In recent years, especially after the “Woman, Life, Freedom” uprising we have witnessed a phenomenon that has not only reshaped the political landscape of the Iranian diaspora, but also deeply challenged our understanding of concepts like freedom, secularism, and solidarity. The growing prominence of monarchist discourse in Persian-language media abroad, alongside the increasing number and diversity of new Iranian migrants, points to the emergence of a kind of digital far-right among certain segments of Iranian exiles—a right wing that appears with the lion-and-sun flag in one hand and the Israeli flag in the other, and defines freedom not as collective liberation, but as a return to an exclusive and mythical past.
The research of Iranian sociologist Ladan Rahbari, in her article “Zionism as the Legacy of Cyrus: (Online) Proxy Nationalism of Diasporic Iranians”, is one of the first systematic efforts to document and analyze this phenomenon. Through an examination of hundreds of posts on the social media platform X following the Hamas attack on Israel on October 7, 2023, she shows how a segment of the Iranian diaspora—particularly monarchists—use the language of solidarity with Israel to reconstruct a secular, Aryan, anti-Arab, and anti-Islamic version of Iranian identity. This project, while aligning itself with Zionism, simultaneously appropriates historical concepts such as Cyrus the Great, the Charter of Human Rights, and even contemporary slogans like “Woman, Life, Freedom” for its own purposes.
But this analysis can only be considered complete if it is understood through three additional and interrelated dimensions:
- First, the demands of the Iranian people for liberation from theocracy—and how these are distorted and appropriated by this current.
- Second, the role of classical Orientalism and its inverted form in erasing the voices of Iranian leftists and pro-democracy actors from the global stage.
- And third, the impossible position of secular Iranian exiles, who—despite escaping religious authoritarianism—belong neither to the monarchist camp nor to the anti-racist circles of the Western left, since their experience does not fit the dominant stereotype of the “Muslim victim.”
This article, drawing on Rahbari’s research and using theories of postcolonialism, long-distance nationalism, and exilic identity, seeks to show how parts of the diaspora—lacking alternative political languages—fall into racialized and imperial discourses. At the same time, it asks what possibilities exist for constructing a third, emancipatory language that resists all forms of domination.
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The Appropriation of Liberation Demands by Monarchist Nationalism
To understand the tendency of parts of the Iranian diaspora toward the far right and their support for Israel, we need to look at the history of how this population was formed. The article, through a historical lens on the waves of Iranian migration, shows that today’s diaspora is not only a product of the 1979 revolution but also the result of class, political, and cultural developments before and after that event.
In the decades before the revolution, Iranian migration mostly consisted of the middle and upper classes—people who traveled to Europe and the U.S. for education, work, or investment. Government-sponsored students, children of state officials, and members of the urban elite made up much of this pre-revolution migration. Many of them were connected to or loyal to the Pahlavi regime. After the revolution, they left the country in the first wave of political migration and became the core of what is now known as the “monarchist diaspora.”
In the following decades, new waves joined the diaspora—including economic migrants, religious minorities (such as Bahá’ís, Jews, and Christians), and politically repressed individuals. However, the overall structure of the diaspora remained heavily influenced by the symbols, memory, and discourse of the class that left with the Shah. These early monarchists, who held considerable social, economic, and political capital in host countries, were able to present themselves as the “real Iranians.”
The article rightly points out that this class structure in the diaspora has led to the formation of a kind of “extreme diaspora.” Unlike newer migrants who are more concerned with livelihood or individual freedoms, this group follows a political-historical project: the reconstruction of a “monarchist Iran” and a return to the “greatness of Cyrus.”
The “Woman, Life, Freedom” movement—with all its complexities—was the first major uprising in Iran’s modern history that, while rejecting Islamic theocracy, also broke through the barriers of ethnicity, gender, and class. It voiced the demand for freedom and human dignity in different languages and from diverse positions. For many young people, the movement signified a refusal to return to any previous order—whether monarchist or theocratic. Yet it was precisely this radicalism, its borderless and unmediated nature, that made the movement ripe for appropriation—especially by a political current that, through its access to diaspora media and political platforms, managed to present itself as “the voice of the nation”: proxy monarchist nationalism.
As documented by Ladan Rahbari in her research, Iranian monarchists on social media—especially after October 7, 2023—used campaigns like #IraniansStandWithIsrael to construct a symbolic alliance between “the Iranian nation” and the state of Israel. But this alliance is built on two central metaphors: first, the “common enemy” (the Islamic Republic, Hamas, and political Islam more broadly); and second, the “shared suffering” (repression and isolation). These dual narratives may appear to express solidarity, but in practice, they advance a political project that rewrites the language of liberation into a racialized, nostalgic, and authoritarian discourse.
The slogan “Woman, Life, Freedom,” which emerged from the resistance of Kurdish women against religious and state oppression—and in Iran became a symbol of the struggle to overthrow a fascism that uses Islam as its tool—has been rebranded in this new narrative as proof of “imperial secularism” and “Aryan civilization.” Instead of breaking free from hierarchical structures, the monarchist discourse seeks a return to that same order—one where a woman is considered “free” because she fights in the Israeli army, and Iran is “liberated” because a self-proclaimed “descendant of Cyrus” visits the Israeli president.
This rewriting of the people’s demands is not only a distortion of political truth—it is also an erasure of the lived experiences of millions of Iranians, who neither see the monarchy as salvation nor feel any sense of shared destiny with Israel. What digital monarchism produces is a “fantasy Iran” where secularism is reduced to a racial, historical, and civilizational trait rather than a democratic political structure. In this version of the story, anyone who stands outside of it—whether leftist, feminist, or republican—must either be silenced or labeled a traitor.
As a result, the language of Iranian liberation—the language of street uprisings, strikes, poetry, and wounded bodies—has been transformed into the commercial language of the monarchists. With access to satellite TV networks, political lobbies, and media platforms in the West, they have absorbed demands such as ending theocracy, gender justice, and human dignity into a political project that is not a true alternative to the Islamic Republic, but rather a successor to another patriarchal, authoritarian, and exclusionary order.
Orientalism, Its Inversion, and the Enforced Silence on the Progressive Iranian Diaspora
While monarchists inside the diaspora are distorting the people’s demands to reconstruct a racial-authoritarian order, a different form of epistemic domination operates in the West—this time to the benefit of the Islamic Republic: inverted Orientalism.
In classical Orientalist tradition, the East was portrayed as the “mysterious, irrational Other”—in need of rescue. This image served to justify cultural and political colonialism. In recent decades, however, a reversed version of this gaze has emerged in parts of the Western left. Here, religious and repressive regimes like the Islamic Republic are considered “understandable,” “different,” or even “legitimate”—so long as they are positioned as opposing Western imperialism.
In this framework, the suffering of the Iranian people becomes invisible because it clashes with the image of “anti-Western resistance.” Iranian women fighting against compulsory hijab, if not represented carefully, risk being equated with “victims of Islamophobia” or are ignored altogether—lest Islam, as a culture, be questioned. Movements like “Woman, Life, Freedom” are sometimes met with silence or hesitation because they don’t align with the stereotype of the Muslim who must be defended from racism in the West.
As a result, part of the Western left, instead of recognizing the diversity of political struggles or standing in solidarity with progressive forces in Iran, ends up offering unconditional support to regimes that are, in practice, anti-woman, anti-worker, and anti-freedom. This is the essence of inverted Orientalism: it refuses to let the oppressed speak—unless they do so in a language already prescribed by the West.
But this imposed silence doesn’t come only from the outside. The monarchist media dominance within the diaspora pushes aside any alternative voice—those who want neither monarchy nor the Islamic Republic. Leftists, republicans, feminists, and secular activists advocating for social democracy are forced to fight on two fronts: the repression of the Islamic regime and their erasure from media and public discourse by two dominant narratives—one reactionary, the other Orientalist.
This is why, despite its seemingly vibrant appearance, the Iranian diaspora has become strikingly monolithic in discourse. The monarchist narrative—with its lion-and-sun flags and praise for the Israeli military—and the leftist-Orientalist narrative—with its sole focus on Western guilt while ignoring the struggles inside Iran—form two opposing yet complementary poles: one erases the people in the name of “saving civilization,” and the other in the name of “respecting Islamic culture.”
The Secular Exile: Displaced in a World of Binaries
For many Iranians who have fled theocracy—women who endured compulsory hijab, former political prisoners, queer activists, or simply those who wished to live outside the control of religion—exile is not just a separation from homeland. It is the loss of language and political space in today’s world. They find no place among monarchists, who tie their slogan of “return to glory” to lobbying for Israel and contempt for the Arab world, while rallying behind some of the most misogynistic and homophobic slogans against their opponents. Nor do they belong in Western anti-racist movements, where any critique of Islam is quickly labeled as Islamophobia.
In the lived experience of these exiles, Islam is not just a personal faith but a core structure of repression and violence. Yet this reality is hard to express within Western leftist discourse. In anti-Islamophobia narratives—which rightly challenge discrimination against Muslims in the West—the secular Iranian who fled theocracy is often seen as someone who “fears Islam” or criticizes it from a “Western imperialist” standpoint. They risk being mistaken for allies of colonialism.
As a result, the secular Iranian exile is not seen as a subject of resistance, but as a subject of suspicion. If they speak out against compulsory hijab, they might be mistaken for right-wingers. If they criticize political Islam, they may be accused of Islamophobia. If they refuse to support the Iranian regime but also keep their distance from Israel, they’re dismissed as ambiguous or “grey.” And if they go further, embracing social democratic and anti-repression politics, they often find themselves without a place—and without a voice.
This state of displacement is what pushes some toward monarchist narratives—not necessarily out of conviction, but out of exhaustion. Those who find no space in Western social justice movements, and cannot speak of their experiences without being misunderstood, may seek refuge in a voice that at least claims to “see” them—even if that gaze is possessive rather than empathetic.
What is most at risk in this situation is the possibility of creating a third language: one that doesn’t emerge from religious hatred or racism, but also refuses to offer unconditional defense of oppressive regimes in the name of “culture.” A language that acknowledges the lived contradictions of exile—and resists turning those experiences into tools for reproducing existing orders.
The Enforced Silence Against Anti-Zionist Jews and the Clear Stance of Some Iranian Exiles
One of the overlooked aspects of the current situation is the systematic silencing of Jewish individuals and groups who oppose Israeli apartheid, the genocide in Gaza, and Zionism as a colonial project. These voices include both Israeli and diaspora Jews—from movements like Breaking the Silence, Boycott from Within, and Jewish Voice for Peace, to anti-Zionist figures in Israel’s academic and artistic communities.
Yet within the media and political space dominated by Iranian proxy nationalism, there is no trace of these Jewish voices. Monarchist discourse relies on the fabricated image of an “alliance of ancient civilizations” between Iran and Israel, portraying Israel as a unified, democratic state simply defending itself. In this construction, there is no room for dissenting Jews, for Palestinians, or for anti-apartheid analysts. It becomes another form of symbolic erasure—the erasure of the “unwanted Jew.”
At the same time, parts of the Western left, preoccupied with abstract defenses of the “Muslim world” against Islamophobia, often fail to recognize or support these anti-Zionist Jewish groups. Sometimes they even sideline them, because simplistic “West/anti-West” binaries leave no space for such voices.
In this context, although many leftist and republican Iranians in exile do not have direct ties with anti-Zionist Jewish movements, they have not remained silent in the face of this enforced silence. In statements, articles, public events, and independent networks, they have repeatedly emphasized that opposing the Islamic regime should not mean aligning with apartheid or excusing the crimes of the Israeli state. Zionism, they argue, must not be equated with Judaism.
This ethical and political distinction—between Judaism and Zionism, between religion and state, between criticism of Islam and Islamophobia—is part of the broader effort by exiled Iranian forces to construct a third language, and to escape the dominant binaries. Their voice may lack a powerful platform, but it pushes back against silence—both the silence imposed by monarchists and the silence produced by simplistic narratives in some Western circles.
From Political Deadlock to the Necessity of Rebuilding an Alternative
Ladan Rahbari’s research shows clearly that a segment of the Iranian diaspora, using its access to political and media resources, has succeeded in establishing a nationalist, right-wing project under the guise of being secular and anti–Islamic Republic. This project, framed as proxy nationalism, does not support solidarity with the Iranian people. Instead, it exploits public discontent with the regime to reproduce a racialized, historically mythologized Iranian identity aligned with Zionism. What is advertised as a defense of secularism and freedom is, in practice, the replacement of one oppressive ideology with another—this time backed by parts of the international establishment and Western governments.
On the other side, some sectors of the Western left—particularly those operating within the framework of “official anti-imperialism”—consciously or unconsciously overlook the realities inside Iran. They treat the Islamic Republic as a force of resistance against Western hegemony. By invoking terms like “Islamic culture” or the “right to difference,” they severely limit the visibility of the struggles within Iran. The result of these two simultaneous dynamics is the political erasure of any independent voice—voices that align neither with the Islamic Republic, nor with monarchism, nor with Zionist-aligned nationalism.
In such a context, many Iranian activists, writers, and migrants who have experienced religious repression firsthand find themselves excluded from the dominant media and political logics. If they criticize religious oppression, they risk being labeled as aligned with the far right. If they refuse to associate with monarchist or pro-Israel projects, they are accused of being vague, unpatriotic, or politically neutral.
In this field, silence is not a choice—it is the outcome of dominant media and political structures. What is urgently needed is the reconstruction of a clear and independent political language—a language that enables resistance from a position that is anti-theocratic, anti-racist, anti-authoritarian, and anti-war. This language cannot and must not be reduced to pre-defined identity categories. It must be shaped by lived experience, real contradictions, and precise analysis of power relations—both inside and outside the country.
The question is not simply who opposes the Islamic Republic. The real question is: what kind of alternative is proposed to replace it, through what tools, with which forces, and with what vision of society and power? What is at risk now is not just the content of emancipatory demands, but the very possibility of articulating them politically on a global scale. Without this reconstruction, either the monarchists and their global allies will define “what Iran is,” or Western institutions—using postcolonial vocabulary—will reduce the defeat of the Iranian people to a matter of cultural complexity.
Remaining silent in the face of this situation means accepting the logic of power. Breaking this silence will only become possible when alternative narratives emerge—organized, continuous, and analytical—on the political stage.
