Everything got worse. We are left with the Islamic Republic.
In the aftermath of conflict, Iran's Islamic Republic has not fractured but fortified — arresting tens of thousands, executing political prisoners at a rate unseen in a generation, and leaving those who once hoped for change to reckon with a system that has learned to weaponize war against its own people. The ceasefire has brought no relief to dissidents, journalists, or human rights defenders; instead, it has sharpened the silence that precedes a deeper repression. History offers many examples of authoritarian regimes that emerge from external crisis with internal power consolidated, and Iran appears to be writing another such chapter.
- With 53,000 arrested before the war even began and 21 political executions carried out during it — the highest toll in over thirty years — the regime has made the cost of dissent unmistakably clear.
- Journalists now face execution rather than imprisonment for the same reporting that once earned political charges, as wartime law reframes fact-gathering as espionage and treason.
- Opposition activists, lawyers, and ordinary citizens describe a country where public space has been surrendered entirely — protests banned, streets lined with the regime's iconography, and private fear replacing collective resistance.
- Those closest to the fault lines — lawyers with divided families, reporters lying awake calculating risk, couples who once imagined liberation — now speak not of change but of survival.
- The deepest dread is not the war itself but what follows: the widespread expectation that once conflict formally ends, the regime will turn its wartime machinery of violence fully inward toward the prisoners and dissidents it already holds.
In Tehran's parks during the ceasefire, families walk with their children, but among Iranians who oppose the regime, the prevailing mood is dread. For a young educated couple like Sana and Diako, the war's end brings no relief. Sana had watched the early strikes against Iranian leadership with something close to hope — imagining that the deaths of senior figures might crack the system open. Instead, she watched the regime survive and strengthen. "Everything got worse," she says. "I am gutted that they won this war."
The numbers tell a brutal story. More than 53,000 people were arrested during anti-regime protests before the war began. Since fighting started, thousands more have been detained. Twenty-one political prisoners were executed during the conflict — the highest figure in over three decades for such a compressed period. Nine were connected to the January protests; ten were accused of opposition membership; two were charged with spying. The message is unambiguous: dissent will be met with death.
Susan, a lawyer who works with detainees, has watched prison conditions deteriorate sharply. Brutality once reserved for protest leaders has spread throughout the system. She comes from a divided family — her parents support the regime, her brother opposes it — and she knows that people caught between worlds will face mounting pressure once the war formally concludes. "I think we're living on borrowed time," she says.
For journalists, the calculus has become lethal. Armin, a reporter who spoke to the BBC, describes how factual war reporting can now be prosecuted as espionage — a charge that carries execution. Four people have already been executed this year on accusations of links to foreign intelligence. Armin lies awake consumed by uncertainty. "Now we're focused on staying alive," he says.
Across every sector of civil society, the same fear converges: once the war formally ends, the regime will redirect its wartime aggression inward. The opposition has already vanished from the streets. The machinery of control has only grown stronger. For those who hoped conflict might crack the system open, the reality is far grimmer — the system has closed ranks, and the cost of dissent has become absolute.
In the parks of Tehran, families walk with their children during the ceasefire, but the mood among ordinary Iranians who oppose the regime is one of dread. The faces of dead leaders and current rulers stare down from every wall, every screen. The war has ended, the fighting has stopped, but for many Iranians, the real danger is only beginning.
Sana and Diako are a young educated couple in the capital, the kind of people who have long hoped for an end to hardline religious rule. They cannot be fully described—too many details might help the regime identify them. But their conversation, conducted near a park where a BBC journalist met them, captures the despair that has settled over the opposition. Diako speaks hopefully about change. Sana laughs bitterly. She watched the early strikes against Iranian leadership with something close to joy, imagining that the death of senior figures might crack the system open. But as the war dragged on, she realized the regime would survive intact. "Everything got worse," she says. "We are left with the Islamic Republic. I am gutted that they won this war."
What happened during the conflict has left the opposition movement shattered. More than 53,000 people were arrested during anti-regime protests in January, before the war even began. Since fighting started, thousands more have been detained. The regime has executed 21 political prisoners during the war—the highest number in over three decades for such a short span of time. Nine were connected to the January protests. Ten were accused of opposition group membership. Two were charged with spying. The message is clear: dissent will be met with death.
Susan, a lawyer who works with detainees, has watched prison conditions deteriorate sharply. Before the war, harsh treatment was reserved for protest leaders, for those caught with weapons or incendiary devices. Now, that brutality has spread. She comes from a divided family—her parents support the regime, her brother opposes it. When she expressed fear that her parents might be targeted if the government fell, her brother's response was chilling: he suggested they should accept "martyrdom." Susan knows that people like her, caught between worlds, will face mounting pressure once the war formally ends. "I think we're living on borrowed time," she says, fearing the regime will turn its wartime rage on the prisoners it holds.
Journalists face a new and lethal calculus. Armin, a reporter who spoke to the BBC, describes how simply reporting facts about the war can now be prosecuted as espionage—a charge that carries execution. Before, journalists might face political charges. Now, in wartime, the same reporting becomes treason. Four people have already been executed this year on accusations of links to Mossad. Independent journalists worry constantly about arrest, about being accused of helping foreign powers hostile to the state. Armin lies awake at night, consumed by uncertainty about what comes next. "Now we're focused on staying alive—ourselves and our families," he says.
Human rights activists, opposition lawyers, and independent journalists all report the same fear: once the war formally concludes, the regime will redirect its military aggression inward. The opposition has already vanished from the streets. Public displays of support for the regime are organized and visible. Opposition rallies are banned. It is impossible to measure how much genuine support the Islamic Republic actually commands, but it is clear that the machinery of control has only grown stronger. The regime has emerged from conflict not weakened but more deeply entrenched, more vengeful, and more willing to use execution as a tool of governance. For those who hoped the war might crack the system open, the reality is far grimmer: the system has closed ranks, and the cost of dissent has become absolute.
Citações Notáveis
Everything got worse. We are left with the Islamic Republic. I am gutted that they won this war.— Sana, a young educated Iranian opposed to the regime
I think we're living on borrowed time. The regime will probably take out its rage from this war on the prisoners.— Susan, a lawyer working with detainees
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why does the regime feel stronger now, after a war that killed so many of its own leaders?
Because the war didn't break it. The Supreme Leader died, other senior figures died, but the institution survived. And survival, when everyone expected collapse, is its own form of victory. It proved the regime is not a person—it's a system.
But doesn't that kind of pressure usually crack things open? Doesn't war destabilize?
It does. But this regime has a tool most don't: it can turn inward. It can redirect all that military machinery, all that wartime authority, toward its own people. The war gave it permission to arrest, to execute, to surveil in ways that would have sparked outrage in peacetime.
So the opposition is trapped. They can't protest during war, and they're terrified of what comes after.
Exactly. There's no window. During conflict, dissent looks like treason. After conflict, the regime has consolidated so much power that opposition becomes suicidal. Sana understood this—she thought the war might change things, and it did, just not the way she hoped.
What about the families divided by loyalty? That seems like it could fracture society.
It does fracture it. But fracture isn't the same as breaking. A fractured society is easier to control than a unified one. People are afraid to trust even their own siblings. That's not weakness for the regime—that's control.
Is there any scenario where this reverses?
Not that anyone inside can see right now. The journalists are focused on survival. The lawyers are preparing for worse. The activists have stopped organizing. The regime has won not just the war, but the ability to define what comes next.