After January’s massacre, mourning and war panic mingle with intensifying silencing and diaspora disputes, as Iranians argue over how to resist—and what comes after the Islamic Republic.
The author’s name and the names of all individuals mentioned in this article are pseudonyms to protect their safety.
After 18 Dey (January 8, 2026), Iranian society did not return to what it had been. Between anger, mourning, and the anxiety of war, people are standing on a thin line between hope and collapse. Some see a military strike as the only way out; others see it as a collective plunge into the abyss of irreversible ruin. At the same time, disputes—along with the sidelining of different voices—have deepened existing rifts. This field report tells the story of a society that, under the shadow of repression, the threat of war, and competition over a post–Islamic Republic future, faces a vital question: how can one resist—and still remain human?
The fortieth-day memorials were held one after another, and these days people in Iran have been staring at the sky to see when missiles will rain down on them. After 18 Dey (January 8, 2026), nothing felt like “before” anymore. The Islamic Republic tried to make this year’s 22 Bahman (February 11, 2026) anniversary rally for the 1979 revolution more “crowded” than ever, and only three days later, large demonstrations were held abroad, signaling Iranians’ desire for regime change.
But criticisms have also surfaced. For example: why has the slogan “No to executions” been dropped at a time when the issue of executions is being eclipsed by the daily threat of war hanging over Iran? Some inside Iran say the government should no longer be addressed with any demands at all. Others argue that “No to executions” is not “addressing the government,” but a demand that must be carried at all times. Some see war as salvation; others say desperation has brought even opponents of war to the point of believing that an attack is the only way out—something like a mass suicide of whales. What stands out more sharply than ever is the memory of those killed—people who were among the most deserving of a dignified life.
Sara is an actress who recently stopped acting. She says:
“I feel an incredibly heavy psychological pressure on me. I feel like I’m about to burst at any moment. I want to cry, but I can’t. It’s like grief and sadness don’t even come to me. I’ve become numb, lifeless, and ineffective.”
Nasrin is an editor whose condition these days is more or less like Sara’s. She says she is deeply depressed and sleeps constantly. She wakes up around 3:30 in the afternoon, and many days she does not even leave home to exercise. She keeps having nightmares. The sheer amount of sleep exhausts her, and she cannot get herself up.
Nahal, an employee at a private company, says facing this scale of catastrophe is “paralyzing” for her too: “These days my state is a mix of fear, grief, anger, desperation, and disbelief. Every night I wake up from nightmares.”
Aida moved house about two weeks ago and says that if she had not been forced to relocate, she would have reached psychological collapse:
“Every time I open Instagram, everything comes back to life. We see with our own eyes what has been done to us. Just now I was watching a video of a mother who, together with her husband and their other child, had dyed some pigeons blue because their killed child loved the color blue, and then released them into the sky—and that video made my tears pour out.”
Erfan says that in the first few days after the internet came back, he held himself together—and that this “holding” was not voluntary: “But after a month, I collapsed. It keeps happening that when I’m eating, or looking at my friends’ faces, or even seeing a black Peugeot 207 in the street, I get a lump in my throat and I feel awful.”
Asiye believes we are standing at a point in history where everything can change: “We are not going back to before the January uprising. However long the path to freedom and democracy may be, each time we experience events like these, it’s as if the path becomes shorter. We don’t know whether one turn remains or thousands. But through suffering, effort, and struggle, we shorten the path.” She says the concerns she wrestles with every day are not like those of “ordinary people”:
“Little by little, we lost ordinary things. Even primitive humans who lived in forests and caves faced a definite kind of insecurity from nature. They knew what to do to survive and what they had to confront. But for us, it is an extremely complex matter—I don’t know whether we were prepared for it or not. This geographical fate is not fair.”
Erfan also forces himself to go to work every day, telling himself he must continue:
“I shouldn’t stay at home and freeze. I put myself in the place of those who were killed and think: if I had been killed, I would want people not to forget me—but I wouldn’t want them to freeze either. I would want them to work and, while working, to remember me too.”
The fortieth-day memorials made Erfan constantly think about the fact that they eliminated those who were “the most deserving of life”: “For us, life is nothing but exercising, riding a motorbike, working, falling in love. All those who were killed did all those things—they were full of life. I think our mourning will never lessen.”
Nahal compares society’s present condition to a “mass suicide of whales”: “General desperation has pushed a large part of even the anti-war opposition to the point where they now think an attack is our only way out.”
Nasrin says working has become very difficult. As an editor, everything she reads is about recent events and internet shutdowns; everything is tied to protests, forcing her to relive the past year—and it is driving her insane: “When I work, one eye is on Iran International and the other is on my monitor and phone. The country is gradually becoming a giant asylum—and after this, we’ll face a wave of suicides too.”
Government Rallies or a Slap in the Face to the People
On 22 Bahman (February 11, 2026), a new wave of anger flooded many people in Iran. The anniversary rally of the 1979 revolution forced people once again to face, eye to eye, a government they had shouted they did not want in the streets just one month earlier. That night, regime supporters went to their windows at exactly 9 p.m. and shouted “Allahu Akbar.” Nasrin describes what she experienced that night:
“On the night of 22 Bahman, I intended to chant—but suddenly I decided I didn’t want to do it. When the regime supporters started shouting ‘Allahu Akbar,’ I couldn’t tolerate it. I went to the window and started chanting and yelling, ‘Shut up—your time is over.’ I was so angry that I fought with all my friends and told them I want to swear and scream. I didn’t know where those words were coming from inside me, but after saying them I felt emptied out.”
Nahal was out in the street on 22 Bahman (February 11, 2026) and says:
“The only things I saw were the loud blaring of the speakers and the small number of participants. I also went out on 22 Dey (January 12, 2026), and the crowd size on these two days—both of them regime supporters—was not comparable. I tried to ignore both their crowd and their loudspeakers. But all day I kept thinking: are those who came out today true believers in this government—or hired agents?”
Aida watched the 22 Bahman videos on her phone and says: “Seeing videos of people who went to the government rally without hijab took me back to 1401 (2022–2023), and it reminded me of what Jina Amini’s parents wrote after she was killed in 2022 by the morality police over compulsory hijab. They said: we gave so much blood for the right to choose our clothing, and now, in their own rally, it’s as if they have no problem with it at all. So why was that blood spilled? What did you do to us—and what happened that you no longer even remain committed to your own repression and killing?”
Still, now that some time has passed since 22 Bahman, the event is no longer “disturbing” for Asiye. She says the weight of the opposition has become so much larger, more immense, and more cohesive that the 22 Bahman rally no longer torments her:
“That day felt like humiliation, mockery—a slap in the face. Their behavior was torturous. But I don’t feel they have a broad popular base. What we experienced in the January uprising was the presence of structured, organized, labyrinthine forces that—from small villages to big cities and metropolises—repressed systematically and at that scale. That was horrifying, terrifying, unbelievable, and despair-inducing for me.”
In the first days after the bloody crackdown of 18 and 19 Dey (January 8 and 9, 2026), Asiye says that as she walked in the street she felt any man she saw could be a “killer”:
“It was heartbreaking to me how easily someone can become a cog in repression and killing. We keep hoping a human being can’t do such a thing, but we see how, when money and ‘reasons’ stand behind it, people turn into enemies and killing becomes a ‘valuable’ act. Having some power validate our performance becomes important enough that it can make something immoral seem moral—and vice versa. You see this in opposition forces too. Unfortunately, we are influenced by whatever voice is louder and more powerful than ours. Only a small number of people can preserve their individuality and refuse these things. When the forces of repression are so numerous and armed, how can we change this situation?”
The Difficult Road to Freedom
How much must Iran’s protesting society pay to reach freedom and civic rights? Aida says the Western world knows very well that people in Iran oppose the Islamic Republic: “The size of the diaspora that is anti–Islamic Republic proves it. If they didn’t oppose the Islamic Republic, they wouldn’t have left their country. That’s why these demonstrations haven’t produced any special outcome for global decision-makers—nothing that would make them reach a new conclusion. So these demonstrations didn’t give me a feeling of joy or exhilaration.”
Erfan, however, says that after seeing the demonstrations abroad, he thought of everyone who longs to return to Iran but cannot:
“When the demonstrations abroad happened, I pictured how much those people want to return to their country and how much they miss their home. I thought about who I would like to return to Iran. I want my brother to return. I want people who are like sisters to me—people I didn’t see—to return. I felt sorry for them.”
Erfan says he wants his country to finally experience democracy and for those who mourned to find peace:
“I want us to reach something where they can say: it was worth it. But I wish the road to freedom weren’t so hard and painful. I want to see reaching some form of a socialist republic.”
Nahal also dreams of a free Iran that can hold all thoughts and religions. But when asked whether she thinks her dream is achievable, she says: “I doubt it. The horizon I see is that in the end the U.S. attacks, elevates a new figure from within the IRGC/elite networks, and the face of the current government changes—but not its foundation.”
Asiye, however, sees people at a point where they have little control over what is coming:
“At this moment, I think some things have moved out of our hands, and we are in stages whose map was drawn months or years ago. We are in the final sections now, where our role is not very decisive. Torturing ourselves and fighting over things we don’t control is futile. We have to talk about what we do control: self-criticism, not leaving the field, not sulking, occupying space, creating challenges and being challenging. But on a larger level, at this moment I am hopeful for the fall of the government through a part that is not in our hands. I think we cannot do it with our own hands and we need external intervention.”
She says she does not know how much damage such intervention would bring. “But if I have one vote, I think the sooner it happens, the better. Because staying under the government that currently rules Iran guarantees our complete destruction. It is completely clear that all of us and our country will be destroyed by them. Any path other than the survival of this government can carry some probability of a little life, of being freed—even if it is not our ideal path and even if it comes with harm. In my view, that path would be less damaging.”
A change that strips Iran’s religious face is what makes Asiye happiest. At the same time, she points to individual responsibility and to small but crucial acts that can and must be done now:
“I think being present alongside bereaved families, and keeping the faces of the killed visible and lasting, is extremely important. Only this can fill the pain, the void, and the anger a bereaved family carries. The meaning of life and being alive is that our name becomes enduring. That can be a kind of balm. Perhaps they can live with this mourning when, through others, it becomes heroic action. Death in the path of a bigger goal called freedom gains meaning, and that is why pain, suffering, grief, and loss become bearable for the bereaved.”
All of this, in her view, shows why people’s presence in fortieth-day memorials can be so encouraging. Yet she is also distressed for those who remain unseen:
“I’m distressed if we are never going to find out who died—or for those whose voices don’t reach us, or who don’t raise their voice out of fear. I’m deeply distressed for the detainees. The thought of what is done to them every day doesn’t leave me. Those who received execution sentences are placed in a complex and critical situation that is terrifying. I think they can do anything to a detainee every day—and it drives me insane. All this makes me say: I wish war would happen so we could be rid of them. There is no other way. This is an unreformable structure; you cannot fight it with any weapon because it is built on corruption, deeply rooted—and it must be uprooted entirely. A revolution must happen. Otherwise, we will be ruined.”
