How ‘National Cooperation’ and the Lion and Sun Flag in the Metro Exposed a Rift in the Armed Forces

S. Rouzbeh — Uniform or conscience? At a moment of crisis, Iran’s military and police forces face a choice; missiles, drones, guns and batons do not make decisions. It is the personnel who choose whether to stand with the people or behind the regime.

In every authoritarian system, rulers like to define their power by military parades, missile stockpiles and the number of drones and weapons they possess. But in a real moment of crisis, it is not iron, missile fuel or weapons that determine the outcome. It is the human choice of the person standing behind the trigger, equipped with tear gas and a baton and so on: the very soldier, officer, non-commissioned officer or agent facing the people, who must decide whether or not to fire or strike.

A few days ago, at one of Tehran’s metro stations, this truth emerged from a place the Islamic Republic considers the safest spot in the city: two people in army uniforms, holding the Lion and Sun flag, broke the silence of the metro. In a video that was widely shared, when one passenger asks hesitantly, “Is this a hidden camera?”, the reply comes: “No, sir, this is the struggle against the criminal regime of the Guardianship of the Islamic Jurist.”

The two were arrested very soon afterwards, but the central question goes beyond their individual fate: when the “moment of crisis” arrives in Iran, what will determine the outcome? A stockpile of missiles and drones, or the decision of the very military and police personnel who must carry out an order to fire—or refrain from doing so? This is the familiar dichotomy: uniform or conscience.

The Lion and Sun flag in the metro: a rift within the uniform

Their protest was not merely a “news shock”; it is a sign of a rift that has been forming beneath the surface of the armed forces for years. Regardless of whether they really served in the army or were using its uniforms—when they could no longer deny it, they said they had psychological problems—this was a choice. Two clear messages were sent out:

1) An army uniform can carry a flag that symbolises the nation and its history, rather than the Islamic Republic.

2) A slogan against the “criminal regime” can come from someone whose appearance represents that regime’s “order and security”.

For a regime that has built its survival on a “monopoly on violence”, this image alone is enough to show it where the real danger lies: where the uniform no longer automatically means loyalty to the system and can instead stand with the people. In a moment of crisis, it is not the number of missiles but the choices of the people who control the buttons and triggers that will determine the outcome.

From purges to ideological-political supervision: an ideological army and an anxious rank and file

After the 1979 Revolution, the Islamic Republic targeted the Imperial Army as the backbone of the previous system. The execution of commanders, compulsory retirement and widespread purges of officers and non-commissioned officers sent a clear message: the slightest connection with the past could cost you your life and your career.

To bring the rank and file to heel, two pillars were placed over the army, and later the police: ideological-political supervision, presented as “promoting religious and political awareness”, which in practice monitors beards, appearance, family, prayer, participation in various supplications, attendance at classes on the Guardianship of the Islamic Jurist and presence at official ceremonies. It gives ideological assessments a weight equal to, or even greater than, professional expertise.

The other pillar is Intelligence Protection, which, under the slogan of “countering infiltration”, keeps watch over personnel’s daily lives—from a Telegram channel or a political joke to a videotape or contact with foreign media. Summonses, interrogations, recommendations to accept buyouts and punitive transfers are its usual tools.

The natural result is not a “committed army”, but an anxious army and anxious police personnel: a rank and file constantly afraid for themselves and of their colleagues, keeping an eye on their ideological dossiers instead of focusing on their military profession. An army that is afraid of itself will sooner or later hesitate and become divided when facing the people, too. And it does not know what future awaits it and its family on such a low income.

The Naghdi period: the rise of Intelligence Protection and the removal of “pro-people” personnel

The tenure of Brigadier General Mohammad Reza Naghdi as head of the NAJA Intelligence Protection Organisation (1992–2000) was a turning point in the securitisation of the police. There are no clear official figures for the number of officers and commanders who were dismissed, expelled or forcibly transferred during this period, but testimony from personnel of the time and public records indicate that, under him, the NAJA Intelligence Protection Organisation intervened in political and economic cases to an unprecedented extent, beyond its ordinary duties, and its power surged.

The emblematic example of this trend was the role of the NAJA Intelligence Protection Organisation in the case of Gholamhossein Karbaschi, then Mayor of Tehran, in 1998. There, the organisation assumed the role of a judicial law-enforcement body and pursued the arrest and interrogation of the mayor and municipal officials—a task normally handled by the Ministry of Intelligence or the Criminal Investigation Police. This intervention provoked protests from some members of the Khatami government and political forces, and led to Naghdi himself being tried in a military court. The verdict was overturned on appeal, and he effectively emerged from the affair without any serious consequences.

Within NAJA, these years are remembered as a period of harsh measures and widespread purges. Alongside pursuing administrative corruption, Intelligence Protection used ideological and political accusations to remove, buy out or exile officers and non-commissioned officers who were “too pro-people”—those with neither patronage nor political backing. The slightest label was enough to push someone from the frontline to the margins. In the memory of NAJA’s old guard, this period is recorded as the time when “Intelligence Protection rose to power” and personnel who did not conform were purged—a pattern that continued later, using different tools and names.

The IRGC-isation of the police command: a force for controlling its ranks, not public service

The security establishment values the police not merely in their role as “the police”, but as a machine for domestic repression. This outlook is plain in the composition of the police command. After the police force was established, its first commander, Brigadier General Sohrabi, had a gendarmerie background; after that, however, almost all police commanders were selected from among IRGC commanders.

Alongside the chief commander, senior and middle-ranking positions were also filled by officers who had risen through the IRGC and security institutions. Many had no practical experience of working in police stations or handling criminal cases, but viewed the police ranks through a “security and intelligence” lens. The mission of this command was not to develop the police as servants of the public; it was to control disaffected personnel and prevent any sympathy between the force and society.

This IRGC-led command, relying on ideological-political offices, intelligence protection and military prosecutors, used tools such as fabricated cases, disciplinary pressure, denial of promotion and transfers to “Grade 3” (remote, harsh-climate and deprived) areas to punish “people-oriented” officers and ranks—the ones unwilling to use violence against the people under any circumstances or to demonstrate unquestioning loyalty in their private lives. A similar process, in a different form and to a different degree, was pursued in the army too: appointing like-minded commanders, strengthening ideological and protective circles, and using transfers to deprived units as a means of pressure. The upper and lower ranks of the armed forces were placed under parallel political and security control, from the commander appointed from the IRGC to the conscript standing guard.

Special units and the crisis colour code: when “red” means fear of the people

The attack on the university dormitories in July 1999 showed the authorities that, on the one hand, the police and the Basij were capable of violent repression, while on the other, not all police and army personnel were ready to shoot at and confront the people in every circumstance—and that instances of disobedience had been seen. Against this backdrop, and later under the command of Ghalibaf, investment in special anti-riot units surged. The Special Units became a nationwide strike force: wherever the government has doubts about the police or army ranks, the Special Units and Basij and IRGC forces enter the streets in similar uniforms and equipment, deliberately blurring the line between the “official police” and the “ideological force”.

In conversations among the ranks of the armed forces, it has often been said that internal crises are divided, in undisclosed directives, into levels such as “grey”, “yellow” and “red”. The more severe the crisis colour, the more command shifts from the police and ordinary structures to the IRGC and headquarters under the Leader’s supervision. At the higher levels, the IRGC takes command of repression on the ground, while the police, Special Units, Basij and even part of the army become its operational arms.

In global crisis management, the colour codes of yellow, orange and red are generally used to protect people, for situations ranging from floods and storms to infectious diseases. Yellow is an initial warning, orange a serious alert and red an extremely dangerous situation. But in the Islamic Republic, the logic of the colours has been reversed: a “yellow or red security alert” often does not mean danger to people’s lives, but fear of a wave of protest and social uprising. The level of alert is measured not by the danger to society, but by the danger to the survival of the authorities.

Budgetary discrimination and economic humiliation: a rank and file poorer than its flag

If this ideological and security pressure had been accompanied by human dignity and a decent livelihood, some of the discontent might have eased. But structural discrimination between the IRGC, the army and the police has deepened the wound. The IRGC’s share of the defence and security budget is markedly higher than the army’s, while the police, despite serving as a “domestic strike force”, are denied commensurate welfare and job security.

This discrimination is laid bare in everyday life. An image of an almost empty refrigerator in the home of an army captain was shared on social media, with the words: “This is an army captain’s fridge… The end of this humiliation has come… One homeland, one pain, one voice.” The image sets the poverty and humiliation of the armed forces’ ranks against the government’s policies of warmongering and cronyism. The combination of ideological pressure, organisational fear and economic discrimination has created conditions for psychological exhaustion and concealed rates of suicide and self-harm in barracks and police stations—figures the Islamic Republic has never been willing to disclose transparently.

Lessons from history: when the tanks change direction

This situation is not unique to Iran. The history of political change in recent decades, from Eastern Europe to Latin America and North Africa, is full of moments when the loyalty or disobedience of a key military or police unit changed the outcome—the moment when tanks turned away from firing on the people.

In Romania, the army’s decision not to accept orders to shoot at protesters hastened the fall of Ceaușescu. In Egypt, the army’s withdrawal of active support for Hosni Mubarak shifted the balance of power in Tahrir Square. In all these cases, regimes tried to define their power in terms of “weapons” until the very last moment, but ultimately it was the choice of the people holding those weapons that determined their fate.

Iran is no exception to this rule. The Islamic Republic can rely on missiles, drones and military exercises, but if, at the moment of crisis, the ranks of the military and police decide to stand with the people, no arsenal will be able to save a rootless regime.

“One Homeland, One Pain, One Voice” and “National Cooperation”: the uniform returns to the people. From early Khordad 1404, a campaign among dissatisfied police personnel took shape under the slogan “One Homeland, One Pain, One Voice”. It began with demands concerning livelihoods and recognition of police work as arduous and hazardous, but quickly developed into a critique of Ali Khamenei’s role and the structure of governance. Army personnel joined too, writing on the walls of their homes, on empty refrigerators and even on military equipment: “Our pain is the same kind of pain as the people’s.”

“One Homeland, One Pain, One Voice”: army personnel join the campaign by dissatisfied police staff

The campaign by protesting police personnel, titled “One Homeland, One Pain, One Voice”, began in early Khordad 1404. After five months of activity, it has been welcomed by a number of protesting army personnel.

-A review… pic.twitter.com/IEmcL3ywfX

— KayhanLondon (Kayhan London) (@KayhanLondon) 2 November 2025

In this climate, the ‘National Cooperation’ campaign was launched by Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi to offer military, security and administrative personnel an ‘honourable exit’: those whose hands are not stained with the blood of the people and who join the nation will be forgiven, and their service to Iran will be recorded. The campaign’s message is clear: joining the people is not treason against the country; it is its salvation. For the first time, the rank and file are seen not as ‘tomorrow’s enemy’, but as partners in the transition. This prospect helps explain some of the Islamic Republic’s fear of a rift in the armed forces.

For four decades, the Islamic Republic has sought to turn the army and police from ‘national forces’ into ‘ideological forces’ through executions, purges, ideological-political controls, intelligence protection, the IRGC’s takeover of command, special units and repeated trials in the Armed Forces Judicial Organisation. This project has been largely successful among the commanders, but it has never been complete among the rank and file.

Today, the rank and file of Iran’s military and law-enforcement forces are caught in a dual predicament: on the one hand, they face ideological, economic, psychological and judicial pressure; on the other, they witness the suffering of the very people from whom they came. On one side are promises of privilege and promotion under the IRGC’s shadow; on the other is the prospect of joining a nation that can offer them forgiveness and individual justice.

Under these circumstances, the main issue is no longer ‘missile capability’; the real issue is the conscience of the rank and file. At a moment of crisis, missiles, drones, guns, batons and tear gas do not make decisions; it is the rank and file of the military and law-enforcement forces who choose whom to defend: the people or the authorities.

If this rank and file—the very children of workers, office employees, teachers and the unemployed—feel that ‘the homeland’ is no longer one and the same as ‘the regime’, and know that there is room for forgiveness and justice on the people’s side, their choice will sooner or later become clear. And let us not forget that all these members of the armed forces were born under this regime.

Ultimately, the fate of the Islamic Republic will be decided neither in the skies by missiles, nor on the ground by batons and guns, but in the heart of that same soldier of the homeland who one day in the Tehran metro held the army uniform alongside the Lion and Sun flag and said: ‘No, sir, this is not a hidden-camera prank; it is a struggle against the criminal regime of the Guardianship of the Islamic Jurist.’ It will also be decided by the thousands who declare their solidarity with the people by burning pictures of Khamenei and displaying the Lion and Sun flag.