They Drag Girls by the Hair. They Shoot Kids in the Back— Meet the Basij

In a country of 88 million, there is a second nation—unseen, embedded, ideological—that roams Iran’s streets, campuses, factories and even kindergartens. They wear no uniforms. Sometimes they’re doctors. Sometimes janitors. Often they’re neither. They are not the military, nor the police. But when protesters rise, they arrive first—with batons, with guns, with the right to strike.

They are the Basij.

And they are everywhere.

A Nation Within a Nation

The Basij, or "Mobilization Resistance Force," was founded in 1979 at the dawn of the Islamic Republic. Ayatollah Khomeini dreamed of a "20-million-man army" drawn from the pious poor to defend the revolution. It began as a paramilitary of volunteers—zealous and raw—many barely in their teens. They stormed minefields in the Iran-Iraq war with plastic keys to heaven hanging around their necks. Thousands were blown to pieces, seen by commanders as expendable spiritual cannon fodder.

Then the war ended. And the Basij remained.

Not only did it remain—it metastasized. The Basij was woven into the fabric of the state: into schools, mosques, factories, the courts. It is now a wing of the IRGC, but it acts as more than an arm of government. It is the surveillance organ of the regime’s soul.

Its 17 subdivisions target every slice of society: children, university students, nurses, clerics, engineers, the unemployed. Its millions of members range from part-time volunteers to full-time IRGC operatives. In many ways, the Basij is not a unit—it is an ecosystem.

The Most Intimate Weapon of the Regime

When the Islamic Republic fears rebellion, it does not send tanks. It sends Basij.

In 1999, when students protested, the Basij dragged them from their dorms. In 2009, when millions filled the streets after a rigged election, it was Basij snipers who opened fire. In 2019, when fuel prices triggered mass revolt, Basijis on motorcycles rode through crowds shooting into faces. Eyewitnesses described teenagers gunned down as they fled. Some were shot through the head. Others through the back. Dozens bled out on asphalt as emergency crews were blocked from reaching them.

And in 2022, after a young woman named Mahsa Amini died in custody, it was the Basij who helped drag screaming girls off the streets. Footage showed one 17-year-old girl, Hadis Najafi, being riddled with bullets—six shots to the face, neck and chest. Her body was dumped without ceremony. Her family was warned to stay silent.

Iran never needed a Gestapo. It had the Basij.

But their power isn’t just force. It’s proximity. Basij cells are embedded in every Iranian university, every public school. They don’t patrol from outside; they sit inside the classroom. They don’t wait for dissent—they preempt it.

The boy reporting on his classmate’s improper hijab? He might be Basij. The girl taking attendance in your seminar? Basij. The man running the mosque? Basij. Even the person organizing your local blood drive might be Basij.

There is no corner of Iranian life they do not touch. No protest they do not surveil. No deviant they do not file.

Not Just Enforcers—Profiteers

The Basij is not only a militia; it is an empire.

Through the Basij Cooperative Foundation, the organization owns businesses across Iran: banks, real estate firms, construction giants. It earns billions. Its economic reach spreads across the country, with government contracts and preferential access to resources. It is subsidized by the state and, in return, protects it.

Members receive perks—university slots, job advantages, legal impunity. Joining the Basij is not just an act of belief—it is a career track. The poor enlist. The ambitious rise. The cruel thrive.

In one notorious case, a Basij officer accused of assaulting a detained woman in Mashhad was later appointed to a senior role in a provincial university. The woman was imprisoned for "slandering a patriot."

Violations, Disguised as Virtue

International human rights groups have documented Basij involvement in torture, child recruitment, and sexual abuse. Detainees from 2009 and 2019 describe being beaten with cables, shocked with electricity, raped with batons and bottles. In the Kahrizak detention center, survivors recounted being blindfolded, suspended from ceilings by their wrists, urinated on, and assaulted by groups of masked men.

Few cases are ever investigated. Even fewer punished. The Basij operate in legal shadow: no badges, no names, no accountability.

In Tehran, families remember Neda Agha-Soltan bleeding on the street, her eyes wide open in death. In Mahshahr, they remember entire neighborhoods cordoned off, protesters hunted like prey. Some were found with hands zip-tied and bullets in the skull. In Karaj and Shiraz and Kermanshah, they remember the boys who never came home.

And in classrooms, they remember the fear that looking the wrong way, writing the wrong poem, speaking the wrong sentence—might invite a knock on the door.

Everyday Tyranny

Beyond bloodshed, the Basij enforce a quiet, grinding control. Teenage girls are stopped on sidewalks and berated for loose headscarves. Couples walking hand in hand are interrogated. Men with Western haircuts are detained. In one case, a 15-year-old was beaten in front of his classmates for drawing a cartoon mocking a cleric. He spent two weeks in solitary confinement, denied water as punishment for "impiety."

University lecturers report being shadowed by Basij student reps—tattletales with guns. In some cities, Basij volunteers go door to door encouraging people to denounce neighbors who consume banned media. It is the machinery of conformity, enforced with smiling faces and cold fists.

Why They Last

If the Basij is so reviled, why do they persist?

Because the regime is built on fear—and the Basij is its distributor. They keep millions afraid of stepping out of line. And they do so cheaply: not as soldiers, but as neighbors, classmates, volunteers. They are the regime’s low-cost, high-trust enforcers. Their weapon is not only violence—it is familiarity.

But there’s another reason: they blur the line. Between patriot and fanatic. Between protector and predator. Between state and mob. That’s their genius.

And their curse.

They are not the regime’s security. They are the regime’s insecurity made flesh.

A Final Reckoning

It’s easy to fear a regime with missiles. It’s harder to grasp the terror of a regime with a million eyes—and no conscience. The Basij isn’t just a force. It’s a decision: to rule through loyalty, not law. And it’s the decision Iran makes, every day.

In 2025, the world cannot afford illusions. The Islamic Republic’s paramilitary vigilantes are not cultural artifacts. They are present-day instruments of terror. They are not relics of revolution. They are obstacles to freedom.

No society with a Basij can truly be free. And no world that tolerates them can fully claim to care about human rights.

But you didn’t need to be told that.

You felt it.

Now you know why.