When the internet is deliberately cut, silence becomes a tool of power.
In recent months, Iran has been gripped by widespread protests. What began as expressions of frustration over economic hardship and political repression has grown into a broader movement demanding dignity, accountability, and meaningful change. But, amid the unrest, another strategy has been consistently employed: the enforced shutdown of communication.
Internet blackouts and disruptions to mobile and landline services are not mere technical glitches.
They prevent families from calling one another, block journalists from reporting reliably and leave entire communities isolated at moments of fear and uncertainty.
These enforced silences are not incidental — they are deliberate acts designed to suppress visibility and obscure truth.
For me, this crisis is not an abstract political issue. Since Thursday, January 8, I have been unable to reach my parents in Iran. Every unanswered call and every message that fails to deliver carries the same heavy question: Are they safe?
Like many Iranians separated from loved ones by distance and disconnection, I have been left in a state of constant anxiety, unable to confirm the wellbeing of those closest to me. Human rights organisations, including Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and Iran Human Rights, have documented extensive use of lethal force against civilians during protest crackdowns.
Their reports cite hundreds of deaths and warn that the true numbers are likely higher due to restricted access and ongoing communication barriers. When channels of communication are cut, holding those responsible becomes immeasurably harder.
Behind every statistic is a human story.
One such story is that of Rubina Aminian, a young Iranian woman whose death has been reported in multiple human rights accounts.
Rubina was 23 years old and a student whose aspirations were as vibrant as her life.
Due to ongoing communication blackouts inside Iran, reputable sources have differed on her exact place of study — with some referring to Shariati College and others to Shahid Beheshti University.
This discrepancy is not trivial; it illustrates how restricted access to information can obscure even the most basic facts about the lives affected by these events.
According to human rights reports, Rubina was shot and killed on January 8, 2026, after leaving her educational institution to join protests.
Her family later identified her body among others who had also been killed. She was not a public figure, nor a political leader. She was a student with dreams — and her death exemplifies the profound cost borne by ordinary civilians when communication, accountability and transparency are replaced by enforced silence.
Footage recorded and circulated before the recent internet shutdowns from protests across multiple cities shows demonstrators chanting slogans such as "Long live the Shah!", "Iran is ready, give the command, Prince", and "This is the final battle, Pahlavi will return."
The consistency and wide geographical spread of these chants suggest that support for Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi represents a significant and visible current within the protest movement. For many demonstrators his name has taken on symbolic meaning — representing continuity, unity and hope for political transition — even as diverse perspectives continue to coexist across Iranian society.
This widespread expression of political aspiration, however, exists in direct tension with the enforced inability to communicate. Families are separated. Witnesses are silenced. The truth is blurred. When communication is cut, it is not only voices that disappear — accountability itself fades.
What is unfolding in Iran is not simply a political crisis confined to one region of the world. It is a reminder of how fragile freedom, openness and human dignity become when communication — the lifeline of transparency — is severed.
Silence, when imposed, becomes a weapon.
Attention, when sustained, becomes responsibility.
• Reza is a PhD candidate at the University of Otago
