Symbolism Over Substance
Public monuments have always been tools through which states narrate their preferred versions of the past, and Iran’s new installation in Enghelab Square is a textbook example of how history becomes political currency. The dramatic statue depicting the Roman emperor Valerian kneeling before Shapur I is not merely an artistic revival of ancient Sassanian imagery; it is a deliberate invocation of a national memory shaped around endurance, conquest, and refusal to bow to outside pressure. Its timing, arriving shortly after American strikes on Iranian nuclear facilities, signals an unmistakable attempt to reinforce a message of defiance. By reaching deep into a triumph cast more than seventeen centuries ago, the state seeks to remind its citizens that resistance is woven into the national fabric, that foreign powers have threatened Iran before, and that those powers have been humbled on Persian soil. For a government under strain, symbolism becomes strategy.
Shapur I’s victories over Rome have long occupied a cherished place in Iran’s historical imagination. In the third century, when the Sassanids replaced the Parthians, they inherited both a fractured region and a complex rivalry with the expanding Roman Empire. Shapur’s campaigns across Mesopotamia, Syria, and Anatolia culminated in the unprecedented capture of a Roman emperor, an event that stunned the ancient world and permanently altered the balance of prestige between the two empires. The Sassanian king’s triumphal reliefs at Bishapur and Naqsh-i Rustam immortalised this power shift, inscribing Persia’s superiority onto the landscape itself. These images were not passive records; they served the same purpose then as the new statue does now—assertion through narrative, projection through stone. When a state celebrates such moments, it chooses from the past those episodes that shore up its preferred identity.
Yet the decision to install this statue today carries layers of meaning beyond historical commemoration. Iran stands in a moment marked by internal dissent, economic hardship, and renewed confrontation with Western powers. In such a climate, the state’s reliance on monumental imagery is a strategic attempt to re-anchor public sentiment around an older, more reassuring narrative: that Iran has endured invasion, collapse, and pressure before, and emerged intact. The figure of Valerian—as interpreted by officials, regardless of historical accuracy—embodies the humiliation of an adversary. By planting this scene in the heart of Tehran, the state broadcasts a message both inward and outward, presenting resilience not merely as a historic trait but as a contemporary imperative.
However, the choice to foreground a moment of subjugation raises questions about how national memory is curated in times of political stress. When societies recall the past selectively, they risk flattening their complex histories into simplistic tales of victory and victimhood. Shapur’s triumph was extraordinary, but it was also part of a long, cyclical struggle in which both Persia and Rome suffered losses, betrayals, and reversals. The new statue, however, does not invite contemplation of this nuance; it instructs the viewer to see history as a clear-cut contest between a resilient Iran and an eternally aggressive foreign power. Such framing can stir pride, but it can also calcify polarisation, leaving little room for introspection about present-day challenges. When symbolism becomes a substitute for dialogue, national mythology begins to overshadow civic reality.
That civic reality is far more complicated than a single triumphant scene can convey. Iran’s current tensions with the West are not the product of imperial rivalry in the classical sense, nor can they be adequately understood through references to ancient conquest. The modern geopolitical landscape is shaped by nuclear negotiations, sanctions, cyber conflict, and the aspirations of a youthful population navigating an economy under pressure. Against this backdrop, the invocation of Sassanian glory may resonate emotionally but risks diverting attention from substantive debates on governance, rights, and national direction. The statue’s message of resistance may be stirring, yet it arrives in a moment when many citizens are demanding transparency, reform, and economic relief rather than mythic reassurance. When a state leans too heavily on symbolic victories, it may signal confidence, but it can also reveal insecurity.
Still, the installation in Enghelab Square cannot be dismissed solely as propaganda. Public art, even when state-driven, becomes part of the urban fabric and acquires meanings that exceed official intent. Tehran’s residents will interpret the statue in varied ways: some may see it as a proud reminder of sovereignty, others as an attempt to distract from current crises, and still others as an artistic reimagining of a pivotal moment in regional history. The multiplicity of these readings underscores that historical memory is never fixed; it is contested, reworked, and renegotiated every time a new generation confronts it. What matters is not only why the statue was built but how the public engages with it, critiques it, or reshapes its significance. In that sense, even monumental assertions of state narrative can spark broader conversations about identity, power, and the responsibilities of leadership. If the statue encourages such engagement, it may inadvertently open the very space for discourse that tightly managed symbolism usually seeks to limit. For now, the statue stands as a reminder that the past remains a resource, still inspiring pride, provoking debate, and revealing the fault lines of the present.
