WANA (Sep 10) –  “Every time I turn on the motorbike, the first thing I look for is a police officer. I’m not afraid of thieves or even accidents—what scares me is the police.” That’s how a woman in Tehran, who has been riding her brother’s Honda for three years, describes the fear that shapes her daily commute. She says she has often had to hide behind buses or trucks to avoid being seen. “When the light turns red, my heart starts pounding. Because if there’s a police officer nearby, they can seize the bike right then and there.”

 

 

 

At a busy intersection, men on motorcycles crowd together at a red light. Among them, one woman in a helmet stands out: “The scariest moment for me is right there—when all the men on their bikes are staring at me. Some laugh, some give me heavy looks, and some even say, ‘Well done!’”

Baran Hadizadehis a 30 years old female cyclist. She rides her motor bike on a highway in Tehran, Iran August 07, 2019. Nazanin Tabatabaee/WANA (West Asia News Agency)

For women in Iran, riding a motorbike is like crossing a minefield: legal, cultural, and psychological mines. The law never explicitly bans it, but in practice the gates are closed. No article in Iranian law specifically prohibits women from riding motorcycles, but a single word—“men”—in the Traffic Offenses Act has been enough for police to deny women licenses.

 

Ironically, when women sit as passengers on motorcycles, society has long considered it normal—whether in religious or non-religious families. But when a woman takes control of the handlebars, perceptions change. The police say, “We only enforce the law.” Insurance companies hide behind the same excuse: “You don’t have a legal license.” The result is that every woman who rides today moves between two risks: accidents that won’t be covered by insurance, and police officers who can stop her at any moment.

Azam, one of Iran’s female powerlifting champions, is riding a motorcycle with her husband and child after the official recognition of female powerlifting by the Iranian government in a street in south Tehran, Iran, September 30, 2020. Picture taken September 30, 2020. Majid Asgaripour/WANA (West Asia News Agency)

Farah Ahmadi, a 34-year-old mother of a daughter, describes the social pressure: “One of my challenges is that most of the time I dress in a way that makes people think I’m a man. A lot of times, they come up to me and say, ‘Excuse me, sir, where’s this address?’ But when they realize I’m a woman, sometimes they behave in ways that could make me lose balance on the bike. Old ideas still hurt—you hear people say women shouldn’t ride, they’ll break an arm or a leg. But at the same time, many women stop me on the street, encourage me, and even ask how much my bike cost, or whether they could learn too.”

 

She adds, “Just like women drive cars today, riding motorcycles could become normal. If the licensing problem is solved, it could be perfectly legal and part of everyday life.”

Iranian women, Bahareh and Farah, next to their motorcycles, while female motorcycling is still not officially legal, in Tehran, Iran, September 7, 2025. Majid Asgaripour/WANA (West Asia News Agency)

For 24-year-old engineer Saqar Zaeri, motorcycling was more about necessity than passion: “It wasn’t motivation, it was need. My home and work are far apart. With a car, I was stuck in traffic for four hours a day. With a bike, I save almost three hours.” She continues: “My family has always supported me, and on the road, both women and men often encourage me. The main obstacle is the government. We don’t have licenses or official documents to ride.”

 

For Saqar, it’s not just transportation—it’s transformation: “It really changes my mood. Riding gives me excitement and saves so much time. It has truly affected my life. My main request, and I think all women riders share it, is for licenses to be issued. There’s no legal ban—traffic police just need to grant us licenses.”

An Iranian woman, Saqar, stands next to her motorcycle, while female motorcycling is still not officially legal, in Tehran, Iran, September 7, 2025. Majid Asgaripour/WANA (West Asia News Agency)

Bahareh Tahan, a 34-year-old editor, says her biggest fear is lack of insurance: “The main challenge is that without a license, insurance won’t cover women in case of an accident. For me, that’s the biggest worry.” Despite resistance at home, she has persisted: “From the start, I loved riding. The men in my family were not very supportive; they still aren’t. But I’ve accepted it as one of my interests. And from society, I get a lot of support and encouragement.”

 

Gradually, society has learned to live with women riders. Some of the same men who once mocked them now quietly signal at intersections to warn of nearby police. For many women, a motorbike is not just a vehicle—it’s independence in a city paralyzed by traffic.

An Iranian woman, Bahareh, rides a motorcycle without a license, while female motorcycling is still not officially legal, in Tehran, Iran, September 8, 2025. Majid Asgaripour/WANA (West Asia News Agency)

From a sociological perspective, this is not just about transportation but about redefining women’s presence in public space. As one sociologist in Tehran explains: “In Iran, every small change in women’s daily lives carries a larger meaning. A motorbike is not just two wheels—it’s a symbol of independent movement in the city. Policymakers are worried about that symbol.”

 

History shows this resistance is not new. In 19th-century Europe, women faced fierce opposition when they first rode bicycles. In Saudi Arabia, women driving cars was taboo for decades—until society moved ahead and the law followed. Today in Iran, the scene is repeating itself: women are already riding, attitudes are shifting, and the law is the only thing lagging behind.

An Iranian woman, Bahareh, applying lipstick in her motorcycle’s mirror while female motorcycling is still not officially legal, in Tehran, Iran, September 8, 2025. Majid Asgaripour/WANA (West Asia News Agency)

At the political level, there are murmurs of reform. Some lawmakers say there is no clear religious objection. Even police officials stress that “the decision lies with lawmakers.” Yet past experience suggests change in Iran often starts from the ground up: people create an unwritten rule first, and then the law reluctantly adjusts.

 

For some women, a motorbike is a way to get to work. For others, it’s a symbol of independence. And for many, it’s simply the most practical choice in traffic. These everyday needs are more powerful than any slogan. Just as bicycles in Europe and steering wheels in Saudi Arabia eventually became part of women’s lives, so too will motorbikes in Iran—not through a sudden decree in parliament, but through a habit that begins on the streets.

 

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