Hell exhibition draws fire from Iranians, faithful and faithless alike

The slogan “nuclear energy is our absolute right” emerged in the early 2000s, as tensions over Iran’s program escalated and international pressure mounted. It was printed on official banners and chanted in state-sponsored rallies.

But it was never a grassroots demand.

“I want to throw up when I hear the phrase nuclear energy,” says Babak, a software engineer in his mid-forties. “Everyone I know feels the same—it reminds them of high prices and empty pockets.”

It’s easy to see that the grudge runs far deeper and wider than the nuclear program.

“This nuclear standoff has made the wall between us and the rest of the world much taller. Every time (Foreign Minister Abbas) Araghchi says ‘non-negotiable’, he triggers a collective trauma: the lives we’ve lost to his ilk’s stupid posturing.”

They showed some reason with the 2015 deal, Babak says, but it was all undone when President Donald Trump pulled the U.S. out.

The chants about nuclear rights died out with that agreement. The term ‘enrichment’ crawled back to technical reports where it belongs.

Now, amid talks with the United States, the government is reviving it, calling enrichment “a non-negotiable right of the Iranian nation.”

Pride, what pride?

But the message holds little weight for many Iranians who increasingly feel their interests and those of Iran’s rulers are mutually exclusive.

“How am I benefiting from this technology, this so-called right?” my neighbour Sonia asks as she breastfeeds her baby in stifling afternoon heat during the daily power cut.

“Isn't one supposed purpose of nuclear energy generating electricity? Why are we having more power cuts with every passing year, then? Why is the share of nuclear power in our grid a literal zero?”

Sonia’s questions are rarely, if ever, discussed in Iran’s media. The nuclear program is a source of national pride, we’re told, and not being proud of it is a crime.

The disconnect between rulers and ruled is nearly complete—so is the gap between official claims and lived experience.

“Their contempt for us people is unreal. And it’s matched by ours for them,” Sonia concludes, her baby now fast asleep. “It’s gotten to a point where many oppose a deal that might improve their lives, because it would benefit the Islamic Republic far more.”

It’s about them, not us

Not everyone is so antagonistic toward the government. Some—more among the older generations, in my experience—are equally critical of regional and world powers.

Retired chemistry teacher Kazem is one of them. He’s the only one of four friends playing chess in the park who is willing to talk to me.

“The Americans first said low-level enrichment would be ok,” he says, “but then changed their position to ‘zero enrichment’, perhaps under pressure from hawks or (Israeli prime minister) Netanyahu.”

“I dislike most of what the government does, but on this one I think it’s the others in Europe and America who are being unreasonable and blocking a potential path forward.”

Kazem’s friends shake their heads in disagreement. One murmurs something to the effect that no sane man believes a word that “this bunch”, Iranian officials, say.

The distrust, in my view, is at the heart of every position that most ordinary Iranians take in relation to those who rule the country.

“The idea of peaceful nuclear energy is a total lie. Yes, it does have many applications—in medicine, for example. But show me just one hospital that’s benefiting from what’s being done in Natanz and Fordow.”

Reza is a technician at a private hospital in Tehran. He says he agrees with the official line about nations’ right to peaceful nuclear energy.

“But this has nothing to do with the nation,” he says, voice rising. “It’s about them, (supreme leader) Khamenei, the (Revolutionary) Guards and the leeches sucking Iran dry and sending the riches to their brood in Canada.

“If it was about the nation, the nation would have been consulted about it. Has anybody ever asked you if you’d rather have centrifuges or a decent car?”

“Three members of the national team committed inappropriate behavior on the sidelines of the Asian Championships,” the statement said, adding that the matter is under review and disciplinary action will be taken in accordance with regulations.

South Korean police said on Saturday that two Iranian athletes and a coach were arrested in the city of Gumi after a local woman, 20, alleged she had been sexually assaulted at a hotel, where the Iranian delegation was staying.

Iranian newspaper Khabar Varzeshi on Monday published a detailed account of the alleged group sexual assault.

Citing an eyewitness, Khabar Varzeshi reported that around 6 a.m., a 20-year-old Korean woman arrived at the hotel with an Iranian athlete referred to as K, after meeting him at a bar. A second athlete, R, later joined them in the room, followed by a third, M, whose presence prompted the woman to object.

The woman, the report said, entered the bathroom and discreetly sent her location to police. Authorities arrived shortly after and, based on her complaint of group sexual assault, arrested the three.

According to Khabar Varzeshi, the accused claim the first two encounters were consensual and only the third was forced. Police, however, reportedly dismissed this distinction and detained all three men.

The hotel remains under heightened security despite the arrests, the paper added.

Iran’s Ministry of Sports pledged to address the issue, with a senior official, Shervin Asbaghian, saying that serious action would be taken against anyone found responsible.

“We have no tolerance for violations of ethical conduct,” he told Iran’s state news agency IRNA, while calling for a full investigation once the delegation returns to Iran.

It is the latest scandal to rock the sport. Federation president Ehsan Hadadi, who was one of several senior officials on the delegation, has been at the center of allegations of corruption In recent months.

Athletes and coaches have held protest gatherings outside the Ministry of Sports building in Tehran, calling for his resignation, citing concerns over alleged misconduct and mismanagement.

South Korean authorities have not yet confirmed whether formal charges will be filed, and the investigation remains ongoing.

Mohammad Mousavian, Isfahan’s public and revolutionary prosecutor, announced the sweeping ban on Saturday, saying: “Dog walking is a violation of public rights and a threat to the health, comfort, and peace of citizens.”

“Any form of dog walking in the city — whether in parks, public spaces, or vehicles — is prohibited and will be dealt with seriously.”

Mousavian ordered law enforcement to impound vehicles carrying dogs and to shut down shops and unauthorized veterinary clinics related to pet care.

“This is in response to serious public demands,” he said, directing the police and cybercrime units to take down social media accounts advertising the sale of dogs and prosecute their owners.

The crackdown reflects a broader trend across Iran, where the clerical establishment has increasingly targeted dog ownership as a sign of Western influence.

While keeping working dogs in rural areas has long been accepted, urban pet ownership is a more recent phenomenon.

Parliamentarians previously proposed a bill to ban the sale and ownership of dogs as pets, citing public health — a move that included possible jail time and hefty fines. Though the bill was never passed, enforcement has continued through municipal orders and police action.

Pet owners in Tehran have reported fines, harassment, and even eviction threats. The Islamic Republic has no clear regulations governing dog ownership, which leaves citizens vulnerable to arbitrary enforcement and ongoing legal uncertainty.

The Islamic Penal Code, particularly Article 688, reinforces this prohibition by penalizing actions deemed threatening to public health, citing potential health risks associated with the possession of dogs. Violations may result in legal consequences, as neighbors have the ability to file complaints against such practices.

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This shift from overt violence to algorithmic discipline is framed in official discourse as “smartification” and “psychological security”—buzzwords that mask a deeper objective: building a more efficient, anticipatory system of social control.

As Iran negotiates with the United States abroad, it is preparing for a future at home without a deal. Figures once tainted by high-level corruption—such as Babak Zanjani—are now rhetorically rehabilitated as symbols of national resilience, reflecting a broader effort to rebrand dysfunction as discipline.

Authorities are deploying everything from internet monitoring and mobile signal tracking to facial recognition, shop surveillance, and even mandatory in-home cameras to build a digital control society. The goal: neutralize dissent before it begins.

This new architecture of repression aims to present a softer, even “benevolent” face of policing—one nearly invisible thanks to smart technologies. The result is a seamless, predictive regime designed not only to watch citizens, but to sort, anticipate, and contain them.

Policing internet, profiling people

In recent years, the Islamic Republic has adopted a more systematized and technical approach to digital control.

A clear marker of this trend was the resolution passed by the Supreme Council of Cyberspace in January 2025. While billed as a plan to “lift filtering,” the directive in practice expands regulation of online activity.

It authorizes the government, along with the Ministry of Culture and the Judiciary, to police “criminal content,” restrict VPNs, and penalize the spread of so-called “fake news.”

This legislative tightening is matched by tactical enforcement. During protests in Izeh in March 2024, authorities imposed localized internet shutdowns that left hundreds of thousands offline. These quiet, surgical disruptions have become a recurring method of quelling unrest.

In parallel, authorities deactivated SIM cards of journalists, activists, and political users—targeting not speech, but connection itself.

The same tools are now used to enforce dress codes. In Isfahan, authorities reportedly use contactless payment readers and surveillance cameras to identify women who defy compulsory hijab.

Threatening messages are sent not only to the women, but to their families—a form of psychological policing that leverages fear and shame.

Urban surveillance, algorithmic control

These measures show no sign of slowing. In May 2025, traffic police announced plans to use facial recognition for pedestrian violations—a tool once limited to license plates now trained on people.

In October 2024, the national police (FARAJA) began equipping 50,000 officers with body cameras that livestream to command centers, turning patrols into mobile surveillance nodes.

Surveillance is also extending into the private sector. Under the “Septam” system launched in late 2024, businesses must install cameras linked to law enforcement to receive operating licenses.

In April 2025, building codes were updated to require surveillance cameras in any residential or commercial complex with four or more units. The state now watches not just public streets but the thresholds of private homes.

These initiatives fall under the “Police Smartification” plan outlined in the FARAJA Architecture Document. Though couched in the language of public service, its purpose is unmistakable: to restructure digital and urban life for maximum predictability and control.

Pre-empting dissent

The driver behind this system is not technological ambition—it is fear. Officials anticipate the return of mass protests, spurred by economic hardship, power outages, and the possible failure of negotiations.

In response, they are building a pre-emptive framework of repression, where law and policing blur, and surveillance becomes the default mode of governance.

This strategy does not merely suppress resistance—it aims to erase the very possibility of it. By severing communication, dissolving public and digital spaces, and inducing despair, the state hopes to prevent disobedience not just in action, but in thought.

If realized, Iran will not merely be a surveillance state—it will be an anticipatory one. A state where individuals are profiled, categorized, and neutralized before they act.Where repression no longer wears a uniform, but operates silently—to predict and pre-empt dissent.

Some of the accounts describe isolation in sweltering apartments, lack of essential services and increasing anger over government inaction.

In Ahvaz, where daytime temperatures top 45°C, one man said midday cuts had left families without air conditioning.

A resident of Pardis near Tehran reported being stranded in a high-rise: “On the 14th floor, we’re cut off from the world for two hours a day—no power, no water, no communication.”

In Shahreza in Isfahan province, a woman filmed a gas station rendered defunct by power cuts.

Iran faces a shortfall of nearly 20,000 megawatts, a crisis fueled by extreme heat, dwindling hydropower, and years of underinvestment.

Messages show burned-out appliances, food spoilage, and even fire damage. “This fire started because of power flickers,” said one man, gesturing to a scorched storefront. “This is one of the blessings of the Islamic Republic.”

Some residents complained about bathing children with bottled water and elderly citizens stuck in buildings without functioning elevators or water pumps.

“No bread, no water, no electricity, no internet, no clean air,” one voice said. “This already is hell.”

The outages have hit mobile networks and small businesses alike, with dead batteries at relay stations shutting down service and shopkeepers counting losses. “The fuse blew. Everything spoiled. I paid a heavy price,” said a Gelato shop owner.

Despite vast oil and gas reserves, Iran’s government has failed to upgrade infrastructure or build renewables.

Authorities continue to cite illegal cryptocurrency mining as a strain. Energy Minister Abbas Aliabadi said such operations now consume over 1,000 megawatts—about 5% of the shortfall.

But the broader collapse in services continues. In high-rise buildings, electricity cuts disable water pumps, leaving residents without running water. “We haven’t showered in two days,” said a woman in one video. “We use bottled water for the toilet. At least open the public baths.”