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On September 13, 2022, Mahsa Amini, a 22-year-old Kurdish woman, was arrested by Iran’s “Morality Police” for allegedly violating the country’s mandatory Islamic dress code. Her brother was told she would be released after attending a brief “educational” session on Islamic modesty. Instead, three days later, Mahsa died in a hospital—just five days before her 23rd birthday.

Authorities claimed she had suffered a heart attack. They refused to let her father see her body. The Supreme Leader of Iran—who had previously condemned the murder of George Floyd by American police—remained conspicuously silent.

Mahsa’s death sparked an outpouring of rage, igniting widespread protests across Iran. At the heart of this resistance are Iran’s courageous women: burning their headscarves, dancing in public, and cutting their hair as acts of protest and defiance.

But as this movement gained international visibility, some in the West seized the moment to push familiar narratives about the hijab. On one side, secular and right-wing commentators appropriated the tragedy to argue that the hijab is inherently oppressive. On the other, progressive and Muslim activists sought to reassert the agency of Muslim women, reminding us that many freely choose to wear it in Western societies.

Both perspectives miss the mark.

These responses reveal a fundamental misunderstanding—or worse, a disregard—for the realities Iranian women face. Comparing the hijab in Iran to the hijab in Canada, the U.S., or Europe is not only tone-deaf and ill-timed, it is also intellectually dishonest. The two experiences could not be more different.

Context Matters

To understand why, we need to revisit history. In 1979, Iranians—my parents among them—overthrew the Western-backed Shah of Iran. But their democratic hopes were quickly hijacked by a radical theocratic regime. The revolution that promised freedom was swiftly replaced by authoritarianism cloaked in religious dogma.

Almost immediately, the Islamic Republic launched a brutal crackdown on dissent: executing over 20,000 political prisoners, dismantling the Family Protection Act, and imposing a rigid dress code that required all women and girls over the age of nine to cover their bodies, save for their face and hands. Professions were de-gendered, educational opportunities limited, and discriminatory policies regarding divorce, marriage, and custody ensued. The age of marriage for girls was lowered to 13.

Women’s bodies became one of the primary battlegrounds of control. The compulsory hijab became not just a symbol of religious observance but a tool of state oppression.

For many Iranians, especially those in the diaspora, the regime’s cruelty—and the politicization of Islam—left a deep scar. It drove hundreds of thousands, including myself, to seek safety and autonomy in secular, liberal democracies.

Not the Same Debate

Make no mistake: the mandatory hijab in Iran is oppressive. The women protesting against it are risking their lives for a fundamental freedom—the freedom to choose. That, in and of itself, tells you how dire their reality is. But to use this moment to debate hijab policies in the West strips that context entirely.

In Western democracies, Muslim women—though not free from all forms of discrimination—live under legal and institutional frameworks that broadly protect individual rights. These frameworks are what enable them to make agentic choices, including the choice to wear religious dress. It’s a choice informed by personal belief, identity, and culture—not one enforced by threat of imprisonment or physical violence.

When people in the West conflate the Iranian struggle against forced hijab with voluntary hijab-wearing in democratic contexts, they ignore the realities on the ground in Iran—where dissent is criminalized, where morality police roam the streets, and where women are imprisoned, beaten, and even killed for choosing how they present themselves.

Don’t Hijack Their Moment

To be clear, Western societies are not perfect. There are Muslim women in the West who experience coercion, pressure, and control in the name of religion. These issues deserve serious discussion. But using Mahsa Amini’s death and the subsequent Iranian uprising as a rhetorical tool to advance domestic arguments about hijab in Canada or the U.S. is both inappropriate and harmful.

These protests are not about modesty. They’re about liberty.

The women of Iran are fighting for their most basic human rights—rights that many in the West take for granted. To conflate their struggle with debates about religious freedom in liberal democracies is to erase the stakes, silence the risk, and misrepresent the cause.

Let Them Speak for Themselves

The freedom fighters of Iran—particularly the women—have endured 43 years of systematic repression. They deserve our full support, our empathy, and our attention. What they don’t need is for their voices to be co-opted in service of unrelated ideological battles. Particularly ones that are so far removed and misguided.

Let us honor Mahsa Amini not by distorting her story, but by listening—truly listening—to what Iranian women are saying. They are not fighting to be recognized as Muslims. They are fighting to be recognized as human.

I am the daughter of two immigrants from Iran. I am an immigrant myself—what you might call generation 1.5 —having moved to Canada in early adolescence. I witnessed my parents struggle financially and professionally, while I navigated the social and cultural shocks of growing up between two worlds.

Through resilience, caution, and without the benefit of inherited privilege, my parents slowly ascended the social ladder and, over the years, built a stable, comfortable life. Their hard work eventually afforded me the opportunity to attend graduate school, hold fulfilling positions, and earn a worry-free lifestyle.
My experiences—both direct and vicarious—have convinced me that meritocracy (even a flawed one) is neither a hoax nor an affront. Yet today’s dominant narratives (see here, here, and here) may have you believe merit is a dirty word.

Let me be clear: significant inequality exists in Canada. Low-income and working-class individuals face reduced access to housing, healthcare, and higher education, along with worse health outcomes and academic performance. These barriers disproportionately affect women, Indigenous peoples, people with disabilities, and visible minorities—especially immigrants.

Indeed, immigrants from low socioeconomic backgrounds encounter both individual and systemic discrimination. Yet many still prevail. Despite disproportionately facing poverty and adversity, immigrants tend to show better physical and mental health outcomes—a phenomenon known as the immigrant health paradox. Research suggests that first- and second-generation immigrants demonstrate higher mental resilience and are less likely to externalize blame. These traits are not just valuable on a personal level – they are exactly the kind of qualities that help individuals succeed in a merit-based system. They should be celebrated and promoted.

Many newcomers choose Canada with an awareness of the challenges they will face, and the hope of overcoming them through hard work and merit-based success. We understand that Canadian meritocracy – like any human creation – isn’t perfect and that hard work doesn’t always mean a competitive advantage. But as far as fairness goes, merit-based advancement is the best model we’ve got. Consider the fact that many immigrants come from authoritarian and repressive societies entrenched with corruption and nepotism—places where effort alone will get one nowhere, and survival may be a daily battle. Canada’s imperfect meritocracy is a dream worth pursuing.

This isn’t a call to deny inequality or ignore systemic barriers. On the contrary, we must ensure opportunities are fair and accessible, as this benefits everyone (i.e., hiring the most qualified doctor in benefits all of her future patients, not just the doctor). But the only way to do this is to optimize meritocracy, not abandon it.

Meritocracy may not be perfect, but for many of us, it has been a pathway to possibility. To preserve that pathway—for immigrants and for all—we must protect it, improve it, and most importantly, keep telling the stories that demonstrate its importance to democracy. To preserve that pathway—for immigrants, for marginalized groups, for all—we must protect it, improve it, and most importantly, keep telling the stories that prove it still works.