Though geographically it lies near Qom, Jamkaran (the site associated with the hidden imam, Mahdi) exists far beyond any mosque, shrine, or well. It is a psychological architecture— a way of relating to power, history, and responsibility. Jamkaran names the belief that salvation arrives from outside human agency, that redemption descends from above rather than being constructed through collective action. It is not theology per se, but a political imagination shaped by waiting.
Karl Marx described this condition as inverted consciousness: a world turned upside down, where material relations are masked by metaphysical fantasies. Michel Foucault would recognize it as internalized power, domination reproduced within the subject rather than imposed solely from without. Antonio Gramsci named it hegemony: the absorption of ruling ideas so deeply that they appear natural, inevitable, even desirable.
Jamkaran is where these theories converge in lived history. The tragedy is that this structure is not unique to Iran. What appears as cultural specificity is in fact a universal political temptation. Societies under prolonged crisis—economic collapse, institutional failure, and humiliation on the global stage—often retreat into messianic thinking. When collective agency feels exhausted, the longing for a savior intensifies.
Modern Iranian history is a textbook case. In 1979, revolutionary energy was redirected toward a sacred figure. The belief that Khomeini’s image appeared on the moon was not a folkloric accident; it was the symbolic condensation of a society projecting salvation onto a single body. Political authority was sanctified, critique became blasphemy, and power was insulated from accountability by divine aura.
Today, history echoes—but with different props. Recent demonstrations in Tehran where protesters chant “Javid Shah”—“Long live the Shah”—reveal not merely dissatisfaction with clerical rule, but a deeper continuity of political imagination. In glorifying the Pahlavi dynasty, power is once again sanctified, this time through nostalgia rather than theology. The turban is replaced with the crown, but the structure of belief remains unchanged. This is not a rejection of Jamkaran. It is Jamkaran in royal costume.
The appeal to monarchy mirrors a broader global pattern. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russia did not transition into a culture of institutional accountability; instead, it produced Vladimir Putin—a figure who fused nostalgia, nationalism, and strongman mythology. The tsar returned without the crown, cloaked instead in security discourse and imperial memory. In Egypt, the overthrow of Mubarak briefly opened space for democratic experimentation, only to culminate in the rise of al-Sisi, whose authority rests on the promise of order and rescue. In Turkey, Erdoğan transformed from elected reformer into paternal savior, positioning himself as the embodiment of national destiny.
Even in liberal democracies, the pattern persists. The rise of Trumpism in the United States was not merely a partisan shift but a messianic phenomenon. Trump was imagined by his followers not as a politician bound by institutions, but as a miracle-working outsider who alone could “save” the nation. Here too, structural problems—economic inequality, deindustrialization, cultural fragmentation—were reduced to the promise of personal redemption through a single figure.
In all these cases, the same logic repeats: when institutions are weak and civic trust eroded, societies personalize hope. Politics becomes theater, history becomes mythology, and leaders become symbols of transcendence rather than accountable actors.
Iran’s current moment fits squarely within this global pattern. The chant “Javid Shah” does not represent historical analysis of the Pahlavi era; it represents longing. It transforms a complex and authoritarian past into a purified symbol of order, dignity, and lost greatness. The Shah becomes not a ruler with a record, but a fantasy of stability—an imagined savior retroactively cleansed of contradiction. This is precisely how Jamkaran operates: not through memory, but through myth.
Marx famously observed that history repeats itself, “first as tragedy, then as farce.” In Iran’s case, repetition has taken on an almost theatrical absurdity. What was once revolutionary theology has become political cosplay. The sacred has been replaced by the nostalgic, but the underlying grammar remains the same. Yesterday the Hidden Imam; today the Shah; tomorrow, someone else. The danger lies not in monarchy or republicanism as such, but in the refusal to dismantle the logic of savior-making itself.
So long as political imagination revolves around singular figures—cleric, king, general, or billionaire—society remains trapped in Jamkaran. Power is mystified, responsibility deferred, and citizens reduced to spectators waiting for deliverance. This mentality guarantees disappointment, because no individual can resolve structural crises that require collective reasoning, institutional reform, and sustained civic engagement. To break free from Jamkaran is not to choose the “right” savior. It is to reject the need for one altogether.
This requires a radical shift in political consciousness: from hope invested in personalities to confidence invested in processes; from miracles to mechanisms; from longing to agency. It means accepting that dignity is not restored by resurrecting symbols of past authority, but by constructing accountable institutions in the present. Until that shift occurs, Iran—like many societies before it—will continue to oscillate between turbans and crowns, saints and strongmen. The costumes will change. The chant will change. But Jamkaran will remain intact, quietly shaping expectations, rehearsing disappointment, and ensuring that history continues to repeat itself—not by fate, but by habit.
Contact Information:
Nader Rahimi
Email: nrahimi@bu.edu