A Coup by the People or a Leadership Vacuum? When All That Remains at the Top Is a Statement S. Rouzbeh ۱۴۰۵/۰۱/۰۲ A critique of the language used in the message attributed to Mojtaba Khamenei, asking whether unarmed protesters can be called coup plotters and what the absence of a visible leader says about the Islamic Republic’s authority and legitimacy. S. Rouzbeh Can a leader who withdraws from public view at the most critical moments still be a symbol of authority? And can people who have come out into the streets empty-handed be called coup plotters? And does the Islamic Republic even have a leader, or are statements and condolence messages merely being issued in his name? After the Nowruz message attributed to Mojtaba Khamenei, I personally find myself thinking about a comparison—a comparison that might seem simple from a propaganda perspective, but is highly revealing politically. In Ukraine, amid war and despite direct threats, Volodymyr Zelenskyy continues to appear at official meetings, press conferences, in video messages and in public. Even during these days in March 2026, the official website of the Ukrainian presidency is full of his speeches, meetings and public positions. This is not merely a show; it is part of psychological and political leadership in wartime. He even extended New Year greetings to the people of Iran in a televised message. By contrast, what is most visible in Iran today is not a living, clearly present figure at the top of the pyramid, but official texts, messages for special occasions, condolences and rhetoric that increasingly resembles the language of a command centre, the Revolutionary Guards and propaganda. The message marking the beginning of 1405, published both on the official website and in a repost by Jamaran, uses precisely this language: “Iran’s front line is far larger than the enemy’s petty mindset”; “three wars”; “the Dey coup”; “national unity”; “national security”; and an emphasis on the people’s role in thwarting conspiracies. This is no longer simply the tone of a Nowruz message; it has the smell of a security communiqué. First, we need to clarify a basic concept. In the classical political definition, a coup is the sudden seizure of power by a small group, usually relying on part of the army, the police or other instruments of state coercion. A coup is defined as the sudden and violent overthrow of a government by a small group, and its essential condition is control of all or part of the armed forces and the police. The difference from a revolution is clear, too: a revolution takes shape through broad social mobilisation from below, whereas a coup comes from above, from within the machinery of power. Now set this definition beside the official claim in the 1405 message, which speaks of the “Dey coup”. Here we see the first major crack in the text’s logic. People who come into the streets unarmed, without seizing barracks, without military command, without armour and without access to the instruments of state coercion may be many things, but they are not coup plotters. They may be protesters, rioters, angry, disobedient or seeking to overthrow the government, but in political terms they are not “coup-makers”. To attribute a coup to unarmed people is either a sign of blatant ignorance of the most elementary concepts of political science, or a deliberate distortion of language designed to make repression appear legitimate. This distortion of language is not insignificant. When a government calls protest a “coup”, it is doing three things in practice. First, it moves the street from the realm of politics into the realm of war. Second, it turns the dissenter from a dissatisfied citizen into a security threat. Third, it presents killing and repression not as crimes, or at least as state violence, but as “legitimate defence”. Here, words are not just words; they are uniforms. They are iron armour draped over lies and delusion. It is from this perspective that the 1405 message must be read, line by line. As was also evident in the detailed analysis of it, the text opens with prayers and the coincidence of Eid al-Fitr and Nowruz, creating a dual frame: religion plus nationality. Such patchwork tends to intensify when both sources of legitimacy—that is, religious legitimacy and national legitimacy—have begun to crack. Then come greetings to “every single member of the Iranian nation” and “all the Muslims of the world”, using words to cover the divide between nation and ummah. After that, those killed are represented not as victims of policy but as symbolic capital for the regime. Finally, all crises are resolved into a single formula: enemy, war, conspiracy, people, resistance. This is the language the government has always used. One of the most pivotal parts of the message is its account of the “three wars”. Here we encounter a classic propaganda tactic: every blow, every crisis, every intelligence failure, every social grievance and every internal tremor is rewritten as “war”, rather than being seen as a sign of structural erosion. This framing turns defeat into steadfastness, cost into honour and weakness into victimhood. By this means, the government keeps society in a state of permanent siege—a state in which repression, political closure and silence are easier to justify. But the main contradiction emerges where the text speaks at once of an enemy who thought the system would collapse within days, and of a people who thwarted that collapse. This is precisely where the text unwittingly admits how fragile the structure is. For if the very idea of a rapid collapse is being entertained by external actors and even appears in the official text, that means the top of the pyramid itself knows that structural fragility is no fantasy of its critics. On the other hand, when survival is credited to the people, it means the system itself has not been sufficient to endure. The text wants to save the government, but without realising it, shifts the pillar of its survival from “the state” to “society”. The central sentence of this message is the one that perhaps most deserves close scrutiny: “Iran’s front line is far larger than the enemy’s petty mindset.” Propagandistically, this sentence is meant to boost morale, but analytically, it is a major admission. Why? Because it does not limit the front line to missiles, borders, barracks and drones; it also places the street, the bazaar, the media, public opinion, neighbourhoods and people’s morale within it. Put simply, the message itself admits that the main arena is no longer solely military; it is social. This is the point that shows where the government has been wounded most and what it fears most: a society that may move beyond the official narrative. Another part that should not be passed over lightly is the story about “hearing the people’s voices” and the account of an anonymous taxi ride. As a piece of writing, this passage may be trying to create intimacy, but analytically it is part of the crisis of narrative. The leader of a highly security-conscious system, with that level of protection and distance from ordinary life, suddenly appears as an anonymous listener in a taxi. This image seems neither real nor convincing. It is laughable, too. This is not just an anecdote; it is a substitute for real institutions. When there are no free elections, no free media, no independent organisations, no credible polling and no genuine right to protest—and never have been—then, inevitably, he, whose fate is itself shrouded in uncertainty and who has not yet laid his father to rest, has to get into a taxi to hear people’s views!? The writer foolishly made “the taxi” a substitute for society. Far from proving populism, this passage exposes how impoverished the system is when it comes to listening to the people. On the other hand, reports from human rights organisations about the winter 2025 and January 2026 protests present a completely different picture. On 8 January 2026, Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch reported deadly repression, the unlawful use of force and firearms, and mass arrests. On 14 January, Amnesty International wrote of “unlawful killings on an unprecedented scale”; on 26 January, it stressed that the protests had been largely peaceful and that the January 2026 crackdown was the deadliest period of repression in the organisation’s investigations in recent decades. Therefore, when the government speaks of a “coup” in this context, it is in effect turning the scene upside down: blood lies on the ground, but they call it a conspiracy. Now we must turn to the more sensitive question: what does the uncertainty surrounding the leadership itself mean? Here, we must be honest and precise. No reliable source I have found so far proves what condition he is in—whether he is unconscious, physically unable to govern, or anything else. These remain, for now, speculation rather than established facts. But the very emergence of such speculation is itself a sign of crisis. In an established and confident system, the person at the top should not be so shrouded in mystery that all kinds of theories take hold. When, instead of a live and decisive presence, we encounter mostly ceremonial statements, a succession of condolences and the language of the command centre, the question inevitably arises: is the leader still at the centre of decision-making, or is his name simply placed above a text written by others? This is where Zelensky’s example matters for a second time—not only as an example of public presence, but as a measure of ‘visible authority’. In wartime, a public presence is not merely a performative gesture. The leader in the frame is part of the command. He does not just issue orders; psychologically, he signals to the system and society that the centre is still alive and present. According to the official website of the Ukrainian presidency, Zelensky continues to appear at joint press conferences, diplomatic meetings and in regular messages. The meaning of this presence is clear: I am here; the command centre has not gone into hiding. Anyone may or may not admire this model, but its political significance cannot be denied. By contrast, the more faint the Iranian leader’s presence becomes and the more institutional the official language grows, the more the image of authority resembles a wind-up toy: whenever needed, a text appears and a slogan is repeated, but the presence of the person himself remains uncertain—even after that heavy bombing of the Leader’s compound. Many leaders receive special protection when the threat level is high. But the problem begins when protection turns into prolonged absence, communication gaps and the complete replacement of presence by text. At that point, it is no longer merely caution; it is a sign of political weakness, especially in personality-centred systems and in the dictatorship of the Supreme Jurist, where all the system’s institutions are in the hands of the Leader. The Leader’s absence is therefore itself a message. Silence is not an empty space; it is a loudspeaker. Another important point is the removal or sidelining of prominent security and military figures. The more the hard core of power, at both the top and within its ranks, is eroded, eliminated or abruptly reshuffled, the drier, more militarised and more agitated the official language usually becomes. Institutions must use words to make up for the shortage of faces. The fewer commanders seen in the field, the more statements are issued. The less internal trust there is, the louder the talk of ‘national unity’, ‘national security’, ‘the front line’ and ‘the people, always on the scene’. This is where the text tries to take the place of presence. But however grandiloquent it may be, a text cannot replace the breath of a visible leader. From here, we come to prediction. If this course continues, several trends are more likely than others. First, official language will become even more militarised and security-focused, while ordinary politics, clear explanations and genuine dialogue will have less room. Second, more than ever, every protest will be branded as a ‘coup’, ‘rioting’, ‘hybrid warfare’ or an ‘enemy operation’. Third, as the distance between government and society grows, propaganda displays featuring people, neighbourhoods and families will become more prominent. Fourth, if uncertainty at the top persists, the question of succession, the real command centre and the actual distribution of power will increasingly become a live issue. These are not news reports; they are the logic of attrition in personality-centred systems. In the end, the issue is not merely that the word ‘coup’ has been used incorrectly. The point is that in texts of this kind, official language does two things at once: it conceals reality and inadvertently gives it away. When the Leader is either in the shadows or appears only in the form of a text, while unarmed people are simultaneously called coup plotters, what emerges from between the words is not authority but anxiety—anxiety about society, about the truth, and about the simple fact that people can be repressed, but they cannot be turned into something else for ever by substituting one word for another. And this is where the final sentence must be written without mincing words: A leader who calls unarmed protest a coup has either forgotten the meaning of politics or is deliberately twisting the truth. In either case, we are not dealing with a guide; we are dealing with a name placed above a text to conceal the trembling of power. But history is usually less deafened by statements and more attentive to the streets. And the people in the streets will soon achieve final victory across the country, rallying around Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi. Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/archive-662549c9-ecf9-f8f5-192d-52bf144a1d64 Please credit the author and link to this edition.