Iran’s daughters stood on opposite sides of the mat at the Olympic Games in Paris last week, their encounter a microcosm of a nation’s deep-seated struggles. Kimia Alizadeh, a trailblazing taekwondo champion who left Iran in 2020, competed under the Bulgarian flag. Facing her was Nahid Kiani, Iran’s rising star, who would go on to win a silver medal in the 57kg category. Their embrace on the podium was more than just an act of sportsmanship; it was a poignant moment that brought many Iranians to tears.

The reaction to Kimia’s defeat was far from celebratory. Instead, it stirred a complex mix of emotions, reflecting the difficult choice facing millions of Iranians: to leave or to stay. Those who migrate, like Kimia, confront the painful reality of leaving behind their history, their families and the simple comforts of home — like the scent of fresh Persian bread. For many, regular visits to Iran are not feasible. Kimia, whom I interviewed in 2017 as a role model for countless teenagers, hasn’t returned since she left, citing the repression of women as her reason.

But for those who remain, the challenges are immense. With hope for the future dwindling, many young Iranians — men as well as women — see migration as the only viable path forward. The new government under reformist President Masoud Pezeshkian quickly extended an olive branch, stating that Kimia would be welcomed back to her homeland. Yet the prospect of reverse migration is met with scepticism. The greater fear now is the potential loss of more talents such as Nahid. Politicians are finally waking up to the reality that Iran’s greatest asset — its youth — is slipping away.

A physics professor at Sharif University described the brain drain as a relentless exodus, comparing it to leaves falling in autumn. The country is haemorrhaging talent, and without significant reforms there is little hope of stemming the tide.

Yet, the Islamic Republic shows little interest in pursuing major change. For many young Iranians, the fight for basic rights has become mentally and emotionally exhausting, let alone addressing long-term issues such as the development of a country that is getting poorer and living with uncertainties such as war with Israel. A young girl might question the logic behind the mandatory hijab or the censorship of the internet in a world where she can access the same information and social platforms as her peers in London or Seoul.

When the idea of reform was introduced in 1997 by Mohammad Khatami, then president, a majority of Iranians still believed in a religious system of governance. But as senior pollster Abbas Abdi notes, the tides have shifted dramatically. Then only 30 per cent of the population supported a secular system; today that number has exceeded 70 per cent, he said recently.

Despite these profound social changes, hardliners remain resistant to reform and could potentially block any efforts by Pezeshkian to revive hope. But Iranian women are unlikely to retreat from the progress they’ve made. Nahid competed in a headscarf, as required, while Kimia, free from such restrictions, did not. The question is, will women like Nahid forever comply with Islamic dress codes if they don’t believe in them? And could Kimia ever return to Iran on her own terms? The answer to both seems no.

Yet this conflict between ideology and reality is, in many ways, a facade. The truth is that many women in Iran already defy the dress code in their daily lives. It’s common to see them in the streets, shopping malls, traditional bazaars, cafés and restaurants without headscarves, and lavish weddings around Tehran and other big cities continue, often with the tacit approval of the authorities. The Islamic Republic may maintain its ideological stance, but in practice, it is forced to acknowledge reality.

However, this uneasy coexistence has its consequences. Crackdowns may have declined under Pezeshkian, at least for now, but the fear of losing yet another generation to migration is still palpable. Iranians are heartbroken at the thought of their children feeling compelled to leave, perhaps never to return. For many on social media, Iran’s two daughters are essential parts of the country: Nahid — meaning Venus — as the one in Iran’s sky and Kimia — meaning alchemy — as the one in its soil.