Sometimes the Saddle on the Back, Sometimes the Back on the Saddle: The Islamic Republic Turns to the Kolbars

Has a government that for years answered kolbars with bullets, fines, arrest and humiliation now turned to those same kolbars to rescue its foreign trade? Is this merely an administrative decision about importing a few raw materials, or a clear sign that the Islamic Republic’s official trading system is wearing out? And, most importantly, when official import routes, ports, banking networks and industrial supply chains stop functioning, why should the burden of the crisis once again fall first on the poorest and most defenceless people living along the borders?

On the face of it, authorising the import of certain petrochemical and polymer raw materials via kolbari and seafarer routes is a technical decision intended to help downstream industries. In reality, however, it is an economic admission: a system that claimed to manage the region, circumvent sanctions, build a resistance economy and wield industrial power has now resorted to routes designed for small-scale trade, the livelihoods of border residents and the limited transport of goods to supply its own industries with raw materials. Reports confirm that the Ministry of Industry, Mine and Trade has authorised the import of certain petrochemical and polymer raw materials through kolbari and seafarer procedures, stating that the aim is to help downstream industries continue operating.

The issue here is not just imports; it is the complete reversal of the government’s relationship with the kolbar. Until yesterday, the official narrative cast the kolbar as part of “smuggling” and “border insecurity”. They were the person walking through mountains, snow, cold, darkness and the danger of landmines, carrying a few dozen kilos on their back to earn their daily bread, at every moment liable to be shot at by border guards. Today, in a moment of crisis, that same government recognises those same routes and that same workforce as one way to make up for shortages of industrial raw materials.

It is the old saying: sometimes the saddle is on the back, sometimes the back is under the saddle. For years, the Islamic Republic put the kolbar under pressure; today, it needs the kolbar itself. This reversal is not merely the bitter irony of politics; it is a sign of the gradual collapse of the official economic order. When a country that should import petrochemical and polymer raw materials through banking, port, insurance, standards, customs and industrial channels turns to kolbari and seafarer routes, its foreign trade has been driven off its natural course.

The significance of this decision becomes even clearer when we know that, beforehand, the Ministry of Industry, Mine and Trade had also instructed customs to suspend exports of petrochemical and downstream-industry products until further notice. The stated aim was to meet domestic needs and prevent shortages of raw materials. This means that the government halts exports on the one hand to keep materials inside the country, while on the other it resorts to unconventional border routes to obtain those very materials. Taken together, these two decisions paint a clear picture of crisis: shortages, disruption to the supply chain, pressure on production and the official system’s inability to meet market demand.

In recent weeks, signs of this shortage had also become apparent in people’s everyday lives. Rising prices for goods such as baby and adult nappies, sanitary towels, freezer bags and other products reliant on polymer materials are not merely a market problem; these are essential consumer goods. When shortages of polymer raw materials reach the consumer market, families, mothers, older people, patients and low-income groups bear the impact directly. The petrochemical crisis ultimately travels from the factory to the dinner table, and from the warehouse into people’s homes.

But the bitterer part of the story lies elsewhere. In recent years, kolbars and fuel carriers have been among the most vulnerable groups along the borders. There are no clear and reliable official statistics on the number killed and injured, but human rights organisations have repeatedly reported large numbers of kolbars killed and wounded. In its 2024 statistical report, Hengaw reported that 57 kolbars had been killed and 282 kolbars and small traders injured, stating that a large proportion of these cases resulted from direct fire by the armed forces of the Islamic Republic. The Hana Human Rights Organisation also reported at least 37 kolbars killed or physically injured in various parts of Kurdistan during the first six months of 1404.

So the central question is this: a government that provided kolbars with no jobs, security, insurance, safe routes or human dignity—how can it now expect those same kolbars to shoulder some of the country’s industrial shortages? Here we are faced with a structural contradiction. The Islamic Republic treats the kolbar not as a citizen but as an emergency tool: when they disrupt its security narrative, they are repressed; when official trade routes are closed, they are put to work.

This decision also shows that, instead of building sound, transparent and sustainable networks, the Islamic Republic’s economy has always relied on grey, rent-generating and unofficial routes. During the years when many import terminals, jetties, anchorages, organised smuggling routes and lucrative trade were controlled by powerful networks close to particular institutions, the kolbar was merely a person bent under the weight of a small load, carrying it across the mountains. The big profits went to official and semi-official networks; the risk of death, frostbite, landmines and bullets fell to the kolbar.

Today, that same rentier system, under pressure from sanctions, war, port disruption and a naval blockade, has returned to the border and its residents. International reports have also described mounting US naval pressure on Iranian-linked ports and vessels, including inspections and the rerouting of ships. Reuters reported the inspection of an Iranian oil tanker in the Gulf of Oman on suspicion of violating the blockade, while Al Jazeera has reported a halt to, or serious disruption of, Iran’s maritime trade as a result of the blockade of its ports. In such circumstances, the government’s turn to kolbari and seafarer routes is no longer an ordinary customs decision; it is a sign that the burden of the crisis is being shifted from the power structure onto the shoulders of deprived people.

The important point is that kolbari is not an industrial solution. Petrochemical and polymer raw materials are not simple household goods that can be brought into a production chain reliably and sustainably in a few small, scattered consignments. Such goods require quality control, significant volumes, precise record-keeping, specialised transport, insurance, standards, clear provenance and a traceable supply chain. When goods of this kind are entrusted to kolbari and seafarer routes, it means the government has failed to match industrial needs to the actual capacity of its import routes. This looks more like an emergency patch over a huge tear in the economy than a sustainable trade policy.

On the other hand, this decision could also create the conditions for fresh rent-seeking. Whenever the Islamic Republic opens an “exceptional” route, networks close to power are usually the first to take it over. The danger is that the decree may mention the kolbar and the seafarer, while the real profits end up in the hands of intermediaries, front companies, affiliated cooperatives and rent-seeking networks; in the end, the kolbar remains merely the worker exposed to danger, the bearer of the load and the human shield.

The story must therefore be viewed on three levels. The first is the crisis in the supply of raw materials to downstream petrochemical and polymer industries. The second is the Islamic Republic’s foreign-trade deadlock and the disruption of official import and export routes. But the third, and most important, is the structural cruelty of a government that represses the deprived border communities in ordinary times and, in times of crisis, sends those same people into the fray as a means of salvation.

This decision is less a sign of good judgement than of desperation. A government that claims regional power, yet turns to kolbars and sailors to supply its own industry with raw materials, is in effect admitting that behind the shop window of grand slogans, its official economic network has become worn out, closed and inefficient. For years, the Islamic Republic placed the burden of poverty on the shoulders of the kolbars; today, it wants to place the burden of its economic failure on those same shoulders.

The conclusion is clear: the kolbar is not the problem with Iran’s economy; the kolbar is evidence of the failure of the Islamic Republic’s rent-seeking, securitised and anti-production economy. A government that turned the border into a field of gunfire and trade into a field of rent-seeking is now looking for salvation at that same border. But no country becomes industrialised on the bent backs of kolbars. A country becomes industrialised when it does not shoot at its citizens, does not hand trade over to rent-seeking, does not hold production hostage to foreign policy, and does not make human dignity cross mountain paths under a heavy load.