Authoritarian governments have long drawn ordinary citizens into political surveillance. Joseph Stalin’s Soviet Union encouraged denunciations. East Germany’s secret police service, the Stasi, embedded informants in workplaces and neighbourhoods.
From 1960, Cuba’s leaders organised local committees to monitor political dissent. And informant culture is so embedded in everyday Iranian life that there are common Persian terms to describe it. A mokhber or khabarchin is an informant and a zirabzan secretly passes private information to the authorities, often to damage someone.
My latest research sheds light on how Iran’s informant system operates. I interviewed 90 Iranians aged between 17 and 52, including students, teachers, university staff, bazaar workers, and government and energy sector employees. All had been encouraged, pressured or offered incentives to report on people they knew.
Iran’s informant network runs through the intelligence ministry, as well as the powerful Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and its affiliated Basij paramilitary force. It reaches workplaces, government bodies, universities and private lives through internal security offices known as Herasat and recruitment vetting bodies such as Gozinesh or Salahiyat-e Omumi.
As in other authoritarian settings, these security bodies hold considerable power in Iran. They can act in the name of security with little legal oversight or opposition to their decisions.
Informants may be asked to record conversations or identify people leading critical discussions. They may also be asked to report private parties where alcohol was served or where men and women danced together.
One-third (33%) of my interviewees described how social media and messaging platforms are used to monitor and gather information about others. This often involves saving and passing on screenshots of critical or politically sensitive social media posts or messages.
Abedin Taherkenareh / EPA
The process works by encouraging or coercing people to make informing a routine part of their lives. Those who cooperate may receive better scores in annual workplace evaluations, recommendations for promotion or access to institutional support.
One of my interviewees, who was offered money and a promotion in exchange for informing, said it “felt like I had no choice”.
Those who refuse to cooperate often face problems. Almost half (45%) of the people I interviewed described receiving threats if they declined to report on others. These threats included job dismissal, exclusion from education, legal trouble or harm to their families.
As one participant recalled: “They [the security agencies] reminded me what happens to people who refuse. I couldn’t risk it.”
While many people are coerced into informing on others, personal motives are also absorbed into the Iranian state’s surveillance machinery. One-quarter (26%) of the participants in my research mentioned workplace rivalry, jealousy or a grudge as reasons for informing.
A similar amount (24%) described ideological conviction. One of my respondents, an ideological supporter of the regime, believed reporting critics of Iran’s political system was a duty they owed the Islamic Republic.
People can be reported for criticising the regime, questioning its hostility towards the US and Israel or discussing protests. They can also be reported for challenging Iran’s supreme leader, religious institutions, ethical norms and official doctrine.
The costs of informant culture are borne both by those who are reported on and by those compelled to report. My interviewees described some of the consequences. Those who had been reported on spoke of suffering career damage, legal punishment, reputational harm and social exclusion.
Those who provided information to the authorities spoke of guilt, anxiety and fear of rejection by friends, colleagues or relatives if their role became known. One of my respondents described the personal cost: “After I gave them information, I couldn’t face my friends anymore.”
Self-censorship
Informant networks extend surveillance beyond the staffing and technical limits of formal security agencies. But their political value goes further than this. In a climate where anyone might report a personal conversation, people begin to censor themselves.
A recent study based on the outcomes of a survey of more than 5,000 people from Kazakhstan in 2023 has found that awareness of digital surveillance there discourages people from expressing views on politically sensitive issues. The possibility of being watched is often enough to change behaviour, even when no direct intervention occurs.
My interviews suggest that informant networks produce a similar response in Iran by making the source and extent of surveillance difficult to identify. One respondent told me: “I couldn’t trust anyone. I was always afraid someone was reporting on me too.”
This helps explain authoritarian endurance. Collective action depends on trust. Informant systems weaken the relationships through which people share grievances, test ideas and decide to act together.
In Iran, this theory has been tested on a number of occasions in recent years. The nationwide protest movement of early 2026, as well as previous rounds of dissent in 2019 and 2022, revealed opposition to the state strong enough to overcome the fear of surveillance.
But in each case, the authorities responded by using digital surveillance and informant reports to identify participants and organisers. Protesters were subsequently arrested, prosecuted and executed.
Informant culture gives authoritarian rulers an intimate line of defence. When survival depends on caution and citizens fear one another, even widespread discontent and mass protest may struggle to develop into sustained political resistance.
This is especially true when people also depend on the state for jobs and other basic necessities, as is the case in Iran.

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