China’s digital playbook helps shape Iran’s online repression - rights group

The bill, dubbed C-12, introduces strict asylum filing deadlines, shifts many decisions to paper-based reviews, expands border officers’ powers to search digital devices without judicial oversight, and allows the government to suspend visas and permits for public interest reasons.

Among those who testified were Ardeshir Zarezadeh, a lawyer and president of the International Centre for Human Rights, Timothy McSorley, National Coordinator of the International Civil Liberties Monitoring Group; as well as representatives from Amnesty International and the UN Refugee Agency, UNHCR.

“Thousands of Iranians have been killed in the streets simply for protesting, while at the same time individuals affiliated with the Iranian regime are able to live comfortably in Canada and benefit from Canadian values,” Zarezadeh said.

He called the bill’s emphasis on asylum deadlines a “misdirection” and said Canada already has tools to identify and deport Islamic Republicagents — the failure is in “weak visa screening systems prior to entry.”

Other witnesses argued that rigid one-year claim deadlines disproportionately harm genuine refugees, especially those traumatized or suddenly displaced, while security threats often enter with fraudulent documents and evade such barriers.

While the government emphasizes the need for swift passage of the bill to address US border security concerns, the Senate committee is currently synthesizing these expert testimonies to prepare its final report.

Canada last week condemned the killing of protesters and use of violence by Iranian authorities after a video shared by Iran International showed an armored vehicle operated by Iranian security force running over demonstrators in Ardabil, northwest of Iran.

Human rights advocates in Canada are urging the country’s national police to gather evidence on Canadians linked to Iran’s repression apparatus after thousands of protesters were killed in January.

The push comes amid mounting demands for accountability after Iran International’s Editorial Board confirmed that more than 36,500 Iranians were killed by security forces during the January 8–9 crackdown, the deadliest two-day protest massacre in history.

Advocates say Canada must ensure perpetrators cannot find refuge abroad — and that Iranian Canadians have a direct avenue to report evidence.

Security officials informed the families their presence at the February 11 pro-state march must be “verifiable,” including by taking photos and videos of themselves at the rally and sending the material to security bodies, informed sources said.

The officials, according to the sources, coupled the demand with threats and sustained psychological pressure, telling families that only if they comply might their detained relatives be released, spared execution, or see their sentences reduced.

The pressure coincided with a message delivered on Monday by Ali Khamenei, who in a short recorded video urged Iranians to demonstrate loyalty to the Islamic Republic and emphasized the need to stand firm against opponents of the system.

Pressure amid widening crackdown

The reported coercion comes as Iran International has previously documented an intensifying crackdown following nationwide protests, including mass arrests and a rise in reported deaths in custody. Observers have warned the pattern may point to a broader phase aimed at consolidating control and removing evidence linked to the violent suppression of dissent.

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  Over 36,500 killed in Iran's deadliest massacre, documents reveal

According to a statement by Iran International’s editorial board, at least 36,500 protesters have been killed during the unrest. Many viewers of the outlet have also reported widespread arrests, critical conditions for detainees, and, in numerous cases, families being left without information about the whereabouts or treatment of their relatives.

Statements attributed to detainees’ families

Separately, websites affiliated with the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps published a text on Monday attributed to Mohammad Ali Saeedi-Nia, an entrepreneur and founder of the Saeedi-Nia Real Estate and Industries Group, alleging that he would take part in the February 11 pro-state rally.

Sources told Iran International that the publication was part of the same pressure campaign and aimed at extracting forced declarations of loyalty from families of detainees, using pro-government media to signal compliance.

Sadegh Saeedi-Nia, the son of Mohammad Ali Saeedi-Nia and chief executive of the family business, was arrested following the protests and subsequent killings and remains in prison.

Meanwhile, reports indicate a new wave of government-ordered closures of cafés and restaurants in Tehran, accompanied by the suspension of their social media accounts. Officials have not announced the reasons for the closures, which follow similar actions in recent months and appear to have intensified after the mass killings of protesters in January.

Ali Karami, 26, who was shot and killed by Iran’s security forces on January 8, had one wish: “If I die before my dog,” he said, “let her see my lifeless body.”

He said it in a video posted to Instagram in October 2024, narrating as he played tug-of-war with his dog, Ariel—laughing, absorbed in an ordinary moment of life.

After his death, the video spread widely across Iranian social media, capturing the public imagination as viewers returned to his words with disbelief.

Karami believed dogs understand death, and that without seeing him, she might think he had simply abandoned her.

He may have contemplated the possibility of dying young, but not like this—not shot in the street, his private reflection transformed into a national elegy.

Karami was an auto repair mechanic and a devoted dog lover who rescued stray animals. Originally from Kermanshah Province, in the country’s Kurdish region, he later moved to Tehran for school and work.

His Instagram account, @alikaramiservis, offers a window into his daily life—his pride in his craft, his affection for dogs, and his love of nature and music, including the songs of Dariush Eghbali.

It is also a record of one of the tens of thousands of people who took to the streets demanding freedom and were met with bullets.

Karami was reportedly trying to protect an elderly woman when he was shot and killed.

In many of his photos, Ariel—the dog he referred to as his daughter—is never far from his side. They play ball, cook, or simply share quiet time at the repair shop: fragments of an unremarkable, joyful life.

“She understands death,” Karami says in the October video. “If she does not see my lifeless body, she will think I abandoned her and will keep waiting for me to come back.”

“That’s a friendship without limits,” he adds. “Pure loyalty.”

Karami’s final post, dated December 30, shows him proudly displaying his work: a car he had restored at Sehand Car Clinic in Tehran.

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From February 8 onward, the account appears to have been run by family members or friends. That day, they posted a tribute video showing Karami dancing, exercising, and spending time with Ariel. They also reposted the October video—his voice now echoing with an unintended prophecy.

This time, there was an ending.

The final images show Ariel lying at Karami’s gravesite.

Just as he had asked.

In the most tragic way, a fate he once spoke of—unknowingly—was fulfilled.

While the identities of many remain unconfirmed, the stories behind these images have helped create a shared narrative for a public mourning thousands of deaths during just two days of crackdown on Jan. 8 and Jan. 9.

In the weeks since, artists have used technology to blend modern tragedy with Persian mythology. These digital tributes often place fallen protesters in settings reminiscent of the Shahnameh, Iran’s national epic, lending the dead a sense of timeless honor.

The firefighter

One of the most widely shared figures is Hamid Mahdavi, a firefighter from the northeastern city of Mashhad, who was killed on Jan. 8 after being shot in the throat.

Social media posts and witness accounts say Mahdavi spent his final hours carrying wounded protesters away from lines of security forces. Digital artists have reimagined him as a guardian figure.

Videos circulating online show a man carrying the injured, but activists say it is difficult to confirm with absolute certainty whether the person in the footage is Mahdavi. For those mourning, however, the image has become inseparable from his story.

The firefighter from Mashhad is now widely seen as a symbol of rescue.

“He was brave, kind and honorable,” one user wrote in Persian on Instagram, where Mahdavi had been active before his killing. “His memory will remain eternal.”

Another wrote: “I’ve watched this video a hundred times and I still cannot stop crying.”

The man as shield

In another story that has become central to the narrative of the January uprising, a man identified by social media users as Mohammad Jabbari, or “Mohammad Agha,” is reported to have died while protecting others.

In a video that has gone viral, a man is seen holding open a building door to let protesters inside for safety, then attempting to force it shut against advancing security agents.

According to activist accounts, agents shot the man at close range after forcing their way through. Digital artists now depict him as a literal shield, with some comparing the scene to moments from the Shahnameh.

While the man’s identity cannot be verified with certainty, the narrative of “the man at the door” has taken on powerful symbolic meaning as an act of self-sacrifice.

Social media comments reflect a deep emotional connection to the scene.

“One day we will see this statue standing in the heart of Tehran,” one person wrote. Others simply posted, “Hold the door,” a phrase that has become shorthand for the act shown in the footage.

“These symbols must be built in our Iran so that future generations remember their history,” another user commented.

Shared memory for the future

The use of AI and rapidly produced digital art has allowed Iranians to create a visual record in real time.

As the government restricts traditional media and periodically shuts down the internet, these images offer a way to preserve stories the state cannot easily erase.

“We do not know the names of everyone who fell,” one user wrote beneath a viral tribute. “But these images carry the meaning of what happened. They are the glue that holds our story together.”

By focusing on individuals like Mahdavi and the man at the door, the protest movement has moved beyond statistics. Even when identities remain unconfirmed, the images ensure that stories of resistance continue to circulate—inside Iran and beyond it.

While the world may see in the staggering death toll of the January protests an unprecedented explosion of violence, those of us who have spent decades seeking justice see something else: the chilling continuity of a regime that has only ever known one way to survive.

For us, the massacre of thousands of unarmed protesters is not a breakdown of the system. It is the system functioning exactly as designed.

The parallels with 1988 are as deliberate as they are haunting.

Back then, the Islamic Republic imposed a total information blackout. Prison doors were bolted. Phone lines were cut. Family visits were suspended without explanation. Families were left in torturous limbo, wandering from prison gates to government offices, met only with silence or lies.

Months later, the truth emerged in the most brutal form: a bag of personal belongings handed to a father, an order not to mourn, and the realization that a loved one was gone.

Today, the regime replicates that silence through digital darkness—a nationwide internet shutdown. But the scale has shifted. In 1988, authorities could intimidate families one by one. They ordered us not to hold funerals, not to cry, not to tell our neighbors. They believed that by hiding the bodies, they could hide the crime.

In 2026, the numbers are too large for secrecy to hold. When the reported death toll reaches 30,000 in a single week, grief becomes a tidal wave no blackout can contain. Familiar tactics of intimidation—extorting “bullet fees,” abducting the wounded from hospital beds, desecrating graves—no longer work as intended.

In 1988, the regime hid its atrocities beneath the soil of Khavaran. In 2026, in an unimaginable cruelty, it staged its terror in the open.

Videos that surfaced despite the shutdown shattered the nation: hundreds of lifeless bodies sealed in black plastic, lined along sidewalks and outside gray buildings like discarded refuse. Families were forced to walk these endless rows, performing a sadistic ritual of identification.

In one widely shared clip, a father’s voice trembles as he searches, calling out, “Sepehr, my son—my Sepehr, where are you?”

For decades, the Mothers of Khavaran—mothers, fathers, siblings, and children—refused to surrender to silence. They were the first to turn grief into political defiance. They wore white to funerals and memorials, rejecting the regime’s imposed black, the color of official sorrow.

White declared innocence. White rejected the legitimacy of the executioners.

They clawed at the dirt of Khavaran with bare hands, searching for truth even as Revolutionary Guards beat them and trampled their flowers.

That spirit has not vanished. It has evolved.

What we see today—mothers dancing at their children’s graves, distributing sweets instead of halva, clapping instead of wailing—is not denial. It is defiance. It is a refusal to allow a theocracy that has weaponized martyrdom for nearly half a century to dictate how death is understood. As one mother put it, our hearts are broken, but our spirits will not bend.

In 1988, impunity—enabled by an international community eager to close the Iran-Iraq war through UN Resolution 598—convinced Tehran that mass murder was an effective tool of statecraft.

Iran in 2026 is different. The world is watching in real time. The “Nuremberg moment” long urged by human-rights lawyers is no longer aspirational. It is necessary.

My brother Bijan and the thousands murdered in the dark summer of 1988 were denied even the pretense of justice: no trials, no headstones, no place in official history.

The Islamic Republic believed it was burying bodies. It was planting seeds.

Those seeds have now erupted. The legacy of the fallen is not buried in the mute soil of Khavaran; it lives in every young Iranian who stands firm before gunfire. We are no longer merely archivists of the dead. We have come to demand accountability.

History has never wavered on this truth: no tyranny is eternal. Their gallows will not save them from the dawn.