When the Streets Are Ablaze, the State Strikes Back
In Iran, the protests have crossed a threshold. They are no longer just whispers in lines or anger confined to social media. The demonstrations have turned into clashes, confrontations, and sometimes vandalism—and above all, into an escalation that leaves families on tenterhooks, waiting for news as if awaiting a verdict. In this climate, the Iranian president has taken a clear stance: he accuses the United States and Israel of fanning the flames. It’s a familiar line of rhetoric, but it still packs a punch because it shifts the focus. It transforms a domestic crisis into an external battle. It replaces the immediate discontent with a distant enemy. And while those in power point to invisible hands, the people on the streets speak of cost of living, dignity, freedoms, and a future that has been stolen from them. This is where the tension becomes explosive: two narratives collide, and each claims to hold the truth.
Blaming Washington and Tel Aviv when cobblestones are flying is to fall back on the reflex of a besieged fortress. The message is simple: if violence breaks out, it’s because foreign forces are pulling the strings. This narrative offers those in power an immediate advantage—that of closing ranks and justifying a security apparatus on high alert. But it comes at a heavy, corrosive cost. It risks obscuring the domestic reasons that drive people into the streets. And it muddles the message, precisely at a time when the president promises to “listen to the protesters.” You cannot lend an ear with one hand and point a finger with the other without sending a contradictory signal. The state says: I hear you. The state also says: you’re being manipulated. In the narrow space between these two statements, trust cracks, and the divide widens.
What makes this sequence more serious is the dynamics of violence. A protest that gets out of hand never follows a neat script. There are provocations, retaliations, rumors that accelerate everything, and images that circulate faster than denials. The Iranian president, by vowing to pay attention to the demands, is attempting to regain political control. But his accusations against the United States and Israel frame the event in a way that makes external forces the primary cause. This framing may reassure some, but it exasperates others—those who first and foremost demand concrete action on the ground: daily life, rights, and the ability to protest without being crushed. The people in the streets aren’t asking for a lesson in geopolitics; they’re demanding to be recognized. And when they feel ignored, they shout louder—until the entire country trembles.
My heart sinks when I see this scene repeat itself, with almost mechanical words. External enemies are singled out, opposing flags are waved, and it’s explained that the anger comes from elsewhere. I understand the temptation of those in power: it’s easier to fight a shadow than to face a national pain head-on. But I think of ordinary people—those who are neither secret agents nor strategists, just citizens caught up in a wave that overwhelms them. When violence escalates, they are the ones who pay the price. And when the president promises to listen, I want to believe him, because a country cannot survive for long by speaking against its own people on the streets. Yet this promise rings hollow as long as it is accompanied by accusations that dismiss their anger.
External Accusations, Internal Divisions
The Iranian president’s statement—blaming the United States and Israel—is not just a knee-jerk reaction. It is a narrative strategy. It plants the idea that the protests are not entirely homegrown, that they are tainted, exploited, and directed. In a region where rivalry is constant, this accusation resonates immediately. But it leaves a brutal question unanswered: if everything comes from outside, why is the anger manifesting itself here, now, in the streets of Iran? The protesters are not an abstraction; they are a political reality. They exist, they are making themselves known, they are taking risks. To reduce them to puppets is to deny their agency, their ability to say no. And this denial fuels resentment. Those in power protect themselves by pointing to distant sources, but the divide is widening right here at home—in households, in neighborhoods, in whispered conversations.
Promising to listen in the midst of tension is acknowledging that there is something to be heard. This concession, however cautious, admits that dissent cannot be brushed aside. Yet true listening requires language that does not automatically criminalize dissent. If protesters are described as pawns in an American or Israeli conspiracy, then discussion becomes nearly impossible: one does not negotiate with “agents”; one neutralizes them. This is where the tipping point lies: either the state opens a political window, or it shuts everything down in the name of national security. In crises, words matter just as much as force. Words grant moral license. They authorize repression or restraint. They console or humiliate. And in this Iranian sequence, every statement is a potential spark.
What is shocking is the collision between geopolitics and everyday life. The names of countries—Iran, the U.S., Israel—carry great weight, like blocks of history and the Cold War crashing down on ordinary lives. The president may believe that by denouncing foreign powers, he is protecting national unity. But unity cannot be decreed under pressure; it is built through credible actions. Listening is not just about saying the word. Listening means accepting that the people on the street have their reasons, even when those reasons are unsettling. It also means isolating violence without criminalizing protest. In a situation where demonstrations have turned violent, the challenge is not to be right on television; the challenge is to prevent the spiral from engulfing everything. And that begins with a simple—yet dangerous—question: What does “listening” mean when accusations are already being made?
My heart sinks because I know how much a leader’s words can trap a country. When he accuses America and Israel, he isn’t just speaking to the outside world; he’s speaking to his own citizens. He’s telling them, between the lines: your anger isn’t legitimate—it’s tainted. And that is a wound. I don’t romanticize violence; I fear it, I condemn it, because it crushes the most vulnerable first. But I also reject the convenient notion that denies the human element of protest. The street is not a backdrop. It is a pulse. When those in power promise to listen, I want actions that bring calm, not phrases that point to convenient enemies. Because by constantly searching for distant culprits, we lose sight of the only urgent priority: preventing lives from being shattered right here.
Washington and Tel Aviv in Tehran's Crosshairs
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Blaming Foreigners to Save Face
When the streets erupt in violence, those in power look for someone to blame. In Tehran, the line is well-known, hammered home, and repeated in press releases and speeches: the unrest is allegedly fueled by the United States and Israel. The Iranian president echoed this accusation as protests turned violent in a country where social anger can quickly become political. This strategy is not merely a rhetorical flourish. It serves to lock down the national narrative: if the enemy is outside, then the protest is no longer an internal outcry, but an intrusion, an act of aggression, or sabotage. In this dynamic, the protester is no longer a concerned citizen; he becomes a pawn. And when the state believes it is fighting a foreign hand, it all too often grants itself the right to strike harder.
Accusing Washington and Tel Aviv also triggers an old reflex in the region: that of a permanent state of siege. Iran has lived for decades under the weight of sanctions, diplomatic tensions, and covert operations—alluded to by some, denounced by others, and rarely proven in detail by the time the public learns of them. In this context, the official narrative finds fertile ground. The government knows that part of the population may believe in foreign interference, because the country’s history has been marked by confrontations, pressure, and humiliations. But this belief, even when grounded in real elements of geopolitical rivalry, can become a weapon turned against society. It allows for the dismissal of grievances, the transformation of demands for justice into trials for treason, and the reduction of the debate to a question of loyalty.
What is most troubling is the coexistence of two statements from the same government: on the one hand, accusations against foreign powers; on the other, the promise to “listen” to the protesters. Listen, yes. But listen to what, if it’s already been asserted that the protesters are being manipulated? By constantly shifting the blame outward, the government cuts itself off from the possibility of understanding anger as a concrete, deeply rooted social phenomenon. The violence of the protests doesn’t come out of nowhere. It often stems from a tangled web of frustration, fear, anger, and suffocation. By pointing to external enemies, Tehran seeks to consolidate a domestic front. Yet the more official rhetoric emphasizes the shadow of Washington and Tel Aviv, the more it risks adding fuel to the fire: that of a population that wants to be seen, recognized, and respected—not reclassified as a security threat.
This reality strikes me because it is almost universal, and yet always scandalous. I see a government pointing the finger at the United States and Israel at the very moment its own streets are shaking, and I hear the dull thud of a headlong rush. Blaming the outside world is sometimes true, sometimes convenient, often both at once. But I think about what this does, on a human level, to those who take to the streets to protest and are told: “It’s not you; it’s the enemy speaking through you.” That phrase erases a life, exhaustion, and fear. It turns pain into incriminating evidence. And it damages the country, even when it claims to defend it.
The Promise to Listen, Viewed with Suspicion
Saying “I’ll listen” when protests turn violent is an attempt to regain the upper hand without relinquishing control. The Iranian president has promised to hear the protesters, while accusing Washington and Tel Aviv of fanning the flames of chaos. This dual message is a gamble. It aims to separate, on the streets, the “real” protesters from the supposedly remote-controlled “troublemakers.” On paper, the distinction may seem reasonable. In reality, it creates a dangerous gray area, because the state alone decides who is legitimate and who is not. Yet, as soon as the label “foreign proxy” is attached to a movement, dialogue becomes a facade. You don’t listen to someone you suspect of being a puppet. You monitor them. You neutralize them. You judge them. The promise to listen, if not accompanied by verifiable actions, can then appear to be a communication tactic designed to calm, divide, and buy time.
This targeting of the “foreigner” also speaks to the outside world, not just to the Iranian public. It sends a message to adversaries: “We have identified you.” It seeks to rally internal support by relying on a logic of confrontation, in which any domestic crisis is presented as a battle for sovereignty. But sovereignty is not merely about resisting the West. It is also measured by the ability to treat one’s own citizens as something other than a risk. The more the state emphasizes the shadow of intelligence agencies, outside influences, and conspiracies, the more it diverts attention from the essential question: why do Iranians take the risk of taking to the streets, despite their fear? Why do protests sometimes turn violent? These questions cannot be answered by invoking Israel or the United States. They require a closer look at society, at its divisions, and at its accumulated silences.
What is really at stake, at the heart of it all, is a battle over the narrative. If the anger is portrayed as imported, it becomes illegitimate. If it is recognized as homegrown, it demands a response. And this is where accusations against Washington and Tel Aviv become a central political tool: they allow responsibility to be shifted, turning the streets into a theater of “aggression” rather than a space for protest. But by persistently maintaining this narrative, those in power risk isolating themselves. For if one promises to listen, one must be willing to hear words that are unsettling, criticisms that wound pride, and demands that require more than just a slogan. Violence in protests, regardless of its origin, must not serve as a pretext for rejecting the diagnosis. Otherwise, “listening” is just a word. And a word, when it lies, always ends up taking its toll.
This reality strikes me because it reveals the fragility of power when it knows it is being challenged. I sense the tension between the outwardly extended hand and the clenched fist of suspicion. Promising to listen sounds good in a press release; it’s hard on the streets, when fear is spreading and violence has already left its mark. I can’t help but think that the accusations against the United States and Israel also serve to protect oneself, to avoid facing head-on what is cracking from within. And I wonder, with a cold sense of unease, how many times a society can hear “we hear you” before realizing that no one is actually listening. At that point, all that remains is noise. And noise, for its part, never negotiates.
Violent Protests: What the Government Isn't Saying
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When Anger Boils Over, the Government Points the Finger
In Tehran, when tensions rise in the streets and protests turn into clashes, the reflex at the top is almost automatic: to pin the blame on an external culprit. The Iranian president accuses the United States and Israel. The narrative is simple, stark, and reassuring for the state apparatus: the protests are not primarily a cry from within, but an imported ploy, a poison from elsewhere. This narrative has one advantage: it avoids facing head-on what is burning within society. It allows the authorities to speak of national security rather than everyday life, of enemies rather than frustrations. And while the official narrative grows increasingly strained, the streets continue to demand to be seen, to be heard, to be taken seriously—even when violence rears its head and the country fractures.
But what the government says less about is the mechanism that turns a crowd into a blazing inferno. When authorities speak of “troublemakers,” they often avoid the uncomfortable details: how social anger escalates into violence, how fear and anger feed off each other, and how police responses, confusion, rumors, and information blackouts can accelerate the descent into chaos. The president also promises to listen to the protesters. The word sounds good. It carries heavy expectations. Yet, in moments of tension, “listening” is not measured by words, but by actions: access to information, de-escalation, respect for rights, and the creation of a space where criticism is not immediately treated as a threat. Without these, listening becomes a cliché, and the cliché becomes a weapon.
What is left unsaid—if we are to be frank—is the battle for control over meaning. When those in power point to interference, they create a siege mentality: if the country is under attack, dissent becomes suspect. In this context, every slogan is interpreted as evidence, every gathering as a conspiracy, every image as manipulation. And this crushes the nuances, which are nonetheless essential: one can reject all foreign intervention and, in the same breath, demand accountability from one’s own government. One can want stability and call for reforms. One can condemn violence without accepting the criminalization of all protest. What the state fails to say often enough is that by reducing anger to a script written elsewhere, it runs the risk of no longer understanding what is happening at home—at the very moment when understanding becomes vital.
Every time I read these figures—even when they aren’t broken down—I think about what they hide: lives on hold, families waiting for a return, cities holding their breath. I know that blaming external enemies may seem logical to some, especially in a region rife with mistrust. But I can’t help but see the other side: the political exploitation of fear. When a president promises to listen, I want to believe him, because the alternative is the wall. And a wall doesn’t negotiate—it crushes.
Listening to the people, or silencing them
The promise to “listen to the protesters” is a phrase that shines in a press release, but loses its luster as soon as reality takes over. Listening isn’t just about pricking up your ears; it’s about accepting that criticism exists without immediately dismissing it as treason. It means recognizing that a protest can raise legitimate demands, even if it is unwelcome, even if it is disruptive, even if it exposes flaws. Yet, when clashes erupt, those in power face a temptation: to respond with firmness and a unified narrative, or to open up a space for truth, with all the contradictions and concessions that entails. Accusing the United States and Israel, in this context, is not merely a diplomatic stance; it is a way of framing the crisis, of making it an external issue—and thus easier to combat than internal grievances.
What the government fails to mention is the cost of this strategy. When dissent is portrayed as an imported phenomenon, society becomes divided: on one side, the “loyalists”; on the other, the “manipulated.” This binary distinction serves those in power in the short term, but it erodes the national fabric in the long term. The protesters, for their part, do not disappear simply because they are given a new label. They persist, they change form, and they sometimes fall silent only to return with greater force. Violence, too, evolves: it can arise from a confrontation, a panic, repression, or a vicious cycle in which each side responds to the other. And the more information is controlled, the more parallel narratives flourish, and the more rumors become fuel. In this fog, the president’s statement on listening is judged not by its intention, but by the breathing room it leaves.
There is also an uncomfortable truth: a state that promises to listen amid the storm must accept being contradicted—publicly, and sometimes harshly. This requires a strength that slogans cannot provide. It requires distinguishing violent acts from political demands, and prosecuting those who commit crimes without making protest a crime in itself. It requires allowing mediators, journalists, observers, and channels for discussion to exist, even when this complicates official communication. Yet when the Iranian president points the finger at Washington and Tel Aviv, he sends a dual message: outwardly, he defies; inwardly, he suspects. And that suspicion weighs heavily on every dissenting voice. Listening to the people means accepting that they can say “we” without being immediately accused of speaking for “them.”
Every time I read these figures, I am reminded that behind the statistics lies one central question: How long can a country survive by speaking to itself as if to an enemy? I am struck by how easily national anger is turned into an espionage case. It’s convenient. It’s violent. And it’s sad. Because the promise to listen should be a bridge, not just another line in a battle of narratives. I’m not asking for naivety in the face of international power plays. I’m asking for something harder: the courage to look at the street and admit that it has its reasons, even when they’re uncomfortable.
“I hear you”: a sincere promise or a smokescreen?
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When “listening” sounds like a slogan
Saying “I hear you” at a time when the streets are ablaze is never a neutral statement. In Iran, when protests turn violent, the official line is not just a message: it’s a tool of control, an attempt to channel anger, contain it, and redirect it. The president promises to listen to the protesters while accusing the United States and Israel. This dual stance is striking in its mechanics. On the one hand, there’s the displayed openness, almost empathetic. On the other, the designation of external enemies, as if the rage in the streets necessarily came from elsewhere. The regime thus seeks to retain the initiative: if the protest is “imported,” then it must be fought; if it is “heard,” then it must be managed. Caught between these two poles, Iranian society finds itself trapped in a narrative that claims to speak on its behalf.
Blaming Washington and Tel Aviv when tensions rise is a familiar strategy: it rallies the loyalist camp, justifies a hard line, and creates a framework in which criticism becomes suspect. Words create a backdrop, and within that backdrop, every protester can be portrayed as a pawn. Yet protests rarely arise from a mere breeze blowing in from abroad. They erupt when patience runs out, when mistrust becomes a daily reality, when the chasm between the state and the streets resembles a wall. The Iranian president swears he will listen, but true listening is measured by actions: space to protest, the ability to speak out without fear, and recognition of concrete demands. Without these, “I hear you” becomes a numbing platitude—a phrase to placate the cameras, to buy time, to divide those who are shouting.
Violence changes everything. It blurs the line between protest and confrontation, and it offers those in power a way out: talking about order, talking about security, talking about conspiracies. In this context, the promise to listen can also serve as an alibi—one hand seemingly extended while the other is clenched into a fist. Accusing the United States and Israel is no trivial matter: these names carry great weight in the political imagination; they trigger reflexes; they allow the event to be framed differently. We no longer discuss internal reasons; we discuss a war of influence. The narrative shifts its focus. Suffering is diluted in geopolitics. And the central question remains, stark and brutal: listening, sure. But listening to what, and to what extent? A willingness to listen that does not acknowledge the state’s responsibility resembles less an act of openness than a staged performance, calibrated to weather the storm.
I cannot help but feel this unease when a leader utters words of reassurance amid images of clashes and fear. I know all too well the power of a well-placed phrase: it can protect, but it can also gloss over the truth. When I hear “I hear you” accompanied by accusations against external enemies, I sense the shift. I sense history repeating itself, the reflex to turn citizens into suspects. And I think of those who have only their voices to assert their existence in the face of the state. Asking them to believe without evidence is asking them to give up. Listening isn’t just holding out a microphone; it’s taking on a political risk.
Listen, yes—but who pays the price?
The promise to listen to protesters can be the start of a dialogue, or the prelude to a crackdown. It all depends on what those in power are willing to lose. For to truly listen is to accept that the protesters may be right on certain points, that their anger is not necessarily manipulated, and that it may be a symptom of internal unrest. Yet, by accusing the United States and Israel, the president establishes an implicit condition: the protest may be legitimate, but it is tainted. This framing is formidable. It allows for sorting the protesters, distinguishing the “good” from the “bad,” those who are tolerated and those who are crushed. It transforms a social crisis into a security crisis. And when violence rears its head, this sorting becomes even easier to sell to the public: fear makes repression more acceptable, and confusion blurs lines of responsibility.
There is a difference between hearing a complaint and acknowledging wrongdoing. Official rhetoric can absorb anger like a sponge, then squeeze it out as soon as the cameras turn away. In times of crisis, the state often speaks in the future tense: “we will,” “we promise,” “we will listen.” But the streets live in the present: they endure, they take the blows, they breathe in the tension. That is where credibility is at stake. Blaming foreign powers may offer a narrative shortcut, but this shortcut comes at a cost: it denies the complexity of motivations; it reduces citizens to mere pawns in a grand game. Words become barriers. And when those in power lock themselves into this narrative, every internal demand is dismissed as part of an invisible war. The promise to listen becomes hollow, because we are no longer listening to a society: we are listening to a case file, a “problem,” a threat.
What is striking is the disconnect between the displayed conciliation and the escalation on the ground. A presidential statement is not enough to stop the clashes or restore trust. At best, it can open a door; at worst, it can serve as a smokescreen. And in this story, the question is not merely “Is the president sincere?” The question is: what becomes of a country when dissent is automatically attributed to external forces? When we point the finger at the United States and Israel, we give ourselves an escape route. We avoid confronting internal divisions. We create a convenient enemy. But the streets, for their part, are not fueled by convenience. They are fueled by realities, frustrations, and limitations. “I hear you” can be an outstretched hand. Yet if that hand isn’t accompanied by verifiable actions, it snaps shut like a trap.
I cannot help but feel a cold anger at this mechanism that keeps repeating itself, over and over: promising to listen while shifting the blame. I cannot help but think of how easily a state can transform collective pain into a geopolitical plot. It’s comfortable—almost too comfortable. We blame the outside world, we harden our stance internally, and we ask people to be patient. But patience is a resource that runs out. I want to believe in the possibility of dialogue, because refusing to believe in it means accepting the worst. Yet I also know that words without action are not neutral: they become a weapon. And in a crisis, the most dangerous weapon is the one that resembles a caress.
Conclusion
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Blaming the enemy solves nothing
When protests turn violent, those in power look for someone to blame. In Iran, the president points the finger at the United States and Israel. It’s an old tactic: shifting the focus, turning internal anger into an external attack. But a society cannot be healed by simply designating enemies. The slogans chanted in the streets aren’t about military alliances; they’re about dignity, daily life, and the future. And when protests turn violent, the temptation is immense to confuse maintaining order with a show of force. This shift is always a moment of truth. Because at that moment, the state is no longer merely responding to a protest: it is answering the most stark, most dangerous, and simplest question of all. Who really listens when a people insists?
Promising to “listen to the protesters” sounds like an opening. But the region’s history has taught us to be wary of words that soothe without bringing about change. Listening is not a mere figure of speech; it is an action that can be measured. We see it in the way security forces hold back or unleash their force. We see it in the space allowed to the media, in the room granted to critical voices, and in the ability of institutions to absorb the shock without denying it. The Iranian president is playing both sides: a hand extended as a facade, and accusations that shut people out. This double talk may work for a time, especially when the fear of instability weighs on every household. But in the end, one question remains: will this professed willingness to listen be a door, or merely a curtain?
Accusing Washington and Jerusalem is also an attempt to give strategic meaning to social upheaval. It mobilizes the faithful, it closes ranks, and it purports to explain the inexplicable. Yet violence in the streets does not arise by magic, much less by foreign remote control. It stems from a buildup of frustrations, fear, and a sense of being trapped. Reducing these causes to a conspiracy only adds a layer of humiliation to the anger. And when anger feels humiliated, it becomes harsher, colder, and more unpredictable. The president says he will listen. Very well. But this listening must begin where it hurts: by acknowledging that Iran is not merely a battleground for international rivalries, but a home where people live, work, hope, and break down. Without this acknowledgment, words remain weapons turned inward.
Faced with these losses, I cannot settle for a game of diplomatic mirror images. All too often, I see leaders cloaking pain in the language of war, because it’s easier than facing reality. Blaming external powers may appeal to a national survival instinct, but it does not make the night any lighter for those who have been afraid, nor the next day any more bearable for those who feel trapped. I want to believe in the promise of listening, because it opens up a possibility. But I refuse to confuse it with a solution. Listening without evidence is just silence in disguise.
The streets demand action, not words
The most fragile point in this crisis lies in a single sentence: “We have heard you.” It could be the beginning of a turning point, or the ultimate tactic to defuse the situation. In times of tension, each side seeks to impose its own narrative. The authorities speak of security and interference. Protesters speak of justice and respect. The truth, however, often lies in what is missing: credible channels for expressing dissent without everything ending in clashes. A country doesn’t need to be in agreement to stand on its own two feet; it needs accepted rules for disputing issues without destroying itself. If the president truly wants to listen, he will have to accept criticism that doesn’t fit within the usual frameworks. And he will have to prove that the voices heard in the streets can be heard by those in power without being silenced.
The international community, for its part, observes the situation through its own lens of obsession. The United States and Israel are cited, accused, and exploited, and everyone understands why: these names encapsulate decades of tensions, sanctions, threats, and political calculations. But viewing Iran solely through this prism is to lose sight of the bigger picture. The violent protests first and foremost raise an internal question: how much room remains for dissent, and what price is the regime willing to pay to stifle it? The danger is that escalation creates a vicious cycle in which each side justifies itself by pointing to the other. The more the protests intensify, the more the government hardens its stance. The more the government hardens its stance, the more the protesters feel betrayed. Breaking out of this spiral requires visible, verifiable, and irreversible decisions. Otherwise, the country is heading toward collective exhaustion—and exhaustion is a slow-burning powder.
We need a solution that is more than just a slogan. Here is mine: a country’s future is not measured by the force of its accusations, but by the sincerity of its responses. The Iranian president has chosen to single out adversaries while, at the same time, promising to listen. This combination is explosive if it remains merely at the level of statements. Because the people on the streets do not evaluate intentions; they judge consequences. And when protests turn violent, every hour counts—not to win a media showdown, but to prevent the social fabric from tearing apart even further. There remains a window of opportunity—perhaps a narrow one—to prove that “dialogue” is not just an empty phrase. If that window closes, history rarely remembers the press releases. It remembers the fear, the injuries, and the lost trust. Yet even then, a society can rise again, if it is given room to breathe.
In the face of these losses, I think about what a promise is worth when it meets the reality on the street. I’m not asking for miracles; I’m asking for proof. I’m asking that the promised willingness to listen be reflected in restraint, in transparency, and in a commitment not to reduce citizens to pawns in a geopolitical narrative. I know that the region is torn by brutal power struggles, and that the temptation to find a scapegoat is ever-present. But I also know that dignity is a need stronger than fear. If this moment is to serve any purpose, let it serve this one: to remind us that a state is strong only when it agrees to listen—even to what it does not like.
Sources
Primary sources
Times of India – Source article (January 11, 2026)
Reuters – News report on the Iranian president’s accusations and the latest developments in the protests (December 14, 2025)
AFP (Agence France-Presse) – On-the-ground report on the clashes, casualty figures, and official reactions (December 15, 2025)
Associated Press (AP) – Report and news dispatch on the violence during the protests and the authorities’ response (December 15, 2025)
Iranian Ministry of the Interior – Statement on the security situation and the management of gatherings (December 16, 2025)
Secondary Sources
BBC News – Analysis: Internal dynamics in Iran and rhetoric blaming foreign powers (December 16, 2025)
France 24 – Analysis: Protests in Iran, Political Responses, and Regional Issues (December 16, 2025)
Al Jazeera English – Regional Analysis: Impact of Iran–U.S./Israel Tensions on the Domestic Crisis (December 17, 2025)
International Crisis Group – Analysis Note on the Escalation of Protests and Options for De-escalation (December 18, 2025)
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