Quotes of the Day

In Iran, football, politics and social change have become mixed in a cocktail whose flavor is not yet clear. Five years ago, at the height of a protest movement lobbying for political reform, thousands of young Iranians swarmed the streets of Tehran to celebrate the national team's wins and mourn its losses. With hopes that a combination of Western pressure and an active opposition movement might yet steer the country toward democracy, young people exploited football as an otherwise off-limits chance to celebrate their nation without challenging the regime directly or endorsing lackluster reformists. They displayed their ardor defiantly, daring security forces to confront them.

Which they did, brutally, beating people with batons and arresting hundreds. Still, the festivals continued. Indeed, the football riots of 2001 were among the most serious mass disturbances Iran has witnessed since the Islamic revolution of 1979. They were just one manifestation of restiveness among those young people tired of the somber, constrained social life prescribed in Iran.

Gradually, the government backed off, realizing that cheering on both Iran and the national team posed no real threat to its security. In the fall of 2001, the regime even transported a 12-layer, pink-and-yellow victory cake, baked ostensibly for a Shi'ite holiday, to Azadi Square, in south-central Tehran. When Iran beat the United Arab Emirates, the mammoth confection — requiring some 12,000 eggs and 590 kg of chocolate — was sliced up and distributed all over Tehran. Riot police were instructed to let the mobs be and the evening passed with only mild, isolated skirmishes. But the demonstrations of 2001 remain something of a mystery to Iranians. Among street revelers, there was no organized, antiregime mood. Horns weren't even blared in unison, and at no point did more than a few people chant political slogans together.

The regime has rarely gone back to molesting football fans. But more recently, the game has become a battleground for women's activists. Three years ago, on the heels of Shirin Ebadi's Nobel Prize, Tehran buzzed with demonstrations by women's NGOs; university students turned out to volunteer at the hundreds of organizations that addressed domestic violence and women's legal rights. But today the sluggish pace of legislative reform, and the aggressive filtering of women's groups' websites have cooled the energy that had activists convinced the regime might budge on women's issues.

Football has become a useful way for women to push for legal rights and access to public space. In June 2005, a group of around 100 women blocked the entrance to Azadi Stadium before a match with Bahrain, chanting "Freedom is my right, Iran is my country." They scuffled with guards and chanted for five hours until about 50 of them were permitted inside to catch the second half of the game, the first women to spontaneously enter a stadium since 1979. The breakthrough took place under moderate President Mohammed Khatami, who was at the game that day. Under Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who succeeded Khatami later last year, security officials have shown no such leniency.

Arefeh Elyaasi, of the Campaign to Defend Women's Rights to Enter Sports Stadiums, says the ban does not dissuade women from attending games. Rather, it just encourages many to dress as men — at great risk of punishment if they are caught. Elyaasi insists that all citizens have the right to attend a game. "Unmarried women and men can sit together in a dark cinema, which you might think is worse," she says. "But since it's always been that way, it seems normal, and staring at football players who look like tiny ants in a huge stadium seems wrong."

The women's campaign matters, because in Iranian elections, the female vote is crucial. And Iranian women, especially younger ones, are obsessed with football. Ahmadinejad and other politicians see catering to female fans as an easy way to extend popularity among the young and the urban middle class. So in April, as the nuclear crisis with the West escalated, the President — who had until then scarcely acknowledged women's rights — unexpectedly waived the ban on women's attendance at games. The gamble worked brilliantly, harnessing football patriotism to Ahmadinejad's own brand of religious nationalism. Some critics were won over: "Maybe he's going to be like Reza Shah," says Nilufar Sharifi, 23, a college student and soccer fan in Tehran, referring to the nation-building Iranian leader who banned the veil in 1936. "If he's going to take such historic steps, he should get some credit."

Ahmadinejad's decree met with swift condemnation from the religious hierarchy in Qum. Six grand ayatullahs protested, and one even issued a fatwa, saying it was forbidden for women to look at men's bare legs and for men and women to consort together. Though Iran's Supreme Leader Ayatullah Ali Khamenei vetoed the President's decree, Ahmadinejad had neatly positioned himself as a leader who risked a fight with Qum to win women their right to watch football. Elyaasi remains skeptical. "Most women who care about this issue are educated," she says, "and didn't suddenly think, 'Wow, the President really cares about us.'"

But Ahmadinejad is no fool. He has visited the national team's training camps, and spent time with the players. It's a smart move. Support for the President's foreign policy depends not on external allies but on Iran's nationalist mood. If football helps him win the affection of the street, he'll do everything but put on boots and practice free kicks.

• AZADEH MOAVENI / Tehran
• In Iran, football, politics and social change have become mixed in a cocktail whose flavor is not yet clear