Built to Deceive: Why Iran Can’t Make a Real Deal

In May 2012, during his annual address to the diplomatic corps in Tehran, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei laid out the core principles of the Islamic Republic’s foreign policy: izzat (pride), hikmah (wisdom), and taqiyya (strategic dissimulation). For a Shi’a audience, none of this came as a surprise. The invocation of taqiyya has long been accepted as part of the juristic tradition dating back to the era of the Imams. Yet in a separate speech, Khamenei drew his listeners toward a more intricate facet of Shi’a political theology, alluding to the Treaty of Hudaybiyyah — concluded by the Prophet Muhammad with his Quraysh opponents in 628 — as a model of “wisdom” and the willingness to make concessions for long-term strategic gain.

For much of the Western audience, such references are anything but obvious. In the Iranian reading, the story of Hudaybiyyah is not a tale of compromise for the sake of peace, but a calculated concession in pursuit of eventual triumph. Within the Shi’a tradition, this logic is directly tied to the doctrine of taqiyya—the sanctioned concealment of one’s beliefs when open expression might endanger the community or its objectives. In classical Shi’ism, taqiyya was a religious duty under the weight of Sunni domination; in the political culture of the Islamic Republic, it has evolved into a legitimate tool of foreign policy.

For decades, the West has sought to compel Iran into “rational” dialogue—first through economic sanctions, then through shows of military force. But from the standpoint of revolutionary Islamic doctrine, the greater the external pressure, the higher the religious value of taqiyya as a God-sanctioned strategy. It is precisely under such conditions that a concession—or the promise of one—can be justified not as a genuine compromise, but as a sacred means of preserving resources and buying time.

Taqiyya: When the Right to Survive Becomes a Strategy

The foundations for future approaches to religious flexibility in Islam were laid in the Quran itself (Surah 16:106), which permits believers to conceal their faith under duress. In Sunni Islam, however, this practice never became institutionalized. As the dominant majority, Sunnis were not subjected to centuries of systematic persecution and thus had little need for codified caution. Instead, Sunni jurisprudence developed along a different line: the doctrine of maslaha—public interest or communal benefit. This concept allows for temporary departures from the literal application of sharia when necessary to preserve core values: life, religion, reason, lineage, and property.

Among Shi’a—who, from the time of the Umayyads and Abbasids, existed as a persecuted and potentially disloyal minority—maslaha was also acknowledged and actively employed. But due to historical circumstances, it became intertwined with taqiyya: the concealment of true intentions and beliefs, which evolved not merely into a permissible tactic but into a vital strategy for survival. This pairing—maslaha as the objective and taqiyya as the method—emerged as one of the defining features of Shi’a legal and theological tradition.

Imam Ja‘far al-Sadiq famously declared, “Taqiyya is my religion and the religion of my forefathers.” In the 11th century, Sheikh al-Tusi reaffirmed its obligatory nature in his legal manual al-Nihaya, framing taqiyya as a duty for protecting the community. During the occultation of the Twelfth Imam (beginning in 874 CE), taqiyya evolved into a form of clandestine institutional governance, with Shi‘i jurists transmitting fatwas through secret networks of students—each of whom might pass as a Sunni in public. Even after Shi‘ism was declared the state religion of Safavid Persia, taqiyya persisted. In the 19th and 20th centuries, under colonial pressure and the secularizing policies of the shahs, it gradually transformed into a tool of political flexibility—a way for the clergy to preserve its autonomy. Concealment became not just a shield, but a supple instrument of adaptation under unstable regimes.

“The Truth Deferred”: Revolutionary Taqiyya as a Doctrine of Power

It was Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini who fundamentally redefined the concept—transforming taqiyya from a defensive tactic into an aggressive strategy for revolutionary power. In his treatise Risala-ye Taqiyya, Khomeini argues that taqiyya can become obligatory when it serves the protection of the public good. In this framework, even the concealment of intentions from one’s own supporters is not merely permissible, but religiously mandated.

This concept found practical expression well before the Islamic Revolution came to power. In the 1970s, Khomeini’s public statements—especially those addressed to Western audiences—emphasized freedom, social justice, defense of the poor, and peaceful coexistence. His interviews with the Western press were filled with the language of human rights. To many Western intellectuals, the image he projected seemed progressive and anti-imperialist—helping legitimize the revolution in their eyes. This was taqiyya mudaratīyya: a polite dissimulation cloaked in universalist terms.

But after the revolution’s victory came the next act: the “purification” of the Islamic Republic from Marxists, liberals, Fedayeen, and dissenting clerics. At this stage, maslaha—no longer an abstract principle—became a justification for state violence. In his 1988 letter establishing the Expediency Council (Majles-e Tashkhis-e Maslahat), Khomeini declared unequivocally that “the expediency of the Islamic system” was so essential that resisting it could undermine the very mission of religion to defend the oppressed. This was a direct theological sanction for censorship, repression, and exception-making—so long as it preserved the system’s survival. Taqiyya was no longer a sign of weakness; it had become a technology of power, embedded in the strategic logic of the Islamic state.

Martyr Motahhari: Taqiyya, Maslaha, and the Logic of Preservation

Among modern Iranian thinkers, few approached the concept of taqiyya with the same philosophical rigor and political realism as Morteza Motahhari. He reframed it as a rational tactic—“to strike as much as possible while taking as few blows as necessary.” “Taqiyya,” he wrote, “is a prudent and deliberate strategy of struggle,” aimed at preserving human resources in situations where the enemy holds overwhelming power. (Collected Works, Causes of Inclination Toward Materialism).

Motahhari categorically rejected the conflation of taqiyya with hypocrisy. The former, he argued, is a tool for collective protection; the latter, a moral vice. Yet even this tactical flexibility, he emphasized, has its limits. Taqiyya must be abandoned “if it comes into conflict with a higher maslaha”—at which point caution must give way to sacrifice.

In Motahhari’s thought, taqiyya and maslaha are not licenses for passivity but instruments of active strategy. Both concepts are grounded in the theology of tawhid (divine unity) and historical responsibility. He argued that Imam Ali’s restraint following the death of the Prophet Muhammad was not a sign of weakness, but a deliberate decision rooted in the higher priority of preserving Muslim unity. Even his interpretation of Imam Husayn’s uprising illustrates the principle of exception: “All the Imams practiced taqiyya. So why did Husayn reject it? Because the time had come when taqiyya was no longer permissible—when silence would have meant betrayal” (Narrative of the Lives of the Infallible Imams).

Flexible Intransigence: The Bureaucratization of Deceit under Ali Khamenei

After Khomeini’s death, the doctrines of flexibility and political concealment did not vanish—they were institutionalized within a new model of governance. Khamenei inherited an ideology forged in revolutionary fervor and retooled it for the logic of state survival. Unlike Khomeini’s prophetic charisma, his authority rested on a bureaucratized apparatus—rational, methodical, and designed for the long-term preservation of control. Temporary concessions and symbolic gestures were integrated into this system not as signs of ideological fluidity, but as technical instruments in a larger machinery of dominance.

This logic became visible in the very early years of Khamenei’s rule, particularly through Iran’s double-layered policy in Iraq. At the time, Najaf—under the leadership of Ayatollah Sistani—maintained a cautious distance from the American occupation, refraining from direct involvement in shaping new governing structures. Tehran, by contrast, operated through parallel channels: founding political parties, arming militias, and cultivating clerical networks that outwardly invoked Shiism but in practice served as conduits for IRGC influence. Under the banner of religious solidarity, Iran absorbed Iraq into its sphere of influence—not through direct control, but by fostering instrumental loyalty. The success of this precedent paved the way for a similar model in Lebanon, where Hezbollah was gradually transformed from a militant movement into a legitimate political actor, all under the same rhetorical mantle: ideological language masking complete subordination to an external command center.

In Yemen, this model assumed an even more elastic form. The Houthis, rooted in the Zaydi tradition, initially emphasized their autonomy. But as the conflict escalated, they became fully integrated into Iran’s strategic framework—from ideological alignment to military logistics. Their formal rhetoric of independence coexisted with imitation of Qom-style mechanisms of mobilization and control: public declarations concealed direct reliance. The shift from the language of Zaydi self-preservation to the symbolism of Shiite revolution marked yet another instance of institutionalized flexible truth.

A pivotal episode on the diplomatic front came in 2003. According to Swiss diplomatic cables and accounts from Western officials, Iran—via Bern as an intermediary—proposed an informal deal to the United States: a freeze on its nuclear program, an end to support for Hezbollah, and de facto recognition of Israel. In return, Tehran expected the lifting of sanctions and guarantees of non-interference in its domestic affairs. The Bush administration rejected the offer, unwilling to confer legitimacy on the regime and choosing not to publicize the contact. Iran, for its part, never acknowledged the outreach, preserving the official narrative of uncompromising resistance. Admitting to the initiative, even temporarily, would have meant calling into question an entire ideological framework—the very discourse that justified expansionism, isolation, and internal repression.

Since then, every external concession in negotiations has been framed not as a shift in position but as a necessary pause. This was the logic behind the 2004 Paris negotiations, and again in the 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA): technically reversible concessions, wrapped in the rhetoric of pragmatism but never amounting to a revision of strategic goals. Even the U.S. withdrawal from the deal in 2018 did not prompt any official reckoning. On the contrary, it reinforced Tehran’s preference for an ambiguous diplomacy in which every promise is made with a built-in clause for retraction.

The same logic extends into domestic politics. In 2009, following contested elections and the rise of the Green Movement, the regime refused both to engage the opposition in dialogue and to explicitly criminalize it. A period of silence, vague statements about “legitimate grievances,” and eventual repression unfolded under the rhetoric of preserving unity and Islamic integrity. The crackdown was framed not as a reaction to a threat against the state, but as a necessary act in service of the ummah’s well-being. More than a decade later, the same template reappeared in the response to protests after the killing of Mahsa Amini: partial acknowledgments of public frustration, personnel changes in the morality police — and, in parallel, a brutal dismantling of the protest infrastructure. The line was clear: the system may admit to mistakes, but it will never allow its right to define what counts as a mistake to be questioned.

The Illusion of Agreement: Can One Negotiate with a System Built on Concealment?

The system Khamenei has constructed is deliberately rooted in strategic ambiguity. Its nature is such that commitments — at least as understood in the Western diplomatic tradition — are not merely dismissed, but fundamentally nonexistent as enduring principles. The Islamic Republic’s ideological apparatus does not so much violate agreements as it designs them from the outset to be provisional and reversible. Negotiations, concessions, and formal deals are not indications of compromise, but tactical maneuvers — instruments to preserve and accumulate strength for long-term objectives.

This behavioral model fully extends to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps — the regime’s central pillar. The IRGC embodies this ideological approach: its external operations do not follow conventional military patterns but rather a networked logic, where flexibility, ambiguity, and the avoidance of explicit commitments are standard practice. Any agreement with the IRGC — like any deal with the regime itself — can function only under strict external oversight. The moment that oversight weakens, the system predictably reverts to its original, ideologically defined trajectory.

This is the core dilemma facing the United States, Israel, and their Western allies today: can one forge a lasting agreement with a state whose very structure precludes negotiability in the conventional sense? Decades of experience suggest otherwise. Time and again, the West has misread Iran’s tactical concessions as signs of a strategic policy shift. But these gestures are not de-escalation in any meaningful sense. The Islamic Republic’s governing system does not merely tolerate ambiguity — it is architected around it.

This does not mean that negotiations with Iran are inherently futile or destined to fail. But any meaningful agreement cannot rest on trust in the regime’s intentions. It must begin with a sober understanding of the structural limits imposed by the regime’s logic. An agreement with the Islamic Republic does not imply normalization — it requires the permanent maintenance of mechanisms for deterrence and oversight. And it is this constant need for control, not the specific terms of any deal, that becomes the decisive factor. As the experience of post-occupation Shi’a Iraq makes clear, the withdrawal of Western scrutiny leads not to the political system’s evolution but to the consolidation of anti-democratic forces — actors that had formally honored agreements only as long as external pressure remained in place.

Western policymakers must therefore recognize that strategic engagement with Iran requires more than diplomatic pragmatism. It demands a deep understanding of the theological and philosophical foundations of Shi’a political thought that shape the regime’s worldview. Without this, any attempt to reach an agreement with a system that treats truth and obligation as fluid, tactical instruments will inevitably repeat the failures of the past. Given the Revolutionary Guard’s entrenchment at every level of the state, this strategic culture may well survive the current regime — and even Khamenei himself. Dialogue with Iran is possible only if Western powers are prepared to sustain constant, uncompromising oversight — and abandon any illusions about the nature and goals of those they face across the negotiating table. This is not diplomacy in the conventional sense. It is a philosophically grounded and structurally determined confrontation.