In April 2024, as Iranian missiles rained down across Israel and many were intercepted mid-air, analysts around the world took note of the sheer scale of Iran’s ballistic reach. Many seasoned military minds could easily note what didn’t happen — there was no Iranian “air power” to speak of. Not a single Iranian fighter entered contested airspace, no attempt was made to suppress Israeli defences through air dominance, and not one sortie altered the course of events. The longstanding asymmetry in Iran’s force structure — a missile-rich, air force-poor doctrine — was laid bare. This was, surprisingly, decades in the making. It’s the reality of war that is making this dawn on us.
I recall with clarity that in 1992, as someone who regularly tracked military developments, I closely monitored Iran’s acquisition of North Korean Hwasong-5 and 6 missiles and the building of the architecture of Iran’s burgeoning rocket programme. At that time, too, our assessment was blunt — without a matching air force, Iran could not hope to counter Israel in any meaningful way. There was — and still is — no shared land border. Yet, a set of strong conventional armed forces — army, air force and air defence — was imperative, besides the maritime force. What mattered was the ability to deliver precision strikes from the air, both to deter and to punish, while adequately defending the airspace. Even then, it was evident that Iran was betting on the wrong horse.
Iran’s defence posture since the 1990s has been shaped less by hard-nosed strategic logic and more by institutional interests — especially those of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC). The IRGC’s progressively growing dominance over defence and foreign policy led to a doctrinal preference for asymmetric tools — missiles, drones, and proxy militias. This was driven by Israel’s dominance of the conventional war environment in the Middle East and the reputation gained from major victories against Arab conventional armed forces. It led to Iran choosing to become the world’s foremost practitioner of hybrid and grey-zone warfare, from Lebanon to Yemen, Syria to Gaza. Its missile arsenal expanded from basic Scud variants to precision-strike capabilities. Its drones progressed to become battlefield disruptors. But its air force — still operating pre-1979 US-made aircraft like the F-4 and F-14 — remained frozen in time.
Why did Iran, despite close defence ties with Russia and access to Chinese systems, fail to modernise its conventional forces? The answers lie in a mix of structural and doctrinal blind spots.
First, sanctions and isolation played their part. Western arms embargoes after the Revolution, followed by UN Security Council restrictions, effectively barred major transfers of combat aircraft. Even friendly suppliers like Russia and China hesitated, fearing diplomatic costs and technical dependency. This never applied to Pakistan, although one can presume that if the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan had not taken place in 1979 and Pakistan had not acquired the status of a US frontline state, its fate, too, may have been similar. As late as 2016, Iranian negotiations for Russian Su-30s stalled due to international scrutiny and internal disagreements.
Second, there was a cost-complexity trade-off, which probably applies more to any air force. A modern air force is expensive, not just to buy but to sustain. Pilots must be trained, platforms upgraded, and supply chains secured. In contrast, missile systems — especially those based on solid fuel and deployed from underground silos — offer lower operating costs, greater survivability, and rapid retaliatory capability. Creating indigenous capability for aircraft manufacturing of the modern kind is almost an impossible challenge. Missiles can still be researched and manufactured.
The North Korean Nodong was Iran’s most critical acquisition. It allowed Iran to target Israel and the Gulf with ballistic missiles for the first time. China’s role was more discreet. Chinese entities were instrumental in helping Iran build its own production lines, especially for the Fateh-110, Zolfaghar, and later systems. Without these two sources, Iran’s missile programme would likely have remained a tactical artillery force, not the strategic arsenal it wields today. For a regime obsessed with strategic messaging and revolutionary self-preservation, missiles were the attraction, especially because the Arab nations had invested more in conventional forces and failed. Missiles and rockets also ensured a quasi-multi-front capability, taking some other Arab nations as potential adversaries, too.
Third, and perhaps most important, was strategic culture. The all-powerful IRGC probably viewed conventional force modernisation as secondary to its regional ambitions. Its influence on Iran’s foreign policy ensured that Tehran invested in Hezbollah’s arsenal, the Houthis’ reach and Iraqi militias’ resilience, while neglecting its own conventional balance. All of them proved effective in their conflicts, fighting as Iran’s proxies, convincing the IRGC that its decision was right. Fighting through proxies was smart, but it was never going to be decisive. It could bleed enemies, not break them. That is the bane of asymmetric proxy war.
The events of 2024-25 should force a review in Tehran. Iran’s adversaries — especially Israel — have mastered the art of integrated deterrence: Layered missile defence, electronic warfare, and unmatched airpower.
A revolutionary guard corps is an excellent mechanism for regime protection, internal security, and ideological enforcement. But when war calls for black-and-white outcomes — dominance, not deterrence — only conventional forces can deliver. Air power remains the centre of gravity in any future conflict, especially in the Middle East, where terrain and geography demand long-reach precision and rapid mobility.
Perhaps now, more than three decades after it first chose rockets over wings, Iran will revisit that decision. The conflict dynamics have changed, but the fundamental truth has not: Strategic victory demands air superiority. No amount of missiles can substitute for it. Iran now faces the reality that asymmetry is being countered with global coordination — a major shift from the permissive environment it exploited earlier. Iran’s strategic choice to privilege proxies and missiles has reached its upper limit. Israel is not its only adversary. Despite Chinese efforts at rapprochement with Saudi Arabia, the strategic competition in the Gulf remains unresolved. For Iran to transition from a reactive regional disruptor to a true strategic actor, it must reinvest in conventional power. Only then can it match ideology with capability — and rhetoric with reach.
The writer is a former corps commander of the Srinagar-based 15 Corps and member, National Disaster Management Authority. Views are personal
Why did Iran, despite close defence ties with Russia and access to Chinese systems, fail to modernise its conventional forces? The answers lie in a mix of structural and doctrinal blind spots 
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