In the labyrinth of Iran’s tightly controlled digital landscape, where access to global platforms like X (formerly Twitter), Instagram, and YouTube is routinely blocked, a shadowy privilege persists: “white SIM cards.” These unassuming mobile lines, often referred to as sim-kart-e sefid in Persian, grant select users unfettered internet access, bypassing the nation’s pervasive censorship. What began as a rumored perk for elites has exploded into a national scandal, thanks to a recent transparency update on X that exposed the hypocrisy of those wielding this power. As of November 2025, the revelation has ignited fury across Iranian social media, laying bare the regime’s “tiered internet” system and its role in perpetuating inequality.
The Anatomy of a White SIM Card
At its core, a white SIM card is no ordinary mobile line. In Iran, where the government enforces one of the world’s strictest internet filtering regimes—blocking over 70% of global websites—standard SIMs route traffic through national gateways riddled with firewalls. Users must rely on VPNs to evade these barriers, often facing sluggish speeds, data caps, and legal risks. White SIMs, however, are whitelisted by state telecom authorities, primarily operators like MCI (Hamrah-e Aval) and Irancell. Their traffic evades filtering entirely, providing seamless access to blocked sites without the need for workarounds.
This privilege isn’t new. Reports trace its origins to the early 2010s, when “professional” or “specialized” internet access was quietly extended to journalists, academics, and officials under the guise of “work necessities.” By the 2020s, under President Ebrahim Raisi’s administration, the system formalized into what critics call internet tabaqati (class-based internet). Investigations by groups like the Miaan Group estimate up to 50,000 such lines in circulation as of late 2025, with surges during crises like the recent 12-day Israel-Iran conflict, where around 1,000 lines were reportedly activated without user consent to bolster pro-regime narratives.
The cards aren’t cheap or easy to obtain. Officially, they’re reserved for “essential” users: senior government officials, state-aligned media figures, security personnel, and even foreign tourists (though the latter often get temporary, less privileged variants). Unofficially, black-market sales have emerged on sites like Divar, with prices ranging from 10 to 90 million toman—far exceeding standard SIMs. Support for these lines is also limited, and recharges come at a premium, underscoring their exclusivity.
The X Update: A Digital Reckoning
The powder keg ignited on November 24, 2025, when X rolled out its “About This Account” feature, designed to combat bots and foreign interference by displaying user locations and connection details. For most Iranians, accessing X requires a VPN, which tags profiles with foreign servers (e.g., “Based in the Netherlands” or “VPN detected”). But for white SIM users, the platform suddenly lit up with “Based in Iran” labels—no VPN shield, no evasion.
The fallout was swift and seismic. Pro-regime accounts, including those of hardline activists and filtering advocates, were outed en masse. Users spotted Minister of Communications Isaac Jahangiri’s profile showing direct Iranian access, alongside deputies and journalists like Vahid Khatami, who later defended it as a “professional necessity.” Even reformist figures and opposition-adjacent profiles weren’t spared; former advisor Abdolreza Davari accused anti-government voices of hypocrisy, claiming some used the same perks.
X trends like #WhiteSIMCard and #ClassBasedInternet exploded, with over 100,000 posts in 48 hours. One viral thread by activist Hossein Ronaghi decried the cards as tools for “regime agents” posing as patriots, while philosopher Arash Sadeghi framed them as an “ethical mirror” exposing moral paradoxes: How can one champion free speech while hoarding unfiltered access? Celebrities like referee Masoud Moradi lambasted exposed users as “liars,” crediting Elon Musk for “unmasking the hypocrites.”
The scandal also unmasked regime psyops. Accounts masquerading as anti-monarchy opposition—targeting figures like Reza Pahlavi—were traced to white SIMs, revealing IRGC-linked “Cyberi” units. Others outsourced to Pakistan and Bangladesh abruptly deactivated, highlighting the regime’s global troll farms.
A Symptom of Deeper Digital Apartheid
White SIMs aren’t just a tech glitch; they’re a stark emblem of Iran’s stratified society. In a nation where 90 million people grapple with 20-30% slower speeds due to filtering, elites enjoy gigabit unhindered flows. This “internet sefid” (white internet) extends beyond SIMs to dedicated lines for Khamenei’s office and IRGC bases, fueling state propaganda while stifling dissent.
Critics argue it erodes trust in institutions. Why should filtering’s architects—like drafters of the controversial “Safeguarding Cyberspace” bill—tweet freely about its virtues? Public outrage has prompted promises of reform: Ali Ahmadinia, head of government public relations, vowed a “serious review” of the inherited system. Yet skeptics see it as damage control; during the recent war, white lines reportedly proliferated to amplify pro-Iran voices.
Ethically, as Sadeghi notes, it’s a Kantian conundrum: A privilege that’s not universal can’t be just. Users face positional responsibility—benefiting from inequality demands accountability, whether through renunciation or advocacy. Some, like Khatami, have switched locations to “West Asia” via VPNs, but the genie’s out.
Broader Implications: From Propaganda to Global Echoes
The white SIM saga underscores Iran’s hybrid repression: digital tools as both cage and crown. It empowers a pyramid of influence—IRGC contractors at the base, whitelisted influencers at the apex—crafting narratives that drown out genuine voices. For tourists, it’s a double-edged sword; while promised unfiltered access aids navigation, it ties into the same surveilled grid.
Globally, it spotlights X’s role in transparency battles. Musk’s update, meant for bot-hunting, inadvertently pierced authoritarian veils, from Iran’s cyber ops to pro-Scottish independence bots tied to Tehran. As Iranian users quip, “Thanks, Elon—for once, your chaos helped.”
Toward a Filter-Free Future?
As debates rage, calls for abolition grow. Activists demand public audits of white line recipients, while netizens mock “white SIM apologies” as too little, too late. In a country where information is power, these cards symbolize not just privilege, but the regime’s fear of unmediated truth.
Will the scandal dismantle the system? History suggests inertia wins, but the X exposé has etched a crack. For now, Iran’s digital divide deepens: one nation’s “white” is another’s endless gray. As Ronaghi warns, “History doesn’t forget traitors”—and in the age of viral reckonings, neither does the internet.