Host of nightly show The Program
In Iran, privilege often dresses itself as virtue, with the best-known example being a former vice president’s son boasting about his “good genes”—a phrase now firmly embedded in the national lexicon.
Asked in a 2017 interview about his 'success', Hamidreza Aref, son of moderate politician Mohammadreza Arf, said with calm assurance that his talents were inherited.
"I’m proud to say that my abilities come from two good genes," he added, "one from my father and one from my mother.”
The “good gene” generation was never defined by ideology but by access, the invisible currency of name, family and connection.
In a country where most citizens fight for the barest margin of survival, the noble-born inherit both the stage and the script.
It’s close to midnight in Tehran when I open the phone lines for my live call-in show, The Program. The night’s question is simple but piercing: Why have so many children of Iran’s political elite left the country their fathers built, and what are they doing in the West?
Within minutes, the microphone that begins in my hand belongs to the people.
The conversation ignited after photographs surfaced online showing the daughter of a senior Revolutionary Guard commander, one of the architects of Iran’s “cultural jihad” and a defender of compulsory veiling, living freely in Australia.
No veil. No slogans. No fear. Sometimes a single image can dissolve decades of propaganda.
This one exposed the contradiction at the heart of the Islamic Republic: a state that has spent forty-some years warning its citizens of Western corruption while quietly sending its own families to live within it.
The father’s ideology collapses in the daughter’s freedom. She doesn’t need to rebel; she only needs to exist and live her life.
Calls pour in. From Tehran, a mother describes the daily arithmetic of survival, rising prices, shrinking futures, the quiet negotiations with fear. From Khuzestan, a woman recounts raising two children while the authorities police her clothing more zealously than their own corruption.
Power preaches sacrifice at home and practices privilege abroad.
Ordinary Iranians sell heirlooms, borrow from relatives, and wait years for visas. The powerful simply transfer assets and arrive with ease. It isn’t exile, it’s insurance: a second passport for the family while the father appears on state television condemning the West.
In Farsi, we have a phrase for this duplicity: yek bam o do hava, meaning one roof and two climates. The body stays in Iran; the future does not.
This hypocrisy has roots. After the Iran-Iraq War, during the so-called Reconstruction Era, a new class emerged, publicly pious, privately prosperous. Their children became the first generation of Aghazadeh, literally “the noble-born.” Around them grew an ecosystem of lobbyists, academics, and businessmen who laundered not only money but meaning, translating repression into the vocabulary of “cultural nuance.” You can find them now in Western universities and think tanks, where moral clarity often gives way to the comfort of complexity.
But the leadership has misread its own people. The young Iranians who call my show, students, teachers, workers, aren’t asking for Western salvation; they’re asking for a normal life at home. A seventeen-year-old from a provincial town once listed Iran’s riches, its gas, its minerals, its history, and then asked a question no economist could answer: “Why does a land so rich make its children feel so worthless?”
For readers outside Iran, it may be tempting to treat such stories as distant tragedies. Don’t. What you’re hearing is a society struggling to reclaim the simplest tools of citizenship: free speech, accountability, choice.
The photographs of officials’ children living comfortably in Western cities are not gossip; they are evidence. If the guardians of a revolution refuse to let their own families live under its rules, why should anyone else?
There is another revolution already underway, quiet, persistent, deeply human. A mother keeping her son out of prison, a teacher urging her students to ask questions, a teenager refusing the false choice between exile and obedience.
What ends on nights like these is not faith or tradition but the official story of power. What begins is the practice of freedom, first in conversation, then in life.
The microphone is open. The nation answers. The show ends. I close my eyes and whisper to myself, we need a Martin Luther King.
The controversy began when a short video produced to mark the wedding of Malavan football club captain Saeed Karimi — showing the couple in his club’s uniform in romantic football-themed scenes at an empty stadium — was leaked on social media.
The case again thrusts women and public morality into the public discourse of the nearly fifty-year-old Islamic theocracy even after authorities this year backed off enforcing strict veiling laws in a likely bid to avoid protests.
Karimi's wife Zahra appeared variously in a the shorts and t-shirt of a football uniform and briefly wearing a baseball cap but at other times without the theocracy's mandatory Islamic head covering. In one brief scene the pair tumble into bed laughing.
The footballer said the video had been shared without his and his wife’s consent and asked users to delete it.
'What next?'
However, state TV presenter Rasoul Mehrabani devoted several minutes of live airtime to accusing the couple's video, calling it shameful, indecent disgraceful.
"If we do not stop this, if we do not stop these indecencies, what will happen tomorrow?" he said, inviting authorities to intervene.
Shortly after, judiciary-affiliated outlet Mizan, quoted provincial prosecutor Seyed Kamaleddin Mousavi as saying they had opened a case in connection with the circulation of a “video contrary to public decency” attributed to a Malavan player.
He said initial investigations showed the clip had been filmed in the northern city of Sari and released by one of the individuals involved in filming it.
Mousavi added that the player appeared before judicial authorities to file a complaint over the unauthorized publication, and that the case has since been transferred to the another prosecutor’s office for further review.
Federation reaction
Amid the controversy, the Ethics Committee of the Football Federation of the Islamic Republic of Iran announced on Tuesday that Karimi had been summoned for questioning.
The committee, a judicial body within the federation labelled by critics the “morality police of football,” has previously taken action against players who made critical comments about political or social issues.
This included those who expressed solidarity with protesters during the nationwide protests sparked by the death in morality police custody of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini in September 2022. Authorities quashed the demonstrations with deadly force.
Support for Karimi
Iranian social media users largely defended Karimi, calling the clip harmless and saying the outrage from state TV and hardline media was misplaced.
The controversy also sparked accusations of double standards, as users compared the reaction to Karimi’s video with the official silence when a video of the wedding of a top security official's daughter leaked last month.
Ali Shamkhani is a senior advisor to Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei and the footage showed his daughter without a hijab and in a Western-style white wedding dress with a plunging neckline.
“Why is Saeed Karimi’s video criminal, but not Shamkhani’s daughter’s?” one user wrote — a question that quickly spread across social media. Another highlighted that Karimi’s wife’s outfit was “far more modest,” while one joked, “If she had worn longer socks or a hat, even the most zealous critics would have stayed quiet.”
'People vs. state'
Fellow footballers also showed support for Karimi and his wife in posts on Instagram.
According to Tehran-based Etemad daily, Mehrabani’s six-minute tirade was filled with vulgar language that many described as “offensive and disgusting.” The paper said his comments drew far more attention to the clip, which had initially gone largely unnoticed.
Etemad said that the video was no different from countless romantic couple shoots posted on Instagram, questioning the mindset behind the presenter’s reaction.
Ehsan Akbari, sports editor at Iran International said the episode revealed a divide between the public and the Islamic Republic’s mindset.
“This (public support for Karimi) shows how much society is standing against the mindset of the Islamic Republic,” he said. “The government have one opinion, but society has another.”
Akbari added that the contrast in public reactions to the two videos reflected both trust and authenticity.
“People criticized Shamkhani but support Saeed Karimi because Shamkhani has always presented himself as an Islamic figure and tried to impose his ideas on others, while behind the scenes behaving differently,” he said. “But Saeed Karimi reflects the reality of society — he’s just like ordinary people. Shamkhani on the other hand represents the hypocrisy of the Islamic Republic.”
'Double standard'
Sports journalist Raha Poubakhsh says the difference in how state media handled the two cases revealed a broader political motive.
“State media defended Shamkhani by portraying him as a victim, saying the video had been published without permission and that people’s privacy should be respected,” she said. “But when a private video of a football player was leaked, the situation was entirely different."
"This difference in approach shows that the issue is not about morality or justice, but about control and the exercise of power,” she added.
“In the Islamic Republic, the state itself decides what is considered ‘immoral’ — a label it only applies when the person in question is not in a position of power or part of the establishment.”
Malavan Football club files complaint
Malavan Football Club issued a statement condemning Mehrabani’s remarks as “disgusting and insulting,” accusing the Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB) of “spreading hatred” to attract attention. The club demanded an official apology from state TV and said it had filed a formal complaint against the presenter.
“The dignity and reputation of our members are red lines,” the statement said. “Malavan expects the IRIB to clearly and publicly apologize to the player, the club, and the people of Bandar Anzali and Gilan province.”
The club added that it would not remain silent “when the name of Malavan or human dignity is disrespected,” reaffirming what it described as its half-century tradition of respect, passion and community spirit.
Progressive legacy
Malavan has a reputation as one of Iran’s most socially progressive football clubs.
In another example, the club shared a photo on its official Instagram page in October showing player Abouzar Safarzadeh’s wife kissing him on the forehead after he scored in a Persian Gulf League match — a move seen as breaking the clerical establishment’s social taboos on public displays of affection.
“Malavan was among the first Iranian teams after the (1979 Islamic) revolution to feature women in the unveiling of its official kits,” Akbari, the sports editor, said.
“Women have long had a presence in its matches and media, and it has one of the oldest women’s football teams in the country," he said. "The fact that Karimi’s wife appeared on the pitch in the club’s kit resonated because it felt real and authentic."
A senior official rekindled the debate on Monday when he said parliament should “decide” whether the law needs clarification on women’s licensing.
“If religious standards are observed, motorcycling does not contradict most sharia rulings,” said Abdolhossein Khosropanah, secretary of the Supreme Council of the Cultural Revolution.
Several news outlets quickly framed the remark as permission for women to ride, while conservative lawmakers bristled at the ball being tossed into their court, insisting that no such issue was on parliament’s agenda.
Khosropanah also warned that some women already ride “without proper hijab,” effectively acknowledging that the genie is out of the bottle.
Reality on the streets
The supposed “green light” may not herald imminent policy change—and few seem to be waiting for it anyway.
Women on scooters and motorcycles have become increasingly common. Many now zip through traffic on lipstick-red, lilac, and canary-yellow bikes, taking children to school or commuting to work. Groups of young women even ride together in social clubs, sharing videos that draw thousands of likes.
Only a generation ago, even car driving was restricted in some areas, with families forbidding it despite valid licenses.
Women have also competed internationally since 2016, when MAFIRI opened motocross events to women despite the lack of a dedicated track. Earlier this year, the Women’s International Motorcycle Association launched an Iran chapter.
One rider told the moderate daily Etemad that her husband “stood up to relatives” who disapproved. “Sharing my rides on social media brought more clients,” she said. Another scooter rider said public reactions are largely positive: “People cheer us on, but some traffic police still treat us badly.”
The Sharia barrier
Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei has ruled that women’s cycling “in public view of men is haram because it attracts attention.”
While he did not mention motorcycles, many clerics apply the same logic, arguing that riding prevents wearing the hijab properly and exposes body movements.
Proponents counter that Islamic law never banned women from horse-riding and that women have long been allowed to ride as passengers on motorcycles without police interference.
Iranian law does not explicitly ban women from riding motorcycles, but no licensing system exists for them because the traffic code refers only to “men”—a gap police interpret as exclusion.
Without licenses, women cannot obtain insurance and may be liable for full blood money in accidents. Penalties for riding without a license include fines, bike confiscation, and up to two months in jail, rising to six months for repeat offenders.
Public pushback
A landmark 2019 lawsuit briefly forced police to issue a license before being overturned on appeal, but it galvanized public debate and encouraged more women to ride openly.
The Presidential Parliamentary Office recently said it is drafting a bill to modify Article 20 of the Law on Driving Offenses to allow women to obtain motorcycle licenses.
Legal scholar Mohsen Borhani wrote on X: “Opponents of women motorcyclists have no rational, moral, or religious basis. This discrimination is as absurd as Saudi Arabia’s old ban on female drivers.”
Commentator Sahand Iranmehr added: “Clinging to outdated rules only raises the cost. A law that resists social reality becomes obsolete and loses legitimacy.”