In 2009 I was recruited by the BBC World Service and became a journalist for BBC Persian, at the same time that the BBC launched its Persian television channel. In Iran, television is monopolised by the state, so we felt a deep responsibility to our audience. It was a fascinating and intense period, because the BBC became one of the only reliable sources of news about what was truly happening inside Iran.
The Iranian government responded by putting pressure on the families of BBC Persian journalists, including my own relatives. My family has been subjected to interrogations, home raids and confiscation of personal assets, including communication devices such as laptops and phones. On several occasions the authorities tried to manipulate me into returning to Iran. One incident that remains particularly painful involved my elderly father, who had been diagnosed with stage four cancer. After interrogating him, state security officials pressured my younger brother to contact me. He called and asked me to meet him abroad. The intention, I later realised, was to send an agent to confront and intimidate me face to face. A few hours later my brother called again and explained that he had been forced by the Ministry of Interior to make the first call.
Security forces also attempted to influence my journalism directly. My sister was told by officials that I “shouldn’t touch the Supreme Leader and his family” in my reporting. The message was clear: my work was being monitored and my family would pay the price.
Much of the repression I have experienced has taken the form of reputational attacks and defamation. Iranian state actors have used manipulated and deepfake imagery to falsely portray me as a lesbian, knowing that such accusations can carry severe consequences under the current regime. I am not alone in this; many BBC Persian journalists have faced similar campaigns of defamation. My assets in Iran have been frozen, I am prohibited from entering the country, and I have been given criminal status by the authorities.
After leaving the BBC, I founded the AZADI Network in 2023, a non-partisan foundation dedicated to advancing the values of “Women, Life, Freedom” and amplifying the voices of Iranian women. I often describe dissidents as small boats trying to confront a large ship alone. My intention with AZADI was to create a network so that these boats could organise together rather than struggle in isolation.
Through my experiences, I have come to believe that the United Kingdom’s reluctance to adopt a clear legal definition of transnational repression weakens its ability to respond effectively. I have had numerous interactions with the police and other institutions, and I often find that they do not fully understand the nature of the threat because existing structures are not organised to deal with it. One of the reasons I founded AZADI was to provide support and connection for people targeted by the Iranian government, because many of us feel that the British state is not adequately equipped to address the problem. Those who understand transnational repression most clearly are the victims themselves, yet there is often a disconnect between lived experience and official responses.
I am convinced that if the UK government agreed on a formal definition of transnational repression, it would enable institutions to build the organisational capacity needed to create a functioning ecosystem of support and accountability, beginning with genuine collaboration with local communities and civil society actors. At the same time, I recognise the political difficulty of creating a universal framework. States that are friendly to the UK are often treated differently from those considered hostile, even when friendly states commit serious violations on British soil. In my view, there needs to be a system where every offender is treated equally under the law. Only then can transnational repression be addressed with the seriousness and consistency it demands.