In Iran, language is not merely a tool of communication; in practice, it has become an instrument for the unequal distribution of opportunities, social status, and access to power. Official and unofficial language policies over decades have created a structural divide between the “official language” and “non-Persian languages”—a divide whose consequences are visible in schools, courts, administrative offices, media, and even the labor market. Many cultural and legal activists describe this situation as “linguistic apartheid”: a condition in which one language is defined not simply as a common language, but as a marker of superiority and dominant political identity.

One of the clearest manifestations of this policy is the allocation of public resources. According to data cited in this text, the budget for the development of the Persian language in 2021 (1400 in the Iranian calendar) was reportedly around 570 billion rials, and it has even been claimed that approximately 110 million rials are allocated for the creation of each new Persian word. At the political level, the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic in June 2018 emphasized preserving the “power and authenticity” of the Persian language as an “element of Iran’s national identity,” while the Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance described increasing the cultural budget for the development of Persian as “one of the government’s top priorities.”

In contrast, widely spoken languages in Iran—including Azerbaijani Turkish, Kurdish, Arabic, Balochi, Turkmen, Gilaki, and others—effectively receive neither a share of official budgets for linguistic development and modernization nor sustainable support mechanisms. According to many activists, wherever the state builds institutions and allocates funds for “Persian,” it either remains silent about other languages or prefers a security-based approach—even when language revitalization efforts are initiated by communities themselves and financed at their own expense.

“Linguistic apartheid,” or what sociolinguistic literature sometimes refers to as “glossophobia” (in the sense of language-based discrimination), points to unfair discrimination and judgment based on language, dialect, or accent. It describes a situation in which the state’s official language becomes the standard of “cultivation,” “intelligence,” “competence,” or even “trustworthiness.” Within such a structure, a citizen whose mother tongue is “non-Persian” faces a form of “hidden inequality” from the very beginning—from the first grade of elementary school to job interviews and encounters with administrative officials or judges.

Finnish linguist Tove Skutnabb-Kangas, in the 1980s, defined linguistic discrimination as “ideologies and structures used to legitimize and reproduce the unequal distribution of power and resources on the basis of language.” In Iran, according to many critics, the practical translation of this concept has been the transformation of Persian into a “gateway” to opportunities, while other languages are turned into “markers of marginality.”

The Constitution: Permission on Paper, Prohibition in Practice

Article 15 of the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran introduces Persian as the official and primary language of education and administration. It then states that the use of “local and ethnic languages” in the press and mass media, as well as “the teaching of their literature in schools,” alongside Persian is permitted. This single sentence has been at the center of debate for years: Has it been implemented? Many educational and cultural activists argue that it has not. They emphasize that organized education in non-Persian languages—not merely as limited “literature” courses but as genuine “mother-tongue instruction”—has in practice faced serious security and administrative obstacles.

In this context, the experience of the Kurdish language has been particularly visible. One example frequently cited in reports and on social media is the case of Zara Mohammadi, a Kurdish language teacher in Sanandaj, who was sentenced in 2019 to five years in prison. The prevailing narrative among activists is that voluntary teaching of one’s mother tongue can be criminalized; as a result, a number of non-Persian language activists have reportedly been detained and imprisoned due to their educational or cultural activities.

Press, Censorship, and “Double Restrictions” on Non-Persian Media

If the broader public sphere of the press in Iran is characterized by heavy censorship and vague laws, non-Persian media face what many describe as “double restrictions”: on the one hand, general political, religious, and security-based censorship; on the other, particular sensitivities regarding ethnic/national identity and linguistic demands.

The Press Law of 1986 defines the mission of the press as aligned with the “objectives of the Islamic Republic” and includes broad phrases such as “harmful to the foundations of Islam” or “public interest,” allowing wide interpretation. Supervisory and judicial mechanisms can lead to the closure of publications, legal cases against journalists, and professional bans. According to accounts cited in this text, cases such as the summoning and arrest of Kurdish journalists—including Shêrko Jahani in 2006—illustrate that journalistic work in Kurdish regions and for Kurdish media is not merely a professional activity; it is one that can be confronted with security-related charges.

Restrictions also affect audiovisual media: from signal jamming of satellite channels to limitations on broadcasting non-Persian programs on state television, which are often confined to limited hours and strictly official, non-critical frameworks.

School: Where Language Becomes Educational Inequality

The most significant arena for the reproduction of linguistic discrimination is public education. A non-Persian-speaking child who encounters a non-native language as the language of instruction from the first day of primary school must often simultaneously “learn the language” and “learn the content.” Critics argue that this situation lowers the quality of learning and widens the educational gap between Persian-speaking central regions and national/peripheral regions. This gap later becomes reflected in dropout rates, access to higher education, and opportunities in the labor market.

The United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child emphasizes children’s right to preserve their cultural and linguistic identity, and Iran is a signatory to this treaty. From the critics’ perspective, the structural deprivation of mother-tongue education—or reducing it to a symbolic level—is inconsistent with the spirit of these commitments.

Administration and Courts: When Language Becomes a Legal Barrier

The official language in Iran is the language of the state, the courts, and the bureaucracy. For millions of non-Persian citizens, this means that in sensitive situations—from filing complaints and seeking justice to handling administrative matters—they must speak in a language other than their mother tongue. In such circumstances, misunderstanding legal terminology or being unable to articulate one’s case precisely can result in anything from “miscommunication” to “injustice.” Many activists argue that language functions not merely as a communicative barrier but as an obstacle to equal access to public services and justice.

Persian: Common Language or Instrument of Colonialism?

No discussion of linguistic discrimination is complete without a key clarification: for many critics, the issue is not the existence of the Persian language nor its beauty and richness. The issue is that within Iran’s political-administrative structure, Persian has shifted from being a “common language” to becoming a “language of domination,” while other languages are reduced, at best, to “local,” “ethnic,” or “secondary” status. As a result, Persian becomes a form of social and class capital for part of society, while other languages become markers of marginalization.

Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, in Decolonising the Mind, reminds us that language carries culture; when a language is weakened, the link between the new generation and its historical and cultural memory also weakens. Many non-Persian families in Iran’s major cities face what might be called a “linguistic-cultural rupture”: children who gradually abandon their mother tongue and, with it, part of their family’s cultural world fades.

From Kurdistan to Baluchistan: An Issue Beyond One Language

Although the Kurdish experience is particularly prominent in discussions of language and media, the issue is not confined to a single region. From Azerbaijani Turks to Arabs of Khuzestan, from Turkmen communities to Baluch people, wherever citizens’ mother tongues differ from the state’s official language, the same question arises: Can a state have a common language without marginalizing others? Must “national unity” come at the cost of eroding linguistic and cultural diversity?

As long as language in Iran functions not as a bridge of communication but as a “boundary of privilege,” social and cultural divides will continue to be reproduced. Ultimately, the language question is a question of civic equality: whether citizens of a country can, without abandoning their mother tongue, access quality education, free media, equal employment opportunities, and judicial justice.