From Drones to “Dāsh-Mashti”

If they are for war, why are they in the streets?

And if they are not meant to be decisive on the battlefield, what is this two-hundred-night spectacle supposed to prove?

Images of the “Iran’s Self-Sacrificers Exercise” in Tehran raise more questions than they answer or convey a message. On one side of the picture are drones, meant to symbolise modern warfare—a war in which much of the fighting is conducted with missiles, drones, air defences, intelligence, communications and electronic warfare. A few metres away, however, the scene changes: teenagers, women, clerics, elderly people, uniformed forces, men in entirely civilian clothing, and even those whom the media have called “dāsh-mashti”.

In some images, people are carrying weapons and wearing military uniform, yet basic signs of military discipline are hard to discern among some of the crowd: from how they carry their weapons and maintain distance to the coordination of their movements, the state of their boots, their equipment and even the open pockets on their clothes. These details alone cannot prove how much training each person has received, but they do raise a serious question: how much systematic training was given to these people, and for what reason, before they were dressed in military uniform and handed weapons?

Of course, not everyone attending the ceremony was of the same kind. The organisers themselves distinguished between organised battalions and different sections of the public. Tasnim News Agency, affiliated with the Revolutionary Guards, called the 27 September event the “Great Iran’s Self-Sacrificers Exercise” and spoke of the presence of Basij combat battalions, the Self-Sacrificers campaign and other sections of society. Iranian drones were also displayed at the event.

This very heterogeneous mix may hold the key to understanding what is going on.

Perhaps not all these people are meant to be professional soldiers.

A man in military uniform whose movements do not resemble those of a trained serviceman may matter to the political spectacle precisely because he is a civilian. When teenagers, women, clerics, old men and “dāsh-mashti” stand beside uniformed forces, they create an image unlike that of a professional unit on parade. The possible message is not merely that “the armed forces are ready”; the image may say, “society is ready”.

To understand this spectacle, we need to step back from the day of the event. The nightly gatherings reached their two-hundredth night on 25 September. State media themselves have spoken of the “street as a battleground” and stressed the continuation of the presence. Over these months, the vocabulary has also changed: gathering, the “Self-Sacrificers” campaign, registration, battalion, exercise, and finally talk of “national resistance”. And this is where the street becomes important.

It is interesting that one of Tasnim’s own analyses of these two hundred nights was entitled “When the Street Becomes a Media Outlet”. The same article presented street presence not only as a declaration of support for the government, but also as a means of preventing opponents of the government from putting the public space at risk.

This phrase should not be taken lightly: the street as a media outlet. A drone does not need to be seen every night in the city square to be effective. Nor do missiles, radar or electronic warfare systems. But power that is to be displayed to society needs an audience. Here, the street is both stage and message.

Academic research on “the mobilisation of pro-government supporters” likewise shows that this function is not unique to Iran. A study in Comparative Political Studies, examining authoritarian governments, found that street mobilisation by supporters can increase in times of political threat, both to display the government’s power and to raise the cost of mobilising opposition. A separate study of Iran between 2015 and 2019 also found that the government’s organisational infrastructure—from religious centres and universities to the state bureaucracy—plays a role in mobilising pro-government forces.

By contrast, numerous accounts have also appeared on social media alleging that people were paid to attend some gatherings, carry flags or take part in street events. In some of these accounts, people have said that their phone number or bank account number was taken and that they later received a payment. Numerous examples of such accounts are available.

Even so, the cost of organising such a sustained presence is another matter. Two hundred nights in the streets, organising crowds, publicity, transport, equipment and, ultimately, holding a “313,000-strong exercise” cannot be achieved without an organisational network and resources. Even if there is disagreement about the actual number of participants, the fact of large-scale organisation cannot be denied.

This phenomenon also has historical precedents, although any comparison must be made with caution.

In Nazi Germany, the Hitler Youth and its affiliated organisations, and in Fascist Italy, youth organisations and paramilitary groups, were not established solely for combat training. Uniforms, parades, flags, gatherings and young people’s presence in public spaces were all part of the spectacle of an organised and loyal society. Comparing the Islamic Republic with those governments does not mean equating them; their historical circumstances, ideologies and political structures are different. What can be compared is an old political technique: turning a crowd into an image of power.

In Iran today, another element has been added to this picture. In the official coverage of the event, the presence of Yemenis was shown alongside that of women and teenagers. The combination of these groups, weapons, military uniforms, drones and words such as “self-sacrificer”, “battalion” and “resistance” deliberately—or in practice—blurs the boundary between civilian society and military spectacle.

This process can be described as a kind of “symbolic militarisation of society”—not necessarily in the sense that hundreds of thousands of people have become professional soldiers, but in the sense that military language and imagery have left the barracks and entered the streets.

But why should this presence continue for two hundred nights?

One possibility is what the government openly says: to demonstrate cohesion, resistance and deterrence in the face of a foreign enemy. But another possibility also needs to be considered: the domestic function of this presence.

At the same time as facing war and external pressure, Iran is also grappling with economic problems, inflation and social discontent. In such circumstances, a street filled every night with aligned and organised forces is not merely a place to display support. If protests break out, that same street may be a space that has not been left empty in advance.

This hypothesis can also be examined in light of findings from comparative research into the mobilisation of supporters of governments. Those studies show that rallies by supporters in authoritarian regimes can, as well as displaying support, raise the cost of opponents taking to the streets.

From this perspective, the untidy appearance of some individuals may no longer be the most important issue. Perhaps this crowd is not meant to fight a modern army at all. To be present in a neighbourhood, guard facilities, display a crowd, create a psychological atmosphere or stand opposite a protest gathering, the same criteria required of a professional combat unit are not necessary.

Among them, the presence of a group whom even state media referred to as “Dāsh-Mashti self-sacrificers for Iran” may be one of the most revealing aspects of this spectacle. “Dāsh-Mashti” here is not merely a description of the appearance of a few people: the moustaches, caps, black clothes and look that evokes the louts of old Tehran bring a familiar image of popular culture onto the stage. In its accounts of the Iran–Iraq war, the government has previously spoken of “louts” and “Dāsh-Mashtis” who went to the front when war broke out. So one might ask whether the same pattern is being recreated here: the man from the neighbourhood who, when danger threatens, puts on combat clothes and goes into the field? The choice to highlight this very label in state media suggests that, at least for them, the image carries symbolic meaning.

Reactions on social media, however, showed that symbols do not always convey the meaning their sender intends. Critics made fun of this appearance and treated it as a sign that the exercise was staged, using terms such as “velvet-hat” and “thug”; state-aligned media objected to such descriptions. The interesting contradiction lies precisely here: the label “Dāsh-Mashti” is first highlighted by state media in a positive, populist sense, but when that same image acquires a different meaning online, it becomes a point of contention. Of course, reactions on social media cannot tell us what Iranian society as a whole thinks; what we can see is a struggle over the meaning of this image.

Perhaps that is why the title “From Drones to Dāsh-Mashti” is more than just wordplay. At one end of the scene is the drone, a symbol of technology and twenty-first-century warfare. A few steps away, we see a recreated image of one of the oldest archetypes in Iranian street culture. The technology of the future alongside a symbol of the past. If the aim is to create an image of “all walks of life” taking part, these two seemingly opposing ends complement one another: from the sky to the neighbourhood, from drones to “Dāsh-Mashti”, everyone is in the field. But this is exactly where the article’s central question resurfaces: is this field a battlefield against a foreign enemy, or an internal street?

This is where the image of the drone and the “Dāsh-Mashti” no longer seems so contradictory.

One displays the power of modern warfare; the other, the power to mobilise people in the street.

Perhaps, to understand the “self-sacrificers”, we should not ask only what these people would do in the face of missiles, drones and electronic warfare. After two hundred nights of street presence, and a progression from gatherings to battalions and exercises, another question matters more:

If the street becomes a place of protest tomorrow, where will these battalions be?

S. Rouzbeh