Elon Musk activates Starlink in Iran after 90,000,000 people were cut off from internet

Elon Musk, Starlink, and the Day the World Watched Iran Go Dark

On a Friday evening in June 2025, as dusk settled over Tehran, the city’s familiar digital hum faded into silence. Across Iran, 90 million people suddenly found themselves cut off from the world. Banking services froze, emergency calls failed, and families anxiously tried—and failed—to connect with loved ones abroad. The government, facing a barrage of Israeli missile strikes and fearing civil unrest, had pulled the plug on the nation’s internet.

The blackout wasn’t just a technical issue—it was a lifeline severed. International businesses stalled, vital news was blocked, and ordinary Iranians, many already on edge from the threat of war, felt the walls closing in. The Ministry of Communications called it a “temporary measure,” promising normalcy would soon return. But for millions, it was a chilling reminder of how easily their voices could be silenced.

Half a world away, in a glass-walled office overlooking the Pacific, Elon Musk was reading about the blackout on his phone. The world’s richest man, CEO of Tesla and SpaceX, had never shied away from controversy—or opportunity. His satellite internet system, Starlink, had already proven itself in disaster zones from Ukraine to California. But this was different. This was a nation, not a region, plunged into digital darkness.

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As the news spread on X (formerly Twitter), a prominent American radio host tagged Musk in a post: “Elon, time to put the final nail in the coffin of the Iranian regime. Can you get Starlink on over there?” Musk’s reply was simple, but electric:
“The beams are on.”

Within hours, Starlink satellites began broadcasting over Iranian skies. For those with access to black-market terminals—estimated at 20,000 scattered across the country—hope flickered back to life. People huddled around rooftop dishes, whispering passwords and passing around battered laptops. Messages trickled out: “We’re safe.” “Tell the world what’s happening.” “We are not alone.”

For the Iranian government, Starlink was both a technical headache and a political nightmare. Satellite internet bypassed terrestrial controls, making it nearly impossible to block without jamming signals or confiscating hardware. But Starlink’s arrival raised as many questions as it answered. Was this a humanitarian gesture, or a new front in the information war? And could a private billionaire really outmaneuver a nation-state?

The world watched, divided.
Some hailed Musk as a hero, a digital Robin Hood restoring freedom to the oppressed. “Every time there’s a disaster and people need internet, Elon comes to the rescue,” one user posted, echoing praise Musk had received during wildfires in California and hurricanes in Appalachia. Others warned of unintended consequences. Could Starlink’s activation provoke a crackdown, putting users at risk? Was Musk “politicizing” access to vital infrastructure, or simply doing what governments could not?

Meanwhile, scientists in Australia faced a different Musk-related crisis. At the Square Kilometre Array-Low observatory, astronomers had spent months tracking faint radio signals from the dawn of the universe. But as more Starlink satellites joined the constellation—now numbering in the thousands—something strange happened. The satellites were “leaking” radio emissions, not from their internet beams, but from onboard electronics. The interference, 10,000 times stronger than the signals astronomers sought, threatened to drown out the cosmic whispers that held clues to the universe’s origins.

“It’s like taking the brightest radio sources in the sky, multiplying them, and setting them all in motion,” said Dr. Steven Tingay, who led the research. No rules had been broken—these emissions weren’t regulated—but the impact was undeniable. If nothing changed, humanity might lose its ability to study the earliest stars and galaxies, all for the sake of global internet access.

Musk, for his part, promised to work with astronomers. SpaceX agreed to switch off Starlink’s main beams over sensitive telescopes, but the electronic leakage persisted. The debate raged: Was the price of universal connectivity the death of radio astronomy? Could a balance be struck between progress and preservation?

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Back in the United States, Musk faced another storm—this one political. A public spat with President Donald Trump had cost him a staggering $34 billion in a single day, the second-biggest personal wealth loss in history. Trump, furious after Musk called for his impeachment and referenced the Epstein files, threatened to cut all federal contracts with Musk’s companies. SpaceX, which NASA and the Pentagon relied on for critical missions, suddenly looked vulnerable.

Rivals like Jeff Bezos’s Blue Origin and Project Kuiper eyed the chaos, ready to step in if Musk faltered. The White House quietly approached other rocket firms, asking how quickly they could fill the gap if SpaceX was sidelined. For the first time in years, Musk’s dominance in space—and his ability to shape global events—seemed less certain.

Yet, even as his fortune fluctuated and critics circled, Musk remained undeterred. When wildfires ravaged Los Angeles, cutting off communications for over 130,000 evacuees, Musk announced on X:
“SpaceX will provide free Starlink terminals to affected areas in LA tomorrow morning.”

TV crews used Starlink to broadcast live from the disaster zone, their voices reaching the world only because of the satellites spinning silently overhead. “If it wasn’t for you, all these people would have no way to communicate. Thank you and keep up the great work!” one grateful responder posted.

But not everyone was convinced. Some accused Musk of using disasters to promote his companies, or pointed out that changes to X had made it harder to find real-time information during emergencies. The line between public service and private gain, between philanthropy and power, had never looked thinner.

As the weeks passed, Iran’s government partially restored internet access, but the lesson lingered. In an age where a single billionaire could restore—or disrupt—communications for an entire nation, the old rules no longer applied. Starlink had become more than a tool; it was a symbol of a new world, where technology could both liberate and endanger, connect and divide.

For millions in Iran, that weekend in June would be remembered as the moment when hope returned—not from their leaders, but from the sky. And for Elon Musk, it was just another day at the frontier, where ambition, controversy, and the future of humanity collided in the glow of a thousand satellites.