Musk says Starlink’s “beams are on” over Iran, but authorities vow to crush satellite internet as regime battles information flow
The Iranian government has issued a chilling warning to its own people: anyone caught using Elon Musk’s Starlink satellite internet service could face prosecution. The message was loud, clear — and unmistakably aimed at stopping a quiet rebellion that’s growing across Iran’s darkened digital landscape.
With the internet still largely down more than a week after U.S. and Israeli forces hit key military and nuclear sites, ordinary Iranians are finding themselves stuck in an information blackout. State news is all they’ve got. And many don’t trust it.
Now, some are risking jail to install satellite dishes smuggled across borders, just to reconnect with the outside world.
Internet blackout fuels Starlink demand on the black market
Since June 13, when the airstrikes began, most of Iran’s major internet infrastructure has been severely disrupted or shut down altogether. Messaging apps, video platforms, even banking systems — frozen. It’s not the first time Iran’s pulled the plug. But this time feels different, residents say.
Some Iranians have turned to VPNs. Others, to dusty satellite TV dishes hauled back into use. But the real game-changer, or at least the potential one, is Starlink.
“Elon Musk says the beams are on,” tweeted an exiled Iranian journalist on June 14, quoting the SpaceX founder’s casual response on X when asked about coverage in Iran. And technically, he’s right. The Starlink constellation is now transmitting over Iranian skies.
The problem? Iranians need hardware.
That’s why demand for Starlink terminals — the small white flat-panel antennas that link to SpaceX’s low-orbit satellites — has surged across black markets from Sulaimaniyah to Herat. Getting one into the country isn’t easy. Smugglers reportedly charge thousands of dollars, and buyers are warned to hide them well.
Still, they’re coming in. Slowly. Secretly. Desperately.
The regime’s response: Fear, force, and a plea to the world
Iran’s Information and Communications Technology Ministry spent the weekend issuing stark warnings on state-run media. Starlink, it said, is illegal. Possession of a terminal is a crime. Importing one? Same deal. Anyone who installs or uses the device will be “exposed to the full force of the law.”
Officials didn’t specify punishments, but Iranians know what that means. Confiscation. Fines. Prison.
And it’s not just domestic threats. Tehran is trying to bring in the big guns. The regime has officially asked the International Telecommunication Union — a UN agency — to compel SpaceX to block Iranian users and shut down what it calls “unauthorized devices.”
Starlink hasn’t responded publicly. SpaceX is famously tight-lipped on foreign pressure.
This isn’t just about internet — it’s about control
Internet access in Iran isn’t just a utility. It’s a battleground.
For years, the government has treated connectivity as a tool of power. Platforms like WhatsApp and Instagram have been periodically banned. Activists, journalists, and students have all been arrested for online speech. During protests, the government cuts access entirely, choking off communications like turning off a tap.
But this time, it’s not about protest. It’s war. And controlling the flow of information during wartime — both into and out of the country — is a top priority for the Islamic Republic.
That’s why officials are so afraid of Starlink. It’s satellite-based. It doesn’t route through Tehran’s infrastructure. And worst of all — it works.
One former Iranian telecom engineer, now living in Paris, put it bluntly: “They can’t censor what they don’t control. That’s terrifying for them.”
Iran’s digital paranoia isn’t new — but Musk’s involvement changes the stakes
Iran has long feared foreign tech. U.S. sanctions, cyberattacks, and years of espionage left the regime wary. But Musk’s influence — and the optics of an American billionaire offering unfettered access in the middle of a war — has sent officials into overdrive.
There’s historical baggage here, too. During protests in 2022, Musk offered to activate Starlink to help demonstrators. The White House even issued a license to allow it, sidestepping sanctions. Tehran never forgot.
So now, with airstrikes hitting Iranian military targets and state media insisting the country is under siege, Starlink isn’t seen as a neutral service. It’s framed as digital warfare.
And it’s not just government paranoia. Iranian hardliners have seized on the issue as a matter of sovereignty. Conservative newspapers have called Starlink “a foreign weapon in civilian disguise.” Parliamentarians are calling for more surveillance, more enforcement, more arrests.
On the ground, people are still trying to get online — no matter the risk
Despite the crackdown, terminals continue to arrive — hidden in truck beds, camouflaged in crates of electronics, even carried across mountains by foot.
The risk is enormous. But for many Iranians, it’s worth it.
Here’s what’s driving the demand:
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Families want to check on loved ones abroad.
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Businesses are collapsing without digital infrastructure.
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Doctors can’t access foreign research databases.
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Students are falling behind with universities shuttered online.
Even basic things — like wiring money or calling a friend — have become absurdly difficult.
One source inside Iran said they paid the equivalent of $4,000 for a terminal smuggled in from Iraq. It took two weeks to arrive. They only power it on at night. “We keep it in a metal box during the day,” the person said. “Just in case the police come knocking.”
Starlink’s future in Iran hangs in the balance — but for now, it’s a digital lifeline
Whether SpaceX will face international pressure is still unclear. Technically, the ITU can make recommendations, but enforcement is murky. And Musk, famously indifferent to red tape, isn’t exactly known for backing down.
But even if Starlink keeps operating, its reach in Iran will remain limited — at least for now.
According to estimates from two Iranian diaspora tech groups, fewer than 1,500 terminals are believed to be active inside the country. That’s a drop in the bucket for a nation of over 88 million.
Still, for those 1,500 — scattered across cities and remote villages — it’s a lifeline. A fragile one, maybe. But in the middle of a war and a blackout, it might be the only connection left.
