Chest-beating (sīne-zanī), in which the palm strikes the chest as a gesture of grief, is one of the most widespread forms of mourning for Imam Hossein (Nakash 1993). This chapter examines chest-beating as part of a broader continuum of practices within the politics of sound culture in contemporary Iran. Through ethnographic analysis, it illustrates how music and dance are regulated by the state, and how shifting boundaries of acceptability have shaped an ongoing negotiation between the state and the people. In doing so, it demonstrates that Hossein’s mourning rituals are deeply embedded in the politics of sound culture.
The chain-beating ritual described at the end of Chapter 2 illustrates that drums are used in mourning processions as part of Hossein’s mourning rituals, and that the maddāḥ (religious singer) sings nowḥe (lamentations) to which participants beat chains against their bodies. Since some rituals integrate both music and bodily movement in coordination with sound, these practices can be understood as a form of sound culture—a communicative whole created through sound (Kawada 1997), or alternatively, as “musicking,” where music is not a passive object of listening but an active, place-sharing practice (Small 1998).
This perspective may seem counterintuitive, given that music and dance are not unconditionally encouraged in many Islamic societies and have at times been explicitly banned. Since the Iranian Revolution, which imposed strict limitations on the use of public space, sound culture—including music and dance—has occupied a complex and ambivalent status within Iranian society. Song and dance have long been associated with mobilization and have therefore been subject to state restriction, not only in Iran but also in other parts of the world (Levi 1994).
In response to such controls, people adopt what de Certeau (1984) calls “tactics”—improvised and situated practices that oppose the “strategies” employed by governing powers to regulate populations. To understand the specificity of the Iranian case, it is necessary to examine how the logic of state governance over music and dance intertwines with Islamic conceptions of their moral and religious status—and how people negotiate between these two frameworks.
Since the Iranian Revolution, certain forms of music and dance have been restricted in public spaces in Iran. Many singers who were popular before the
Such stories are frequently covered by Western media and often taken up by human rights organizations as examples of cultural repression. However, it is not my intention to assess the validity of these criticisms here. Rather, I aim to highlight the limitations of interpreting Iranian society through such headlines alone. While it is true that music and dance are subject to legal regulation or even prohibition, the enforcement of these laws and the social consequences of violating them vary widely depending on local context.
If one relies solely on media reports, without considering how terms like “ban,” “regulation,” and “arrest” operate within Iranian society, one risks adopting a stereotypical image of an oppressed population living under a joyless, authoritarian regime. This image, however, fails to capture the complex and often subtle realities of everyday life in Iran. This chapter, therefore, seeks to offer an ethnographic perspective on the dynamism of sound culture in contemporary Iran—one that is rarely visible in such external representations—by attending to the nuanced bodily practices I encountered during my fieldwork.
The Politics of Regulating Sound Culture in the Islamic Republic
While sound culture is regulated in post-revolutionary Iran, this does not mean it holds little significance in everyday life. Iran has long-standing traditions of music and dance that predate the revolution, and many of these practices persist in transformed or concealed forms. Sound-related activities—categorized broadly under “music” and “dance”—continue to generate political meaning and negotiation.
In this section, I explore how the dynamics between the state and the public are mediated through practices of music and dance, and how debates surrounding sound culture are situated within Islamic discursive traditions. In particular, I consider how the state seeks to regulate bodily expression, especially dance, and how people respond through everyday “tactics” that create
One of the driving forces behind the Iranian Revolution was a backlash against Western cultural influence, known as “westoxification” (gharb-zadegī) (Ale-Ahmad 1997), which was perceived to have permeated Iranian society during the Pahlavi regime (1925–79). In 1979, in a speech addressed to state radio employees, Supreme Leader Khomeini juxtaposed music and opium, describing both as harmful and calling for the elimination of music from radio programming. Following the revolution, most forms of music disappeared from the mass media, and music schools across the country were shut down (Siamdoust 2017: 6–7).
The new regime also empowered the Basij2—a voluntary militia under the command of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC)—to confiscate musical instruments and sound equipment. These forms of enforcement were justified by reference to the 1979 Constitution of the Islamic Republic. Article 4 of the Constitution states that “all civil, penal, financial, economic, administrative, cultural, military, political, and other laws and regulations shall be based on Islamic standards.” Furthermore, the interpretation of this principle is delegated to the Islamic jurists of the Guardian Council.
The Guardian Council is composed of six Islamic jurists and six legal jurists. According to Article 91(2) of the Constitution, the Council is tasked with ensuring that all legislation conforms to Islamic principles. Since its members are appointed by the Supreme Leader, their interpretations of Islamic law ultimately reflect the ideological orientation of the ruling authority. In this way, the constitutional framework facilitates top-down cultural regulation—including that of music—in accordance with the Supreme Leader’s conception of Islamic propriety.
However, the status of music in Islamic law remains controversial. The Quran contains no explicit reference to music, and as a result, its permissibility has historically been a matter of debate among Islamic jurists—not only within Shia thought but across the broader Islamic tradition. According to Amnon Shiloah, author of Music in the World of Islam, the major Sunni and Shia schools of law today agree on the prohibition of solo singing by women. Beyond that, however, interpretations diverge: some authorities advocate a
Siamdoust (2017: 7–8), an Iranian scholar based in the United States and author of Soundtrack of the Revolution, notes that prominent medieval scholars such as Ghazali, Farabi, and Avicenna generally held positive views of music, and that later figures—including Khomeini—drew on these perspectives. Importantly, judgments about the acceptability of particular musical forms are often based not on the nature of the music itself, but on the intentions and context of the listener.
To understand the place of music in contemporary Iran, it is essential to review the structure of legal authority in Twelver Shiism. In Sunni Islam—the largest branch of Islam—there are four recognized schools of jurisprudence, and individuals are generally expected to follow one of them. As a result, the authority to interpret Islamic law is relatively decentralized.
In contrast, Twelver Shiism divides its adherents into two categories: mujtahids (ar., “those who are followed”) and muqallids (ar., “those who follow”). Mujtahids are scholars who have studied at seminaries (ḥowze-ye ʿelmīye) in cities such as Qom (Iran) or Najaf (Iraq), and who possess the authority to independently interpret Islamic law. Among them, the highest-ranking jurists are known as marjaʿe taqlīd (“sources of emulation” or “religio-juristic authorities”), whose authority is based on mutual scholarly recognition and financial support from followers.
Laypersons who lack the qualifications to interpret the law are expected to choose a religio-juristic authority and adhere to his legal opinions. For practical guidance in everyday matters, they may consult the Clarification of Questions (Towżīḥ al-Masāʾel), a collection of rulings compiled by a religio-juristic authority. Alternatively, they may visit the local office of a religious authority or consult its website, where legal opinions (ar., fatwā) are increasingly published in response to frequently asked questions. For Shia Muslims who seek to act “correctly,” reliance on such religio-juristic authorities serves as a primary means of understanding and conforming to religious and social norms.
Needless to say, these practices function as general principles, and various other factors must be taken into account. First, the recognition of a religio-juristic authority is inherently relative as it depends on mutual acknowledgment among such authorities themselves. A jurist who is regarded and respected as a religio-juristic authority in one region may not be recognized as such by others elsewhere. Second, the reasons why laypersons choose a particular religio-juristic authority vary considerably. Some may select an authority whose political orientation aligns with their own, others may be influenced by shared regional origin, reputation, or public visibility. Third, not all laypersons
In any case, given the structure of legal authority in Twelver Shiism, it can be assumed that religio-juristic authorities hold differing views on the permissibility of music, and that laypersons may follow the interpretation of one authority among several. However, such pluralism is largely confined to the private sphere, where individuals may act according to personal belief. In contrast, the public sphere operates under the authority of the state, where the permissibility of music is determined not by juristic diversity but by centralized power. The criteria for what is allowed or forbidden are shaped by the views of the Supreme Leader, reflecting the hierarchical structure of the Islamic Republic’s governing apparatus.
Siamdoust (2017) argues that while Khomeini provided general criteria for acceptable music, he also left room for interpretation. In his early writings, Khomeini distinguished between music that constitutes ghināʾ (ar.)—and is therefore forbidden—and music that does not. According to Islamic legal tradition, ghināʾ is a type of vocal performance characterized by throat singing that induces a state of ṭarab (ar.), in which the listener becomes “overly enraptured and excited due to immense ecstasy, or overly stressed and perturbed due to immense sadness” (Irani 1370 [1991/92]: 96, cited in Siamdoust 2017: 91). This emotional state can also be triggered by musical instruments. Ghināʾ is typically associated with “congregational outings of entertainment and vanity.” However, certain forms of singing are exempt from this prohibition. These include performances that “remind the human being of righteousness … such as songs of lamentation and Quran recitation and the songs of camel herders for camels and [songs] in weddings” (Irani 1370 [1991/92]: 103, quoted in Siamdoust 2017: 91). Thus, whether a given performance constitutes ghināʾ depends not only on the musical form itself but also on its social and emotional context.
Khomeini defined music (mūsīqī) as the sound produced by musical instruments, provided it is not intended for assemblies of entertainment and vanity. In his final fatwa on the broadcasting of music via television and radio, issued in 1988, he declared that music which induces ṭarab is forbidden, while voices that are merely “suspicious” are not necessarily prohibited. In Khomeini’s view, the determination of whether a piece of music causes ṭarab rests solely with the listener (Siamdoust 2017: 91). However, as noted earlier, this discretion is not granted in practice. In Iran, the evaluation of what constitutes ṭarab-inducing
Negotiating the Boundaries of Acceptable Music
While the state judges and regulates music based on Islamic law, the way it enforces these rules reveals fluctuations in what categories of music are considered prohibited. As noted earlier, following the revolution, Khomeini strongly condemned the harmful effects of music. However, his intention was not to condemn all forms of music as inherently forbidden. In fact, even before Khomeini’s speech on music, songs (sorūd) promoting themes such as revolution, freedom, and independence had already begun circulating among the public. These songs were produced by leftist groups and classical Persian musicians, and they played a significant role in mobilizing support for the revolution. After the revolution, many of these revolutionary songs—often characterized by heroic themes and male vocals—continued to be broadcast on television and radio. Examples include Iran, Iran (īrān īrān), Tears of this Freedom (īn bang-e āzādī), Arise (barkhīzīd) and Khomeini, oh leader (khomeinī ey emām). These songs were deemed acceptable because they fell outside the category of music prohibited by Khomeini (Siamdoust 2017).
On May 1, 1979, the assassination of Morteza Motahhari3—a close disciple of Khomeini and a key intellectual architect of the Islamic Republic—marked a turning point in the public treatment of music. In response to his death, the state broadcaster aired a song titled Pure Martyr (shahīd-e moṭahhar, a play on the words motaḥar (pure) and Motahhari, his surname. The song was performed in a traditional Iranian musical style, distinct from the revolutionary songs previously sanctioned by the state. Its broadcast reportedly shocked individuals who identified as ḥezbollahī (partisans of God), devout supporters of the Iranian Revolution. Siamdoust (2017: 89–90) recounts the reflections of a female sociologist at the University of Tehran. Upon hearing the news of Motahhari’s death, she and her companions—who had covered themselves in black chador (a cloth garment or cloak)—entered a shop for lunch. When Pure Martyr began playing on the television, the atmosphere shifted: customers
This example illustrates how the boundaries of permissible music in Iran have expanded. Khomeini’s approval of Pure Martyr as acceptable marked a shift in the state’s stance, whereby certain forms of music previously deemed prohibited or illegal were reclassified as permissible. Notably, while music is often prohibited in principle, pieces that align with the ideological aims of the Islamic Republic—such as those glorifying the state or its leaders—are not considered ghināʾ and are thus permitted. In this way, the criteria for what constitutes acceptable music are not fixed but are shaped by the political and religious utility of the performance.
However, this example also sheds light on the nature of power at work in the Islamic Republic. First, the women in Siamdoust’s case study represent subjects who internalized the belief that certain genres of music were immoral and sought to avoid them in everyday life. Like the participants in the Egyptian piety movement described by Mahmood (2005), they absorbed Khomeini’s prohibition of music and enacted it by physically removing themselves from its presence.
Second, while music is sometimes listened to collectively—as in the case of dancing discussed later—it is generally treated as a private, individual act. The prohibition of music, when seen from its religious dimension, thus reflects a form of power akin to what Michel Foucault (1977) describes in Discipline and Punish: one in which individuals, like prisoners under panoptic surveillance, internalize disciplinary norms and regulate themselves. For those who recognize Khomeini as their religio-juristic authority, the criteria for what counts as impermissible music become a matter of self-assessment and self-imposed restriction.
Third, these examples show that individuals who have adopted stricter interpretations of Islamic law than those enforced by the state can experience a sense of betrayal or disorientation when the scope of acceptable music is expanded at the national level. This dissonance becomes particularly visible in social settings—such as when people are gathered in public—where the behavior of others highlights the divergence between personal and institutional norms.
The expansion of acceptable music in Iran has not been driven solely by its alignment with the ideology of the Islamic Republic. As Youssefzadeh (2000) notes, following the end of the Iran–Iraq War in 1988, musical concerts began to reappear as calls for greater cultural freedom spread throughout the country. By 1989, the global political landscape had shifted: the Soviet Union’s
Scholars have often observed that the Islamic Republic simultaneously embraces two seemingly contradictory principles: Islam as a universal ideology that transcends the nation-state, and Iranian nationalism, which in many ways stands in tension with that universalism. For example, the Shāh-nāme—a literary epic closely associated with pre-Islamic Persian heritage—was initially removed from school curricula after the revolution due to its association with the Pahlavi regime. However, by the 1990s, it had been reintroduced into textbooks (Sakurai 1999: 247). Elements from the Shāh-nāme have also appeared in cultural productions sponsored by the Islamic Republic (Bajoghli 2019: 108). As the post-revolutionary political and social landscape has evolved, musical forms that were once heavily restricted have been gradually accepted—particularly when they serve the broader purpose of reinforcing the legitimacy and continuity of the Islamic Republic.4
A telling example that supports this interpretation is the case of Mohammad Reza Shajarian, a celebrated Iranian national singer who passed away in October 2020. Shajarian had been active before the 1979 revolution and chose to remain in Iran afterward, earning widespread popular support. Although he largely refrained from overt political engagement, his musical style—rooted in Persian classical traditions—aligned with the regime’s anti-Western cultural posture and its opposition to foreign music. However, in 2009, Shajarian was banned from state media after publicly protesting the violent suppression of the Green Movement, a domestic reform initiative (Siamdoust 2017: 63–85).
Incidentally, the ambiguity inherent in Islamic legal standards has played a key role in the expansion of acceptable music within the Islamic Republic. This ambiguity has also posed challenges for officials tasked with determining the permissibility of specific musical pieces. In an effort to reduce such uncertainty, the Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting (IRIB),6 the state-owned media outlet, issued an internal manual in 2011 that outlined Supreme Leader Khamenei’s views on music (Siamdoust 2017: 92–94). However, this attempt to codify standards did not eliminate ambiguity entirely. Even in cases where prohibitions seemed explicit—such as the ban on solo female singing—exceptions emerged. For example, an IRIB official sought guidance from Khamenei on whether a religious song featuring a solo female voice could be broadcast. Despite criticism from other Islamic jurists outside the organization, Khamenei approved its airing on the grounds that it was religious in nature. This episode illustrates how the regulation of music continues to be a contested issue within the Islamic discursive tradition, subject to divergent interpretations even at the highest levels of religious authority.
As discussed, music was restricted by the state following the Iranian Revolution in accordance with Islamic principles. However, both within the Islamic discursive tradition and in Iranian society more broadly, debates have persisted regarding the scope of permissible music. Public music, in particular, has been subject to strict regulation aligned with the views of the Supreme Leader. Despite this, the boundaries of what is considered Islamically acceptable music have shifted over time—not by altering the official standards, but through gradual reinterpretation and selective enforcement. Initially, religious music, especially songs praising the Islamic Republic, was permitted. Subsequently, patriotic and local music also became acceptable, provided it could
It is not uncommon for certain music genres to be banned under authoritarian regimes. For example, during Nazi rule in Germany, jazz was initially banned as a form of cultural decadence. However, due to its widespread popularity, censorship was inconsistently enforced, and the genre continued to circulate (Levi 1994). In the case of the Islamic Republic, musical regulations are grounded in Islamic law. Yet the ambiguity of Islamic principles has allowed room for reinterpretation—particularly when the regime sees instrumental value in harnessing music’s popular appeal. From an Islamic perspective, listening to music is considered an individual practice. As such, while some may adopt strict personal standards—such as the female sociologist at the University of Tehran—those who do not are difficult to regulate. In practice, no matter how much music is officially banned, the proliferation of mobile media and the Internet has made enforcement nearly impossible.
The interplay between state prohibition and popular communality can be further illuminated through the lens of anthropologist Makoto Oda (1997), who describes the “synecdochical imagination” as a core feature of the modern nation-state. This imagination seeks to forge a direct, unmediated connection between the whole (the state or religious order) and the individual. In contrast, Oda highlights a different form of social relation—what he calls the “metonymical imagination”—which emerges from localized, embodied links among individuals. In Iran, the synecdochical imagination is evident in the state’s regulation of music based on Khomeini’s interpretations of Islamic law. The regime aims to align universal Islamic norms with individual behavior, encouraging subjects to internalize and reproduce these norms independently. Conversely, communal practices like dancing generate a metonymical form of sociality. As a physical act synchronized to music, dance brings people together in shared spaces, where a sense of community emerges through bodily rhythm and co-presence. This kind of grassroots communality competes with the synecdochical logic of the state. It creates spaces that are not easily absorbed into the state’s normative framework and may be subject to surveillance, as seen in the earlier example of the female sociologist. In response, the state develops what de Certeau (1987) calls strategies—systematic efforts to manage and contain such unruly collectivities. Yet it is precisely within these spaces that people develop tactics: everyday, creative practices that elude state control. The next section explores this tension more concretely by examining the case of dance.
A dynamic similar to the regulation of music—and the societal responses to it—can also be observed in the case of dance (raqṣ), which has a long and complex history in Iran. Even before the Islamization of the region, dance functioned as a form of entertainment in non-religious ceremonies. Following Islamization, it continued to be valued in royal courts. While dance remained popular in private spaces, it did not enjoy a positive reputation as a public art form. During the reign of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi (1941–79), however, efforts were made to legitimize dance as a formal art. Government support was extended to dance associations and performers, and dance became visible in public venues—performed both informally by ordinary citizens for entertainment and professionally as public spectacle (Mozafari 2013).
In Islamic doctrine, dancing is generally prohibited, except under specific circumstances. As Ida Meftahi (2016) explains in Gender and Dance in Modern Iran, medieval Islamic thought classified beings according to their dominant traits: angels were associated with “intellect or reason” (ʿaql), while the “evil-inciting self” (nafs-e ammare) was linked to “sexual desire” (shahvat) and “carnal desires” (havā va havas)—traits also attributed to animals. Indulging in sexual desire, according to this framework, reduces the human to the level of animals, whereas mastery of desire through the exercise of reason elevates one toward the angelic. The moral implication is clear: reason must govern the body (Meftahi 2016: 138). In this context, modern Islamic interpretations tend to view dance as an activity governed by shahvat rather than ʿaql, and thus classify it as morally impermissible.
According to Khamenei, dancing by men is strictly forbidden, while dancing by women is permitted only under specific conditions. To understand these restrictions, it is important first to outline the Islamic categories governing inter-gender relations. In Islamic law, social relationships are divided into two categories: maḥram and nāmaḥram (Haeri 1989). A maḥram is someone with whom marriage is religiously forbidden due to close blood relations. From a man’s perspective, this includes women in his direct family line—such as his mother, grandmother, daughter, granddaughter, sister, and paternal or maternal aunts. In interactions between maḥram individuals, women are not required to wear the hijab. In contrast, nāmaḥram refers to those with whom marriage is permissible. In such cases, Islamic norms mandate practices such as hijab and gender segregation in order to prevent physical and visual contact between unrelated men and women.
In Khamenei’s opinion, women are also discouraged from dancing for other women when the purpose is entertainment—for example, at gatherings organized specifically for dancing. The act is prohibited if it incites sexual desire, is
Nonetheless, certain forms of staged dance are conditionally recognized as art—particularly when performed as “graceful movement” (ḥarakat-e mowzūn) (Meftahi 2016). As with music, regulations surrounding dance remain ambiguous. The boundaries of what is permissible are loosely defined, and decisions regarding approval are often left to local police or the individual responsible for the venue. This regulatory ambiguity has led to diverse practices and interpretations, as individuals and communities navigate the uncertain space between prohibition and permission in their engagement with dance.
As with the act of listening to music, there are cases in which an event may be interpreted as “dancing” and subject to regulation, even if the participants themselves have no such intention. In central Tehran stands the enormous Mossallah mosque, built to accommodate collective worship and often used for large public events, such as book fairs. On May 26, 2018, a performance took place there featuring a group of deaf female students.8 They used sign language to present a program about the eighth Shia Imam, Reza (Rida), and the holy month of Ramadan. The performance was accompanied by music and male vocalists. However, at the conclusion of the second segment, the event was halted because the women’s bodily movements were deemed to “resemble dancing.” This case illustrates how individuals can be censured not for their intent, but for how their physical gestures are perceived—according to standards that are, at times, stringently or even excessively applied by those in charge of the venue.
The regulations surrounding dance and maḥram relationships, as previously discussed, represent idealized standards. In everyday practice, the extent to which these rules are observed depends on individual relationships with public authorities, personal beliefs, and the prevailing norms of the surrounding community. This variability opens up space for dance to be practiced in ways
With regard to the first category—public dancing in private spaces—I had the opportunity to attend several types of home parties. One such occasion took place in 2019, when I was invited to a lunchtime party (mehmānī) at the home of a married couple living in Saadat Abad, a district in north-west Tehran. Among the guests were their friend with his wife and children (whom the hosts had met while living in Malaysia), the couple’s work colleagues at the time, and the wife’s sister—about twenty people in total. Given the normative relationships among the attendees, many of whom were nāmaḥram, women were expected to wear the hijab. After lunch, as guests gathered in small groups and conversed in the living room, music began to play and dancing followed. For roughly an hour, two or three people at a time took turns dancing in the middle of the room, swaying their hands and hips to a mix of pre-revolutionary Iranian pop and songs by Iranian artists based in the United States. Although I was somewhat tired and remained seated at the edge of the room, the hosts encouraged me to join in. Even those who did not dance were expected to participate in some way—for example, by clapping along to the rhythm. Several guests also filmed parts of the dancing with their smartphones. Such gatherings are not uncommon in Iran, particularly on weekends, when relatives and friends are often invited for meals at home. When the hosts do not identify as
Another example of what Mozafari (2013) refers to as private dancing in public spaces (the third category) can be found in Iranian national festivals. Chaharshanbe Suri, a Zoroastrian-origin celebration held on the eve of the last Wednesday of the year, is one such case. Traditionally, the festival involves lighting bonfires and jumping over them as a ritual of purification. In recent years, however, it has also become an occasion—particularly among youth—for public gatherings that feature fireworks, loud music, and spontaneous dancing in city squares and other open spaces. In 2015, I attended Chaharshanbe Suri in Shahrak-e Gharb, a neighborhood in north-west Tehran. Dozens of people had assembled there, playing music from car radios and dancing in the street. When the police discovered the gathering, they quickly dispersed it, prompting the participants to flee.
As Mozafari (2013: 101) notes, norms surrounding national festivals tend to expand among Iranians, and practices that begin in private spaces may gradually migrate into public ones. As discussed earlier, dancing is prohibited in public places based on Islamic principles, just like music. However, unlike music, which can be experienced individually, dance typically involves collective bodily engagement. This makes it more susceptible to state scrutiny, particularly in a context where power operates through a synecdochical logic—seeking alignment between the individual body and the collective moral order. Nevertheless, there remain occasions—such as national festivals—where public dancing slips outside the effective reach of state control, even if only temporarily.
There is an instance in which dance is practiced in everyday life beyond the effective reach of state regulation. In 2017, I visited the archaeological site of Takht-e Soleiman in West Azerbaijan province with a non-Iranian tourist. On our return, we encountered difficulty finding transport to a nearby town but were eventually offered a ride on a school bus carrying junior high school girls who had been on an excursion to the site. During the ride, several students stood on their seats, dancing and shouting to rhythmic Persian pop music played at high volume. As the bus approached a checkpoint between towns, a middle-aged female teacher stood up and instructed everyone to remain quiet. Once the bus had passed the checkpoint, the loud music resumed, and the students began dancing again. This episode reflects a broader pattern in Iranian society: individuals often adjust their behavior according to context—complying with official norms when necessary, and relaxing those norms when oversight is absent. What is particularly noteworthy here is that this flexible navigation of public decorum appears to be tacitly accepted by authority
As the preceding examples have shown, a pattern of regulation and behavior similar to that found in the case of music also emerges around dance. That is, the boundaries of acceptable dance are defined within the Islamic discursive tradition and physically enforced by the state. However, the criteria for regulation are often vague, and the reach of state power is limited—leaving room for the continuation of dance practices among the populace. Furthermore, because dance is inherently communal, the friction between regulatory efforts and everyday practice becomes particularly visible. Dance as a recreational activity, once permitted before the revolution, remains embedded in the everyday lives of many Iranians and continues to be practiced in diverse settings outside the immediate grasp of public authority. These ethnographic examples of individuals and communities circumventing official restrictions reveal the ongoing tension between state and society.
Drawing on Michel de Certeau’s (1987) distinction between “strategies” and “tactics,” the expressive power of bodily movement—whether through music or dance—can be seen as part of a dynamic interplay. The state enacts “strategies” to discipline and control bodies through religious discourse, while individuals employ “tactics” to engage with music and dance in everyday life, often finding ways to adapt or subvert those restrictions in concrete, localized contexts. Importantly, these “tactics” do not necessarily constitute outright resistance. As Georges Balandier (1992) suggests, “the supreme cunning lies in turning a threat to order into a means of strengthening it” (52). In this light, strict moral norms combined with calculated tolerance may be understood as instruments of governance rather than signs of its failure.
What we have seen so far can be summarized as follows. First, within the Islamic discursive tradition, there is considerable debate about the permissibility and advisability of sound culture. In contemporary Iran, however, state regulations are largely based on the views of the Supreme Leader, who simultaneously serves as a religio-juristic authority. Despite this centralized regulation, the boundaries of what is considered permissible—particularly in relation to music—have gradually expanded. In contrast, dance remains more heavily regulated due to its communal and public nature, which is perceived
The Boundaries of Lamentations and Chest-Beating Rituals
The mourning assembly is a ritual practice centered on the commemoration of Hossein’s martyrdom. One of its most prominent elements is chest- and head-beating, which, according to Nakash (1993), has roots in pre-Islamic Arab expressions of grief. Although the precise form and manner of these actions have evolved over time—and despite historical discontinuities—chest-beating has remained a core feature of Shia mourning rituals since the early development of the Shia community. Today, it is no exaggeration to say that the chest-beating ritual is widely practiced across Iran, making it one of the most recognizable and embodied expressions of public piety within Shia Islam.
In contemporary Iran, the mourning ceremonies organized by heyʾat—groups dedicated to commemorating Hossein—typically follow a standardized sequence. The event begins with a sermon delivered by an Islamic jurist, followed by the rowże-khān’s recitation of the martyrdom narrative, which is delivered in an emotionally charged tone. At this stage, participants often begin to weep. The second half of the ceremony is marked by chest-beating (sīne-zanī), which commences as a maddāḥ (religious singer) performs a lamentation song (nowḥe). This section focuses specifically on the chest-beating ritual that unfolds during this latter portion of the gathering.
Going outside to march is sinful and will not be rewarded. It is better to mourn only in indoor gatherings. This is because we do not go outside to occupy the streets or cause trouble for others. The program of our heyʾat is from 9:00 to 11:00 at night. [Imam] Hossein was martyred for those who pray and do good deeds. But some heyʾats just march in the streets and do chain-beating. They do not even perform prayers. (Interview in Tehran, 3 January 2017)
From the interview, several reasons emerge for the group’s aversion to street marches as a form of mourning ritual. The interviewee explained that processions often block roads, requiring cars to stop as the heyʾat passes. This not only causes significant traffic congestion but also leads to other social issues. For example, food and tea are distributed along the route, and the resulting waste—plastic cups and containers—is frequently discarded near roadside trash bins, contributing to public disorder. Beyond logistical concerns, the interviewee also criticized other heyʾat for failing to integrate prayer into their rituals, thereby neglecting a fundamental Islamic obligation. Members of heyʾat M, by contrast, place emphasis on maintaining both social responsibility and religious integrity. This orientation is reflected in the relatively short duration of their ceremonies—lasting only about two hours—so as not to interfere with family routines or next-day work obligations. In this sense, heyʾat M exemplifies a distinct ethical approach to mourning rituals. While committed to performing commemorative practices, the group seeks to minimize disruption to others and ensure that its actions remain in line with core Islamic duties such as daily prayer.
A chest-beating ritual being performed by heyʾat M in Tehran, 2017
I attended a chest-beating gathering at heyʾat M during a visit in 2017. When the meeting began at 9:00 p.m., the room was already dark, and only a handful of participants had gathered. In the dimly lit space, a maddāḥ sat on a chair holding a microphone. Beside him stood a large man—the caretaker—tasked with guiding the participants through the ritual. The microphone was connected to a sound system, allowing the speaker’s voice to resonate throughout the room. The maddāḥ opened the gathering by narrating a story. Each evening of the ten-day ritual is associated with a particular historical figure linked to the tragedy of Karbala, and the first thirty minutes are typically devoted to recounting events connected to that day’s honored person—encouraging reflection among participants. After this opening segment, a man dressed in a neat suit with a long shawl draped around his neck entered the room and sat next to the maddāḥ. He was the rowże-khān, responsible for reciting the rowże, the martyrdom tale of Hossein.
This distinction between narrative and physical practice became even more evident in how participants gathered. Once the rowże concluded, heyʾat M’s main ritual—the chest-beating—began. By this point, the room had filled with around fifty participants. The caretaker instructed the maddāḥ to stand side by side with him. As the maddāḥ began singing a lamentation, everyone sat down and started beating their chests with their right hands, synchronized to a steady rhythm—dah, dah, dah. At various moments, participants were required to echo phrases sung by the maddāḥ. To guide them, the caretaker would first pre-chant these lines, allowing the group to respond in unison. The tempo of the lamentations alternated between acceleration and deceleration, shaping the ritual’s intensity. Some participants stood up and began striking their chests with both hands in a more forceful rhythm. At one point, the caretaker led a chant of “[Ho]ssein, [Ho]ssein” using a form of voice percussion. As the energy in the room rose, several participants removed their shirts and continued to beat their bare chests. When I joined the chest-beating myself, the heat and exertion caused me to sweat heavily. This combination of ritual song and dense, synchronized movement created a visceral sense of unity. The practice continued for about an hour. At the conclusion of the session, the maddāḥ offered a prayer of supplication, followed by blessings for the
The style of assembly observed at heyʾat M—marked by intense, sustained chest-beating—is often referred to as shūr-e tond (“intensely emotional”) or sabk-e jadīd (“new style”) (Rahmani 1393 [2014/15]). The defining feature of this style is the predominance of physical expression—particularly through chest-beating—over discursive elements such as sermons or narrative recitation. As noted earlier, heyʾat mourning ceremonies are typically expected to begin with a sermon delivered by an Islamic jurist. However, this component was absent at heyʾat M. The participants there appeared to prioritize bodily engagement over attentive listening, as evidenced by their intense synchronization with the rhythm, their use of echoed chants and sound effects, and the immersive, almost oblivious nature of the performance. While chest-beating is often situated within the discourse of the Karbala Paradigm—as a physical enactment of the martyrdom narrative—this case suggests a reversal of emphasis. Here, embodied action appears to take precedence over the discursive content it is meant to convey, indicating a shift in the relationship between narrative and physical participation in contemporary ritual practice.
While this style of chest-beating is now practiced in various settings across Iran, its emergence is closely tied to broader social changes following the 1979 Iranian Revolution. According to Iranian anthropologist Jabar Rahmani (1393 [2014/15]), the figure widely credited with introducing the “new style”) is the maddāḥ Nariman Panahi, who rose to prominence in 1995. Prior to this shift, the central elements of Hossein’s mourning rituals were rowże recitations and sermons by Islamic jurists, with chest-beating playing only a supporting role. Panahi’s approach, by contrast, foregrounded intense lamentation and vigorous chest-beating, which quickly gained popularity among the general public. However, this new style was regarded as unorthodox by religious conservatives and traditional maddāḥs. Tensions escalated after Panahi publicly opposed a fatwa issued by Supreme Leader Khamenei that forbade self-flagellation rituals (see Chapter 5). In the wake of this controversy, Panahi was marginalized: he disappeared from public events, heyʾat ceased inviting him, and he was excluded from state-run media. Despite this official censure, his recordings—particularly CD s and other media—continued to circulate widely. Over time,
An interesting perspective on the “new style”—particularly its forceful chest-beating and rhythmic chanting of “[Ho]ssein, [Ho]ssein”11—is found in a statement by Supreme Leader Khamenei. In it, he expresses concern that Hossein’s mourning rituals should serve as a site of moral and religious instruction, rather than merely a space for physical exhaustion. Nevertheless, the new style has not been officially prohibited, nor has it been actively policed by the state. Khamenei’s comments thus read as a critical judgment: a clear preference for discursive learning over embodied expression. Yet, because the style resonates so strongly with popular sentiment and participation, it appears to be tacitly tolerated. This tension underscores a broader dynamic within Iranian ritual culture—where religious authority may seek to prioritize discourse, but popular practice continues to gravitate toward physicality as the more immediate and emotionally compelling form of engagement.
As with the tensions discussed earlier regarding religious principles and popular practices around music and dance, similar contradictions can be observed in the context of chest-beating rituals. While Hossein’s mourning rituals are fundamentally sanctioned within Shia Islam, the act of chest-beating—due to its performative, rhythmic, and sometimes ecstatic nature—occupies a space that borders on the kinds of bodily practices typically discouraged or forbidden by Islamic norms, such as music and dance. Nonetheless, chest-beating is widely tolerated. This is largely because it enjoys broad popular support and plays a crucial role in fostering emotional engagement and participation in the rituals. In other words, although it resides in a gray area from the standpoint of Islamic jurisprudence, its practical and affective efficacy ensures its continued place within accepted ritual life.
Massive Chest-Beating Rallies
As a further example, I turn to a large-scale chest-beating rally held in the Chizar neighborhood of northern Tehran. This site centers around the mausoleum of Emamzadeh Ali Akbar, which stands adjacent to a cemetery for those killed in the Iran–Iraq War. Dedicated to the shahīd (a martyr; see Chapter 4),
Massive chest-beating ritual at the mausoleum in Chizar, 2017
During Muharram, the ḥoseynīye undergoes a significant expansion to accommodate the large crowds it draws. The mausoleum grounds are draped in black cloth, and even the adjacent cemetery is carpeted to allow participants to perform rituals there. Security is tight. At the entrance—also covered in black cloth—members of the Basij conduct strict checks, limiting the entry of large bags and directing visitors to leave their belongings in a designated storage area. A large digital screen is installed beside the mausoleum compound, broadcasting the rituals taking place inside to those outside. On the outer carpeted space, women—dressed in black chadors—are also permitted to perform the chest-beating ritual. This arrangement creates a layered ritual geography that accommodates both gender separation and mass participation, extending the affective reach of the ceremony beyond the inner sanctum.
Another factor that draws participants to the Rāya al-ʿAbbās rallies is the collective intensity of the chest-beating ritual, performed by a large crowd. When I attended in 2017, the rituals began at 4:00 p.m. and concluded around 7:30 p.m. By the time Mahmoud Karimi finished his performance, roughly a third of the participants had already left. Inside the mausoleum building, the space was dimly lit with red lighting. A maddāḥ sang from the rear of the room, but the interior was so crowded that many participants had to remain outside. There, people gathered around a large screen to watch the performance. In the women’s section, participants dressed in chador beat their chests along with the rhythm of the lamentation. This is particularly noteworthy given that in many smaller heyʾats, women often remain spectators—or are excluded entirely, as the rituals are performed by men in gender-segregated spaces. In contrast, this state-supported setting allowed women to participate bodily and visibly in the ritual. The example suggests that rituals subject to greater regime intervention can, somewhat paradoxically, offer more gender-inclusive spaces than smaller, locally rooted ones. In such public and highly mediated settings, the state’s interest in symbolic inclusivity and spectacle may override traditional norms of gender separation.
Inside the mausoleum, participants—many dressed in black—stood shoulder to shoulder in the densely packed space, listening attentively to the maddāḥ. When he reached a particularly tragic moment in the narrative, he began to sob. In response, some participants bowed their heads in grief, gently striking their foreheads with their hands. As the lamentations intensified, the crowd began beating their chests in unison. Compared to the more spontaneous atmosphere of heyʾat M, this gathering felt much more controlled and
The lamentation songs performed by well-known maddāḥs during large-scale chest-beating rituals are often newly composed pieces. These are recorded and circulated as CD s or digital audio files. Many people acquire these recordings and use them in rituals held by their local heyʾat. They are also commonly played in public spaces such as taxis, especially during the month of Muharram. The widespread dissemination and casual integration of these lamentations into everyday soundscapes suggests a striking parallel with popular music culture. Much like live music events, large chest-beating gatherings featuring celebrated maddāḥs offer participants a kind of collective catharsis—an emotionally charged experience shared with others who have gathered for a common purpose. Yet a crucial difference remains: these are religious events. This raises an important question central to the politics of sound in Iran—how are lamentations (nowḥe) distinguished from “music” (mūsīqī)? In a context where certain forms of music are regulated or prohibited on religious grounds, the classification of sound as either sacred lament or secular entertainment becomes both politically charged and culturally consequential.
Continuity between Popular Music and Lamentation Songs
Nowḥe (lamentation) derives from the Arabic word nawḥa, meaning “expression of grief” or “weeping in song.” In the Shia context, the term specifically refers to religious mourning songs, and it is sometimes used interchangeably with mars̱īye. As noted earlier, lamentations are categorized within Islamic discourse as a form of music that is religiously tolerated. This is because they are not considered ghināʾ—a term used to describe music that elicits sensual pleasure or emotional excitement, and which is generally prohibited. In principle, anyone in Iran may perform as a maddāḥ (religious singer). However, when a heyʾat registers officially with a government body (see Chapter 2), it is required to list a maddāḥ who is registered with the “Maddāḥ Association” (kānūn-e maddāhān). This system effectively institutionalizes lamentation performance and links it to state-sanctioned religious regulation.
What, then, are the Islamic standards for a maddāḥ? According to Supreme Leader Khamenei, the essential qualities of a maddāḥ include honesty and restraint. Specifically, the maddāḥ must “not lie” and should “avoid exaggeration.” In practice, this means refraining from unrealistic portrayals of the heroic traits of Imam Hossein and other Shia figures. It also entails avoiding foul or abusive language when referring to figures considered enemies of Shia
The situation is notably different for female maddāḥs. In response to a question about whether it is problematic for nāmaḥram men to hear women’s lamentations, weeping, and mourning, Supreme Leader Khamenei stated that such acts are objectionable only if they attract attention or lead to corruption involving nāmaḥram men. If they do not reach that level, they are not inherently problematic.12 Despite this conditional allowance, the regime generally discourages nāmaḥram men from hearing women’s weeping and mourning voices. As a result, female maddāḥs in Iran typically perform only in women-only gatherings. This spatial and auditory segregation reflects broader norms of gender separation in public religious performance and illustrates how sound itself becomes a medium through which gender boundaries are maintained.
The melodies of lamentation songs used in street processions and chest-beating rituals are often imitated (taqlīd) from popular music. One recurring example is the use of the melody from the song The Abomination of the Age (Rosvā-ye Zamāne). I frequently heard lamentations based on this melody during Ashura day processions in my neighborhood in 2017, as well as at a ḥoseynīye for Azari speakers near the Grand Bazaar in Tehran on the night of Ashura in 2018.13 Originally composed before the Iranian Revolution by Homayoun Khorram (1930–2013), the song was first performed by the female singer Elahe and later became widely known through covers by artists such as Shakila and Alireza Ghorbani. The song was not aired on state-run media but was privately circulated and enjoyed, illustrating how such music continues to circulate outside official channels. Beyond this specific example,
These examples illustrate an interesting fact. As described in the previous sections, music is judged individually as to whether it is Islamically acceptable. However, this is not based on the sequences of pitches and physical movements that accompany the music. Therefore, a song that would be illegal to play in public as music may become religiously acceptable if its melody is accompanied by lamentation lyrics. As such, lamentations are closely related to the sound culture of Iranian society (i.e., music and accompanying physical movements). Lament songs and their accompanying bodily movements that aim to guide people religiously and cultivate Shia sensibilities, partly harness the power of music and dance to inspire people as this is useful for the regime. In the Islamic Republic, in an attempt to superimpose the Islamic discursive tradition and state governance on the people, the politics of sound culture also enter into religious rituals, and these rituals can change.
The Expanding Boundaries of Ritual
The first half of this chapter explored the politics of sound culture in the Islamic Republic of Iran, focusing on how music and dance have been regulated and contested within both legal and everyday contexts. The second half extended this discussion to the domain of religious ritual, examining how lamentation songs and chest-beating practices—though officially sanctioned—are shaped by the same political and cultural dynamics that affect secular sound practices. This final section brings together insights from both parts, summarizing the key arguments and outlining their theoretical implications. These reflections also serve as a bridge to the following chapters, where the themes of embodiment, religious affect, and ritual regulation are further developed.
Iranian society has long maintained rich traditions of music and dance, even prior to modernization. Under the Pahlavi dynasty, Western musical influence became increasingly prominent. In response, the Islamic Republic introduced a sharp division between what is considered “Islamic” and what is
The chest-beating rituals that form part of Hossein’s mourning ceremonies are embedded within the broader politics of sound culture, yet they also reflect a more complex dynamic. The emergence of the so-called “new style” of chest-beating—characterized by emotionally charged lamentation songs performed by maddāḥs and accompanied by forceful bodily movements—initially met resistance from religious conservatives. Nevertheless, as this style gained widespread popularity among the public, it has come to be tolerated, particularly when framed as promoting Islam. This case illustrates a central tension within the Islamic discursive tradition: the negotiation between the authority of religio-juristic authorities and the affective preferences of lay participants over the boundaries of permissible sound. The adaptation of popular music melodies into religious lamentations further highlights this ambiguity. Songs once prohibited in public settings may be rendered acceptable when recontextualized with religious lyrics and ritual purpose. In the Islamic Republic—where the state plays a key role in sponsoring and promoting religious practices—such transformations demonstrate how the politics of sound culture not only permeate secular domains, but also actively reshape the structure and content of religious ritual.
As this chapter has shown, a state that seeks governance through unmediated links between the whole and the individual perceives communal formations—such as those emerging through dance or religious rituals—as potential threats to its authority. These communal experiences allow for the deployment of what de Certeau calls “tactics,” everyday practices that can
Moreover, as demonstrated throughout this chapter—particularly in the regulation of sound culture and the state’s management of maddāḥs—communal formations that allow for the use of “tactics” often emerge through embodied practices. In response, the state seeks to contain the unpredictability of the body by instrumentalizing discourse as a means of control. In Chapter 5, I turn to self-flagellation rituals, a form of religious performance in which bodily excess reaches its most radical expression. These rituals exemplify how physical movement can not only escape regulation, but also challenge the very mechanisms through which the state seeks to govern religious affect.
“Woman arrested in Iran over Instagram video of her dancing,” The Guardian, 9 July 2018, accessed 6 November 2025: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/jul/08/iran-woman-arrested-instagram-video-dancing.
The official name of the Basij is the Organization for the Mobilization of the Oppressed (sāzmān-e basīj-e mostazʿafīn). It is structured across various sectors, including schools and professional associations, and is involved in organizing state-sponsored events, conducting public service activities, and even participating in security operations (e.g., Golkar 2015).
Before the revolution, Motahhari was a professor at the Faculty of Theology at the University of Tehran and played a prominent role in advancing the revolutionary movement. Following the revolution, he was appointed to the Revolutionary Council but was assassinated by an extremist group opposed to clerical rule.
This example of the survival of a musical genre, banned by an authoritarian regime, by shifting its meaning, is also illustrated in the ethnography of social life in the late Soviet era by the Russian anthropologist Alexei Yurchak. He discussed “performative shift” in which “the performative dimension of ritualized and speech acts rises in importance … while the constative dimension of these acts become open-ended, indeterminate, or simply irrelevant” (Yurchak 2006: 26).
“President mourns the passing of Shajariyan,” Tasnim News, 8 October 2020, acces-sed 6 November 2025: https://www.tasnimnews.com/fa/news/1399/07/17/2365685/رئیس-جمهور-درگذشتِ-شجریان-را-تسلیت-گفت.
Article 110 of the Iranian Constitution grants the Supreme Leader the authority to appoint the head of the IRIB.
Khamenei’s website, “The Dance,” accessed 2 April 2021: https://farsi.khamenei.ir/treatise-content?id=100&pid=100&tid=-1.
“Performances by deaf people in Iran hindered because of similarity to ‘dance’,” BBC, 27 May 2018, accessed 6 November 2025: https://www.bbc.com/persian/iran-44271013.
Their behavior in our presence may have been influenced by the fact that we were foreigners. Had an Iranian accompanied us—particularly someone whose appearance signalled religious piety, such as a man with a beard (although beards can also be a fashion statement) or a woman properly wearing the hijab or dressed in a chador—it is likely the students would have acted differently.
The act of crying is an integral part of the ritual itself, which may prompt the question of whether participants are truly crying or merely performing. Durkheim famously argued that “mourning is not the spontaneous expression of individual emotions” (1915: 397). In contrast, Ebersole (2000: 214; 2002: 344) suggests that the very question of the authenticity of tears arises from the bourgeois individualist ethos of the Enlightenment. In his study of Hossein’s mourning rituals in Isfahan, Thurfjell examines the act of ritual crying and presents two competing interpretations: one that dismisses the act as lacking “real grief” due to its ritual obligation, and another that frames it as a practice of ethical self-cultivation. Thurfjell (2006: 95–129) ultimately argues that the act of crying often reflects a tension between these two poles.
Khamenei’s website, “Answers to legal questions from the audience on the legal provisions of the mourning ritual,” accessed 2 April 2021: https://farsi.khamenei.ir/news-content?id=27988.
“Are Women’s songs harām?,” Khabar online, 2 November 2013, accessed 6 November 2025: https://khabaronline.ir/news/320418.
The ritual involved sitting and beating their chests at a leisurely pace as an accompaniment to the mourning songs. Some of those who were standing wore black clothing with the shoulder blades of their backs hollowed out to reveal their skin and were beating themselves with chains. Some people who had been beating themselves for a long period had purple discoloration of their skin.