When Israel and Iran exchanged strikes in mid‑June 2025, the Iranian government responded by severing nearly all international Internet access. Independent monitors reported that, from approximately June 17 to June 23, Iran’s global internet traffic was effectively cut off. Cloudflare’s analysis found that connectivity levels in Iran plummeted to roughly 3% of normal during the blackout, a drop of nearly 97%. In other words, virtually everyone inside Iran lost contact with the outside world. This unprecedented shutdown coincided with the opening week of hostilities, ensuring that Iranians had almost no access to foreign news or social media as warplanes and missiles flew overhead.
Iranian officials defended the blackout as a purely defensive move. Government spokesperson Fatemeh Mohajerani told state media that Tehran was facing “cyberattacks on the country’s critical infrastructure and disruptions in the functioning of banks” and even that “enemy” drones were being managed via the internet. She said Iran had warned previously that if needed it would switch “to a national internet” and restrict global access for security reasons. In practice this meant rerouting all traffic into Iran’s controlled intranet, the so‑called National Information Network, which remained the only link for many local services. A semi‑official news outlet quoted the communications ministry’s explanation that the temporary shutdown was meant “to prevent enemy abuse” of Iran’s networks. But digital rights groups and international observers immediately questioned the sincerity of these explanations. They pointed out that the outages also conveniently blocked news of casualties or unrest and silenced independent media.
The blackout was sudden and nearly total. U.S. and U.K. firms tracking global connectivity showed Iran’s internet traffic collapsing in stages. Immediately after Israeli airstrikes on June 13, Iran throttled large parts of its network; one analysis found traffic had already fallen by about half that day. By June 17–18, the cuts were far more severe: wired and wireless providers across the country went offline in a second “near‑total” shutdown, and even short-lived restorations were quickly snapped back down. By Friday, June 21, independent watchdogs reported Iran had been “largely offline for 60 hours” straight. NetBlocks and other monitoring groups calculated that internet usage was about 97% below where it had been just one week earlier. In short, there was scarcely any functioning international internet in Iran for most of that week. Almost all foreign websites, mobile data, and broadband services were inaccessible.
The sudden blackout left millions of Iranians isolated and anxious. People trying to call or message relatives found their apps dead. Many switched to whatever limited connections they could find. Following the blackout, Iranians would grab brief data glimpses, often by toggling VPNs, just long enough to make emergency calls or quickly check in on family. For example, one user described using very short bursts of mobile data to phone parents or to check a WhatsApp location if it connected momentarilyapnews.com. Another researcher noted a telling anecdote: a family evacuating Tehran discovered they could not reach their relatives at all until they drove roughly 200 kilometers away, at which point their devices finally reconnected. Even those with satellite dishes or other equipment found domestic internet patchy and unreliable. In effect, ordinary citizens were left cut off from news of the war and unable to coordinate or learn the fate of loved ones.
Inside Iran, state media became the only reliable source of information. With Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, WhatsApp, and the like all blocked across the country, the government-controlled outlets had a monopoly on the narrative. State TV and radio intermittently reported on the conflict. Still, international observers noted that Iranian broadcasters focused almost entirely on highlighting damage to Israel, essentially echoing official talking points while saying virtually nothing about Iran’s casualties. In the absence of independent reporting or foreign news feeds, Iranians could only see the conflict through a filtered lens. Access Now policy director Marwa Fatafta summarized this dynamic bluntly: “The Iranian regime controls the information sphere really, really tightly,” adding that one precise aim of the shutdown was to keep news of injuries or discontent from reaching the public.
This tactic was far from new. Iran has a track record of cutting communications during crises to suppress dissent. In November 2019, during nationwide anti‑government protests, Tehran imposed the most severe internet shutdown in its history. Over more than a week, the government phased in a blackout that left roughly 95% of users offline. That blackout was later found to have hidden a brutal crackdown: rights groups documented hundreds of protester deaths that were difficult to verify in real time because of the communications blockade. Similarly, in September 2022, after the death of Mahsa Amini ignited protests, authorities again throttled or severed much of the web. Social apps like Instagram and WhatsApp, the only widely‑used independent platforms in Iran, were rendered unusable just as rallies spread to 80 or more cities. Analysts note that since 2019, Tehran has essentially treated the Internet as a pressure valve. Each time widespread unrest looms, the state resorts to a shutdown to snuff out information flow and isolate protesters. The June 2025 blackout fits this pattern: while justified by the regime as an anti‑hacking measure, it also shut down any chance of on‑the‑ground reporting or online mobilization during a volatile moment.
Within days, Iranian security forces were already arresting those deemed “problematic” in connection with the war and the shutdown. Activists reported that authorities detained hundreds of people on vague charges, especially in the Kurdish regions. One monitoring group recorded at least 705 arrests on political or “security” grounds in the first week of the conflict, many of them accusations of spying for Israel. These moves suggest the regime feared that news of battlefield losses could spark public anger. As one Iranian IT expert said, “I think most likely they’re just afraid of the internet getting used to cause mass unrest” if the public learns the government might be weakened. In other words, the shutdown also served as a preemptive crackdown: by isolating citizens online, the state aimed to prevent any spontaneous demonstrations or dissent.
Internationally, the blackout drew sharp criticism for its impact on the flow of information. Journalists and rights organizations warned that Iran was not just defending against cyberattacks but deliberately keeping citizens in the dark. The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) reported that even before the June 13 strikes, Iran’s communications ministry had ordered widespread restrictions on June 13 under “special conditions,” including blocking WhatsApp and other social tools. CPJ’s Middle East director, Sara Qudah, said the timing made the government’s intent obvious: by muzzling journalists and independent voices during a crisis, “Iranian authorities are not only suppressing critical information at home but also isolating its citizens from the global flow of news.” In effect, the blackout left the world with only half of the story. Foreign reporters were unable to file dispatches, and the Iranian diaspora in Europe and North America had to rely on hearsay and official statements. International watchdogs, such as NetBlocks and Reporters Without Borders, raised the alarm, calling the shutdown among the most severe seen in Iran since 2019. Many pointed out that the action violated Iranians’ right to information in an emergency and paralleled the heavy censorship used by combatant states in traditional wars.
Economically and socially, the disruption had broad consequences. Telecom analysts noted that crashing the Internet for nearly 90 million people carries huge costs. Banks and stock exchanges were briefly impaired, businesses were unable to transact online, and students and hospitals lost access to data channels, all during a moment of heightened need. A technology report on the blackout warned that such drastic measures erode trust in digital systems and could deter future investments in the country’s tech sector. More broadly, the Iran case fits a global trend: in 2024 alone, there were nearly 300 country‑wide internet shutdowns worldwide, according to the group Access Now, often linked to authoritarian governments trying to quell protests or control wartime narratives. Indeed, experts warn that Iran’s model, insulating domestic networks from global ones, could be adopted by other regimes seeking to fragment the Internet under the banner of “cybersecurity.”
By late June 2025, Iran had begun to restore connectivity partially. But the blackout left a chilling legacy. It showed that modern conflicts are fought not only with missiles but also by cutting off communication. For ordinary Iranians, the brief internet blackout meant they were largely cut off from the truth about what was happening, including their own military and civilian casualties, as well as their government’s strategy and readiness. Critics of the shutdown argue that silencing people at such a time amounts to censorship as a weapon, as it denies citizens the basic ability to obtain news or warn others, and it shields leaders from accountability. As TechCrunch summarized it, the restrictions served to protect the regime’s image more than the public’s safety. In the end, the June 2025 internet blackout underscored a stark reality: in Iran’s view, controlling the flow of information is now a front-line tactic in war.
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