of matchmaking and sigheh-finding has turned into a platform for fraud and exploitation of users.
“The rapid increase of these channels is a serious alarm bell for society.”
