China’s foreign minister Wang Yi urged early peace talks in a phone call with his Iranian counterpart Abbas Araghchi on Tuesday, calling on all sides to seize opportunities for dialogue.
“Talking is always better than fighting,” Wang said, adding that “all hotspot issues should be resolved through dialogue and negotiation, not by using force,” according to a statement from China’s foreign ministry.
The decisive moment in a regime’s collapse is often not the formal end, but the tipping point before it: the moment when the state’s aura of inevitability breaks.
Borders may still be guarded, television may still broadcast, officials may still issue decrees. But something more important has changed. The system no longer functions with confidence.
That pattern runs through modern history. Regimes die when authority thins out, and the forces meant to preserve the system begin to hesitate, fracture, defect or simply wait.
In Russia in 1917, the monarchy’s fate was sealed not only by crowds in the streets but by the refusal of troops and Cossacks to suppress them.
In Iran in 1979, the Shah’s regime effectively ended when the armed forces declared neutrality.
In Romania in 1989, Nicolae Ceaușescu’s fall accelerated when the army switched sides.
In East Germany, the Berlin Wall lost its political meaning the moment the border opening made it unenforceable.
In each case, the end came after something deeper had already broken: the state’s confidence in its own ability to command obedience.
The sequence before collapse
This is why a tipping point is best understood not as a date but as a sequence.
First comes long erosion: economic decline, loss of legitimacy, social anger, distrust inside the ruling camp.
Then comes a catalytic shock: a massacre, a fraudulent election, military defeat, a failed coup, or the death of the ruler around whom the system had been built.
Then comes the most important stage and the hardest to measure: the failed restoration of authority.
The regime still projects continuity, but no longer convincingly. It can still threaten, still punish, still broadcast. But it no longer reassures. Its command no longer feels unquestioned.
Only after that comes the formal end.
Iran’s compressed crisis
Iran’s recent trajectory fits that sequence with unusual force, appearing to compress into weeks the kinds of shocks that in other systems were spread over months or even years.
The country entered 2026 already weakened by deep economic distress and nationwide protest. Then came the January 8-9 crackdown.
More than 36,500 were killed, according to classified material Iran International reviewed. Other reporting and rights group assessments also describe the episode as mass killings on an extraordinary scale.
Mass killing can restore fear for a time. It can also destroy legitimacy more deeply and more permanently.
The next shock was even more consequential.
On 28 February, joint US-Israeli strikes killed Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, abruptly removing the central figure around whom the Islamic Republic had organized authority for decades.
That alone did not prove regime collapse. Systems can survive the loss of a leader if they can replace him quickly and credibly. But that is precisely where the next problem began.
The succession that followed looked less like a confident transfer of power than an emergency move under pressure.
Iran International reported that the IRGC pushed to install a successor outside normal legal procedures amid disarray in the chain of command and fears that people could return to the streets.
Mojtaba Khamenei’s elevation preserved the office, but did not clearly restore authority. A succession in such a system is meant to reassure the Islamic Republic’s core that command still exists and that the center is still holding.
Yet Mojtaba has remained unseen in any ordinary sense. His messages were still being issued only in writing or read by state television anchors over still images, with no direct public appearance or recorded voice.
In a system built around the symbolism and physical presence of supreme authority, that matters. A ruler who does not appear can hold a title, but cannot easily project command.
That, in turn, changes how the growing centrality of the Revolutionary Guards should be read. If the IRGC now appears to dominate more of the state, that does not necessarily mean the system is stronger. It may mean the opposite: that the wider governing structure has hollowed out and power has narrowed to its coercive core.
Even that core shows signs of strain.
Reports of disrupted chains of command, internal criticism of senior commanders, personnel failing to report to bases, and diplomats seeking asylum do not yet prove a terminal fracture. But they are the kinds of signals that often appear before loyalty begins to shift more openly.
What can appear as consolidation may, in fact, be contraction.
The moment before the streets
This is also why the absence of a full-scale uprising does not necessarily mean the Islamic Republic has restored confidence.
In collapsing systems, people do not always move at the first sign of weakness. They wait until repression looks less certain, until command appears thinner, until they believe the next confrontation may end differently from the last.
The decisive moment often comes not when society becomes angriest, but when the security forces are no longer sure they can, should, or will do what they did before.
That memory matters in Iran. January showed what happens when the state still has a functioning command structure and is prepared to kill on a massive scale. But the present moment is not January.
The command structure has been hit. The top leadership has been decapitated. The succession has not visibly restored confidence. The war has intensified military, political, and fiscal strain.
Quiet streets, in such a moment, do not necessarily mean submission. They may mean waiting for the right threshold.
What history suggests
None of this means the Islamic Republic’s end is settled. Regimes can survive extraordinary shocks, especially when coercion remains lethal and opposition forces lack a unified organizational center inside the country.
But history suggests a useful distinction. A system is often most vulnerable when it has been reduced to force alone.
That is often the stage at which the outer signs of continuity become misleading. The offices still function. Orders are still issued. Missiles may still fly. But the wider architecture that gave those acts political meaning has begun to fail.
The question is no longer simply whether the Islamic Republic still exists on paper. It does.
The more important question is whether it still functions as a regime in the full sense: with authority that travels clearly, loyalty that holds under pressure, and institutions that do more than keep violence in motion.
History suggests that when those things begin to fail together, the tipping point is no longer far behind.