On February 29th, two days before parliamentary elections in Iran, I joined a few dozen foreign correspondents—along with official handlers—in the parking lot of the Laleh, a formerly five-star Tehran hotel with tatty rooms, an ornate lobby, and a surfeit of eyes. We had come to Iran to cover the election, but we were told upon arrival that there would be a compulsory program. Its first order of business was a bus trip to the Alborz Space Center, where we would learn about Iran’s new remote-controlled satellite.

Voters outside the Al Javad mosque, in Haft-e Tir Square, in Tehran. A government campaign presented voting as an act of defiance against the West. Photograph by Newsha Tavakolian / Polaris

Our bus, clearly in no hurry, rumbled westward along streets of low-slung storefronts until we’d left the capital; it traversed the neighboring city of Karaj, passing a string of industrial plants, and reached a clearing in the midst of sprawl. The space center was a modest glass-fronted building an hour and a half’s drive from any conceivable election activity in Tehran.

The regime had bused us all this way to show us a PowerPoint presentation. No one at the space center seemed to speak English, so one of our handlers stepped in to translate. He said jokingly, “I am not a member of Iran’s space program, so please don’t put that in your reports. I really don’t want to be the next Iranian scientist to be assassinated.” (Since 2010, four scientists connected to Iran’s nuclear program have been killed.)

Iran, we learned, had become the world’s tenth nation to launch satellites into space, despite international sanctions denying it foreign-made parts and expertise. Video of a rocket launch was set to a Middle Eastern techno beat. “We don’t wish to dominate the world by launching rockets,” the voice-over explained, in Farsi. “We just wish to serve mankind under the auspicious supervision of the Twelfth Imam, peace be upon him.” The satellite’s technical specifications flashed across the screen, in English. Several slides referred to the satellite’s temperature in space on various “days after lunch.”

An Italian reporter asked if the satellite had military uses. No, a staff scientist replied. It monitored weather patterns. If this little excursion was a show of force, it was not because Iran had launched a satellite but, rather, because the regime was no longer even trying to mask its coercive nature. We were here to waste our time, and the Iranians didn’t care who knew it.

The last time that most of the world peered inside Iran was in June, 2009, when, for two searing weeks, the Islamic Republic cracked open. In what came to be known as the Green Movement, a series of mass protests contested the official results of the Presidential election, which granted a second term to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who has held the office since 2005. The Basij, a state-sponsored militia, crushed the demonstrations; photographs and furtive cell-phone footage captured young people in green fleeing down broken sidewalks, motorcycles at their heels. By the time of the Arab Spring, in early 2011, Ahmadinejad’s election-year rivals, Mir Hossein Mousavi and Mehdi Karroubi, had been placed under house arrest, their mid-level operatives imprisoned and forced to confess on television to international conspiracy, their movement dubbed fetneh—“the sedition.” As the regime silenced the country’s internal press and shunned Western reporters, the world lost sight of Iran’s domestic life and focussed instead on its nuclear program.

Iran reopened its doors to the foreign press for the March 2nd elections, but the moment was an especially sensitive one. International tensions over Iran’s nuclear ambitions were at a peak, a European embargo of Iranian oil was set to take full hold in four months, and Israeli officials were threatening to strike Iran’s nuclear facilities. “You are in a small box this time,” an Iranian journalist cautioned me. My visa was for only five days.

Yet Iran, vast and restive, had a way of revealing itself, even in bad times. The Green Movement had been forced underground, but it remained a preoccupation, even among hard-liners. One day, my handlers directed me to a campaign event: a debate among conservative parliamentary candidates at Tehran University, organized by the Basij. The room was filled, and my translator and I stood in the back.

A brave soul approached the microphone and inquired, in Farsi, “If we object to the policies of the nezam, what recourse do we have?” In Iran, the word nezam—“the system”—refers to the country’s unusual political structure, which combines a theocracy, ruled by a Supreme Leader and his executors, and a republic, with elected officials and public debates.

One of the panelists, Hamid Rasai, a white-turbaned cleric in an olive-green robe, replied, “Most people don’t think like you. Most people are from the Basij. You who complain are in the minority.”

The crowd roared with applause. Rasai represented the Steadfastness Front, an arch-conservative group of parliamentary candidates associated with a cleric, in Qom, who had once remarked that anyone offering a new interpretation of Islam should be punched in the mouth.

Rasai’s dismissive remark was the reverse of a claim that I had often heard from Iranian reformists: that only a fifth of the populace supported the Basij and that most Iranians were reformists or liberal-minded. Neither appraisal was verifiable in a country without reliable polling. But their concurrence conveyed a different kind of truth. Iranian society had become not just divided but adversarial, with entire communities denying one another’s existence.

A Basiji accosted my translator. Foreign correspondents were not welcome, she told us. “No one invited you.”

A questioner asked the panel about the Green Movement: “If the system knew what would happen after the Presidential election—that there was a plot—why didn’t they stop it from the beginning?”

Zohreh Elahian, a close ally of President Ahmadinejad and the unlikely chairperson of the parliament’s committee on human rights, took this question. “It was an election with candidates,” she began. “And suddenly we faced candidates coöperating with anti-revolutionaries and foreigners. The candidates themselves got involved in this plot. Suddenly, we faced many people on the street. They thought it was a good opportunity to do what they’d wanted for the last thirty years—to topple the system. The United States Congress assigned money to this plot. The Zionists were involved inside and outside Iran. Any other system would have collapsed, but this system was able to resist. The Leader said to follow the law. He told the candidates not to ask people to come to the streets, but the candidates did anyway. Some people were killed, and this created good propaganda for the foreign media.”

Rasai interrupted. “The system knew they were plotting, but if Mousavi had been disqualified you people would have objected,” he said. “Young people wouldn’t have accepted that we could guess he wanted to conspire.”

The young woman from the Basij kept badgering my translator, though she would not meet my eyes. My translator’s phone rang. It was the translator for a German journalist who had walked in with us, saying that we should go now. One of the Basijis had just ejected the German. My translator, rattled, tripped over the threshold as we left the room, and went sprawling on the linoleum. We did not look back as we rushed toward the exit.

On the way out, I glanced through an open doorway, into a dim cafeteria with yellow brick walls. I had been there in 2005, on the day that Ahmadinejad was elected President. Then student activists, both leftists and liberals, had crowded the campus. I had talked with them casually in that room. A liberal activist, with gelled hair and a short-sleeved polyester shirt, had spoken disdainfully of reformists who sought to effect change by running for office. They only burnished the system’s legitimacy, he had told me. Today, the cafeteria was empty. Outside the campus gates, Tehran lay mute and forbidden.

Iran was holding an election and seemed truly afraid that nobody would come. The only other national election scheduled since 2009—for city councils—had been postponed. A parliamentary election was too important to postpone but not necessarily exciting enough to overcome voter apathy and calls for a boycott. And so the government had organized a get-out-the-vote campaign that equated domestic submission with international defiance. Vote, Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei urged Iranians, because it would be “a slap in the face of the enemy.” Vote in order to show the Americans your support for the nezam. Vote because the enemy would be baffled and defeated by the sight of Iranians casting ballots, which was really a form of genuflection before the Supreme Leader. Purple billboards festooned Tehran’s byways, proclaiming the enemy’s horror of the Iranian voter.

At an election rally in the southern Tehran suburb of Shahr-e Rey, I heard Gholam-Ali Haddad Adel, a former speaker of parliament and a faithful lieutenant of Khamenei’s, tell a story. In 1979, when Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini began preparations to leave his exile, in Paris, foreign journalists and politicians told him that it would be dangerous to return to Iran while it was in the throes of revolution. “And Imam Khomeini said, ‘I thought, Why are all these foreigners insisting that I shouldn’t go back to Iran? And then I realized that it would benefit the Iranian people and damage the foreigners.’ ” So it was, Haddad Adel concluded, with voting in the Islamic Republic’s 2012 parliamentary elections.

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Although the emphasis on foreign threats was surely heightened, the underlying message—that voting was a show of the people’s submission to the Iranian state, and not vice versa—was not new. During midterm elections in 2006 and 2008, more than one conservative voter had told me that voting was more important than his health—indeed, his life—and had gone on to say that all the candidates were the same. In fact, there often were major differences among them. But Iranians who regarded voting as an exercise of civic power had increasingly stopped voting, feeling that their choices had been circumscribed and then ignored. For the discriminating fundamentalist, Iran’s elections offered many choices; but, by and large, this cohort didn’t care about choice. Under the nezam, with its autocratic and democratic elements in perpetual tension, Iranians were neither subjects nor citizens, and they reacted with appropriate confusion.

The system had purged itself of contrary elements so many times that it could fairly be described as bulimic. Yet it had a curious way of reproducing dissent within its ranks. Since 1979, the regime had, successively, rid itself of liberal nationalists, anti-clerical Islamists, Islamic leftists, pragmatic conservatives, reformist Islamists, and moderate reformists. This year’s parliamentary candidates were virtually all affiliated with what had once been called the United Fundamentalist Front. The Front had split into sixty overlapping factions, kindly grouped by most analysts into a mere thirteen. Though the conflict among these factions was surprisingly overt, the ideological spectrum was the narrowest it had been since the Revolution. It was as though the contest between Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich were the whole of American politics.

There was a fabular quality to politics in the Islamic Republic. Those who amassed power by purging others ended up getting purged. As the government tilted farther rightward, the old hard-liners became the new reformers. (Their critics would say that they began championing free speech and representative democracy only when they were excluded from the centers of power.) Now it was President Ahmadinejad’s turn to go from enforcer to target.