By Muhammad Munaeem Jamal
In October 2024, I watched footage of missiles crossing the night sky over Israel. The bright trails made Iran’s reach plain. They did not tell me how many missiles hit their targets, what each one cost, or whether Iran could replace them after a war. Those questions matter more than the spectacle.
The man often placed at the centre of this story is Hassan Tehrani Moghaddam, an Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps commander who helped turn a small wartime missile unit into a lasting military enterprise. Iran calls him the father of its missile programme. He deserves a serious account. A story in which one engineer beats every sanction and gives his country strategic dominance hides the people, foreign designs, and industrial supplies that made the programme possible.
The wars of 2025 and 2026 have made that distinction urgent. Iranian missiles struck despite powerful defences. Iran’s own launchers and production sites also came under attack. Moghaddam built something consequential. What, exactly, did he build, and how well has it survived?
A commander sent to learn
Iran’s search for missiles grew out of the war with Iraq. Saddam Hussein’s forces struck Iranian cities, while Tehran had limited means to answer at comparable range. Iranian officials sought missiles abroad. According to Iran Watch’s missile chronology, Mohsen Rafiqdoost led a delegation to Syria and Libya in August 1984.
The IRGC formed a missile team that October and named Moghaddam its commander. He led 13 members to Syria for training on Scud-B and Frog-7 weapons. The early organisation had other people whose names rarely appear in accounts of the “father” of the programme. Amir Ali Hajizadeh served as Moghaddam’s deputy and helped establish a missile base near Kermanshah.
That sequence tells us something about the first stage. Iran did not begin with an independent design bureau that suddenly discovered long-range missiles. It sought foreign weapons and trained personnel to operate them. Libya supplied Scuds in the following period; Iran later acquired more missiles and technology from elsewhere. The pressure of war gave this effort political priority, but outside help gave it a starting point.
Moghaddam’s contribution was to help turn an emergency unit into an organisation that could learn, produce, and endure. A commander who sustains that work can matter greatly without personally inventing every weapon his country later fields.
The foreign foundations of a domestic industry
Iran’s Shahab family shows how imported technology and local production developed together. The Shahab-1 drew on Scud-B technology. The Shahab-2 derived from North Korea’s Hwasong-6, a longer-range Scud variant. Iran’s Shahab-3 drew on North Korea’s Nodong.
These were substantial gains. A country that learns to operate, adapt, and manufacture missiles develops skills that an overseas seller cannot simply deliver in a crate. Engineers need production equipment. Military units need launchers, crews, and maintenance. Commanders must decide how to protect the force and use it. Iran built organisations around those tasks over many years.
The North Korean link also unsettles the neat tale of self-reliance. Tehran did not advance through “pure engineering determination.” It used foreign designs while building the capacity to produce and change them. Later Iranian systems included solid-fuel missiles, which offer different operational advantages from older liquid-fuel Scuds. Their development required another body of industrial work.
In November 2011, an explosion at a military facility near Tehran killed Moghaddam and dozens of others working on the programme. Iran Watch records his death but does not establish the cause of the blast. Calling it a “mysterious explosion” is fair; assigning blame without evidence is not.
The programme continued. That continuation may be the clearest measure of what Moghaddam helped create. Its work had spread across units, factories, and research organisations. No single engineer could carry all of it, and no single death ended it.
Sanctions changed the route, not the need for imports
Sanctions have made Iran’s missile procurement harder and more expensive. They have not sealed the country off from foreign materials. Nor does the record prove the attractive claim that every restriction made Iran stronger.
Consider the supplies needed for missile fuel and structures. In April 2025, the U.S. Treasury identified a network that it said procured missile propellant ingredients from China for the IRGC. In May, Treasury targeted procurement of carbon fibre and related equipment. These actions describe continuing efforts to obtain specialised inputs abroad, decades after Iran began building missiles at home.
Treasury’s account is a government enforcement account. It identifies alleged networks and their roles; a designation alone does not measure the output of an Iranian factory. Still, repeated cases make one point difficult to ignore. Domestic production and foreign dependence can exist in the same programme.
Iran has shown an ability to keep building under pressure. Front companies and indirect purchasing routes have helped it seek restricted goods. Sanctions may slow a project, raise its cost, or force a change in suppliers without stopping every missile. We cannot measure their success by counting sanctions notices. We must ask which materials reached Iran, which facilities operated, and how many usable weapons emerged.
The same test applies to Iran’s underground facilities. Shelters can protect stockpiles and complicate an attacker’s work. Public claims about the depth or invulnerability of all “missile cities” go beyond what open evidence supports. A tunnel can protect a missile on one day and still leave the launch route, support equipment, or production line exposed on another.
What the missiles proved in combat
Iran’s October 2024 attack on Israel involved roughly 180 ballistic missiles, according to Iran Watch’s chronology. Israeli and American systems intercepted many. Others landed at military sites. The attack showed both the reach of Iran’s force and the difficulty of judging its effectiveness from night-sky videos.
Some readers call every Israeli defence “Iron Dome.” That name obscures how the system works. The U.S. Missile Defense Agency describes Arrow as the upper layer of Israel’s air and missile defence architecture, alongside David’s Sling and Iron Dome. American support adds further capacity. A claim that Iron Dome intercepts only 20 or 30 percent of Iranian ballistic missiles assigns a rate to the wrong part of the defence network.
Iran’s Fattah presents another problem of labels. Tehran unveiled the solid-fuel missile in 2023 and called it hypersonic. Iran Watch described its distinctive feature as a re-entry vehicle with a steerable rocket motor. Ballistic missiles can reach hypersonic speeds; speed alone does not establish that a weapon has the flight characteristics often associated with a hypersonic glide vehicle. Nor can a claimed top speed tell us how reliably it strikes through defences. I would leave the claim of superior battlefield performance out until independent evidence supports it.
The larger test came in June 2025. CSIS estimated that Iran fired about 550 ballistic missiles and more than 1,000 one-way attack drones during its 12-day war with Israel. Its analysis put missile interception at roughly 85 to 90 percent. That is an estimate for that conflict, not a permanent rating for every weapon or defensive layer. Missiles still got through.
By 2026, the other half of the military equation had become stark. Strikes targeted Iranian launchers, stocks, and production facilities. Iran Watch’s March assessment reported sharp declines in daily missile and drone launches and relayed Israel’s claim that it had neutralised 70 percent of Iran’s missile launchers. The figure is an Israeli wartime claim, not a verified inventory count. Damage assessments remain uncertain, and a decline in launches can have several causes.
Even with those limits, the distinction is plain. A missile’s ability to reach a target does not tell us whether its country can preserve launchers, replace spent weapons, or sustain production through a long conflict.
Power beyond Iran’s borders
Iran has also shared missile capabilities with armed partners. CSIS’s survey of Iranian missiles describes supplies to Hezbollah in Lebanon and increasingly advanced ballistic and cruise missiles to the Houthis in Yemen. Those transfers can stretch an opponent’s defences across several places at once. They also give the groups that receive weapons their own choices about when and where to fire.
The original version of this story assigned Moghaddam a personal role in establishing Hezbollah’s first missile units and gave a precise figure for the group’s arsenal. I have left both claims out. Neither is needed to explain Iran’s strategy, and an undated estimate that combines simple rockets with more capable missiles can mislead readers about what the force can do.
There is a wider cost. Missile attacks put civilians at risk, and retaliation can draw more countries into a fight. Calling the transfer network “strategic brilliance” settles a moral and military argument in two words. It is more useful to ask what leverage Iran gained, what control it retained over its partners, and what damage followed.
Moghaddam’s real legacy
Iran did not turn spare parts into a missile superpower by force of will. It used wartime urgency to organise a missile force. It drew on foreign weapons and designs, then developed substantial production capacity of its own. Procurement from abroad has continued. So has the contest between missiles, defences, and strikes against the factories and launchers behind them.
Moghaddam stands near the beginning of that institutional story. His death did not end the programme, which speaks to the depth of the organisation he helped build. Recent wars have exposed its limits as well as its reach.
I keep returning to those trails over Israel in October 2024. A camera could record a missile crossing the sky. It could not show the supply chain behind it, the damaged launcher left at home, or the decision to fire again. That is where Iran’s missile story now lies.
