How Daily Life Is Evolving for Women in Iran
By Elias Ali
Three years after the death of Mahsa Amini ignited the most sustained challenge to Iran’s clerical authority in decades, women across the country are once again testing the limits of state power—this time with bare heads, open defiance, and a quiet confidence that the regime may no longer dare to respond as brutally as before.
On the streets of Tehran, young women now walk unveiled in broad daylight, many recording their journeys on smartphones and uploading the footage online. What was once an act of rare courage has become increasingly routine, a visible marker of how profoundly public attitudes have shifted since 2022, when Amini, a 22-year-old Kurdish woman, died in custody after being detained by Iran’s so-called morality police for allegedly violating dress code regulations.
Her death triggered nationwide protests that were met with lethal force. Hundreds were killed, thousands injured, and many more detained. Yet despite that crackdown—and despite the introduction of harsher legislation—the culture of fear that once enforced compulsory veiling appears to be eroding.
In 2024, Iranian authorities enacted the “hijab and chastity” law, one of the most punitive dress code frameworks in the country’s history. Under its provisions, women accused of “promoting nudity, indecency, unveiling or improper dressing” can face heavy fines, public flogging, and prison terms of up to 15 years for repeat offences. The state has also encouraged citizens to police one another, launching a reporting platform that allows members of the public to flag alleged violations.
In December, Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei reaffirmed the hijab as a moral imperative, describing it as essential to preserving women’s dignity and restraining what he called dangerous sexual impulses. His remarks signalled a renewed enforcement drive, swiftly followed by arrests, including those of organisers of a women-inclusive marathon on Kish Island, who were accused of violating public decency.
Yet interviews with women inside Iran suggest the government’s resolve may be blunter than its rhetoric.
“We never needed permission before, and we don’t need it now,” said Hoda, a Tehran-based journalist. “What you’re seeing is not reform from above—it’s indifference to authority from below.”
Hoda argues that the hijab has become a convenient distraction for an administration grappling with far deeper crises: chronic water shortages, labour unrest, economic sanctions, and the political fallout from regional conflict. “They know mass arrests would backfire,” she said. “Last time, it made them look weak in front of the world.”
That calculation appears central to the current standoff. While arrests continue, they are sporadic rather than sweeping—suggesting a state wary of provoking the kind of viral outrage that once fuelled nationwide demonstrations.
Golnar, a visual artist in Tehran, described a recent encounter in which police attempted to reprimand teenagers for playing music in public. The warning was ignored—and nothing followed. “The fear is still there,” she admitted. “You always wonder if you’ll be dragged into a van. But the idea now is collective pressure. If we all push at once, they can’t isolate us.”
For younger women, defiance has become entwined with identity. Shaghayegh, 22, belongs to an all-women motorcycle group—an activity that itself defies Iranian law, which bars women from obtaining motorcycle licences. The group rides weekly through Tehran, often unchallenged.
“They’ve become noticeably more relaxed,” she said. Off the bike, she no longer wears a headscarf. “If I put it back on now, it feels like erasing everything people sacrificed. There is no going back.”
While social media tends to amplify scenes from the capital, similar shifts are unfolding elsewhere. In Shiraz, a business owner described an atmosphere she had never witnessed before. “The city feels alive,” said Leyla. “Every woman choosing how she dresses makes the next woman braver. These images aren’t proof of reform—they’re proof of courage.”
In Iran’s Kurdish regions, however, the situation remains more complex. Zerin, a university student in Kurdistan province, said morality police patrols are less visible, but repression persists through other channels. “Here, hijab is not the only excuse,” she said. “Our identity is criminalised.”
Human rights groups say the government’s enforcement dilemma is real. Skylar Thompson, deputy director of Human Rights Activists in Iran, noted that the authorities lack both the manpower and the political capital to impose compliance nationwide. “The political, economic, and security environment is extremely fragile,” he said. “Even limited confrontations could ignite broader unrest.”
For now, Iranian women appear keenly aware of that fragility—and determined to press their advantage. The unveiling movement is no longer merely symbolic; it has become a barometer of state authority itself.