Tag Archives: sexuality in Iran

Mar15

Kolakchaal Part I

Posted on by
Standard

Early in the morning, when Tehran is in its graceful peace, when it is still dark and the chill in the air is not interrupted by pollution and heat of the day, we leave my friends’s house. She tells me to enjoy the temporary serenity of the country’s capital. We take two buses and a taxi to Kolakchal hiking trail. My friend and her husband live in a small rental apartment in South Tehran. Getting to the Northern parts of town where Alborz mountains envelope the city can be a tiring mini-trip. As the old bus pushes uphill, I watch the sceneries of the city slowly change from gray dusty buildings and small shops to colorful streets and elaborate western-looking gift shops. My friend points out to famous streets we’ve grown up hearing about. We both giggle. Being from a small town, we’ve grown up hearing about the glamours lives of uptown Tehranis. “Which one is Elahiye?” I ask looking at the nicely trimmed hedges and colorful arts on the walls. “I think we passed it,” she whispers and looks back to check if we have really missed it. We have not. The bus stops to drop off some passengers and pick up some others. I read the small, simple, almost unnoticeable placard on the wall. Elahiye is printed in the traditional Persian calligraphy. “I want a Shohar from Elahiye!” I joke in a thick Isfahani accent and we both laugh. My friend plays a long with my joke and answers in a thicker Isfahani accent that a husband from Zaferaniye would be better since the properties are more expensive there. I argue that the fashion district is nicer in Elahiye. She argues for Zaferaniye again. For the rest of the ride, we laugh carefree and excited for our time together. Her husband is sitting in front of the bus, the male-only part. I mention Civil Right Movements I learned about in American schools. She is fascinated and asks some questions. Soon we both drift away in our thoughts, probably wondering what it would be like if Iranian women refuse to ride the buses in order to break away the gender segregation laws. I notice that the entire time we were laughing about rich husbands and questioning segregation a beggar boy has been staring at us. I buy a green wooden folding fan from him for a dollar and look out the window searching for Gheytariye.
By the time we get to the entrance of the hiking trail, the sun has set and some people are leaving at the gate. I wonder if they had gone all the way up to the summit. They could very well live in the neighborhood so they had set out really early that now they are leaving the trail.
Living in the neighborhood! I repeat to myself imagining life in North Tehran where many things are different from the rest of the city. Even the air is nicer, cleaner and less polluted up here. Some North Tehranis are known for thier “western” life styles, excessive parties with booze or expensive hobbies such as skying and weekends in dubai and Antalya, Turkey.

Cobblestone pavement, circling a fountain in the middle of a large courtyard sits behind the gate. There are green cypress trees and flower beds surrounding the courtyard. A few wooden benches are scattered. People in groups of two or more are standing around talking. A couple are exercising. I notice a middle aged woman wearing silver Adidas sweat pants and sweater. A matching silver cap is holding her white scarf tied behind her neck. I want to make a joke about the space-suit looking clothes she is wearing, but since I am in an Islamic country and nothing about her clothing looks Islamic I say, “Oh My God!” Her lean middle aged figure in the sport suit, tightly covering her body is a contrast against the world outside of the gates. I stare at her. Her face looks fresh and her skin glows. She smiles at me. I ask in disbelief if she’s seen what I have. My friend is not surprised at all. With her usual calmness she says it’s just the beginning. She kneels down to fasten her shoe lace. “Let’s go. You will love it” she says and starts walking toward the trail.

Mar1

Windows to The Age of Rebellion

Posted on by
Standard

“But I’m not wearing a maghna’e,” I responded when Mrs. M asked if I want to go with her. ”It’s ok! Your scarf will do,” she said genuinely, but I pretended to worry about her (not for myself) ”I don’t want to get you in trouble.” “Naaah,” she stretched her answer with a mocking tone. I even thought she was laughing inside her head for how stupid I was for making monsters out of my own people and their system. “Schools have changed,” she added and grabbed her purse, walking out the door;  A silent gesture for me to go along.

The ride took about fifteen minutes. Even though we were going across the street, the twists and turns of the  freeway and their exists, made the ride longer. I had no idea where we were. I would have never been able to navigate my way if I were to go on my own. I remember Mrs. M’s house was in the middle of vegetable field. My mother used to take my brother and I to her house so we could run around and play with her children. “Do you remember our fields?” she read my mind, but didn’t wait for my answer. “After the freeway was built, we lost most of it, but Alhamdulellah the price of our house went up.”

We had reached and my silent meant “Alhamdulellah.”

Retired Mrs M. taught PE at a private middle school. I wasn’t surprise at the arrangements of her class at all. I had gone to a similar private school in mid 90s also. Since the government can only finance public schools, most private schools in Iran use an actual house or an apartment complex for the school building. Often with a small back yard, schools end up renting gyms for PE hours.  Mrs. M whose house happened to be near the gym didn’t need to attend the school except twice a year to get her roster and to turn in the grades. She spoke about her unique situation in a such excitement that made one wonder working after retirement could be fun and something to look forward to.

The dead-end alley leading to the gym was narrow. She let me out the car first and parked close to the wall to leave some space for other cars.  She looked around and said her girls are not there yet. “Let’s go to the office and rest for awhile.”  A small cubical cement office with two big windows guarded by fences was located in the far end of the yard.
The yard looked brutally quiet: Just some yellow lines marking the basketball and volleyball courts, two cement ping-pong tables with metal nets and a row of water fountains, with a faucet dripping.

I knew this courtyard. Identical to rest of the gyms and school yards I’ve been to. Each PE hour, an identical courtyard held thirty plus girls all dressed up in a same school uniform, with heads covered up where sweat dried in their hair and their half-grown breasts soaked in sweat behind the blouses or bras. I looked at the basketball poles. One was completely missing a net and the other just had a torn net hanging from it. I could smell the body odor of all my classmates who were missing from the quiet basketball court. Sometimes the piercing smell of sweat and puberty was stronger on those who didn’t wear a t-shirt underneath their uniforms. You couldn’t blame them. It was the only way to cool your body down…One could do anything underneath the Hijab as long as her utter self was covered.

I looked up. Little windows were staring down the courtyard. Maybe hundreds. I knew the number was an exaggeration, but every thing seems multiplied when one is being watched. Windows from the neighboring all-girls high school on the right, and windows from the residential apartment complexes to the left, windows from buildings in the distance were looking straight down on me. I pulled my scarf closer, unintentionally. Those little eyes were the reason we had to sweat under the uniforms, I remembered, intentionally this time.

“Next time, we will come on Friday to play soccer,” Mrs. M. walking in front of me said, but corrected herself, “we have to make sure that it’s not a boys-only friday though.” the thought of playing the most favored sport in Iran was appealing at first, but  quickly went back to the thought of windows again:  Do Namahram windows look down on the yard–with awe and lust–when it fills up with energetic young girls ad when it is boys turn look away?

“Get out of the sun!” shouted Mrs. M.

I had not yet settled down on a black chair wrapped in its original packaging plastic that a woman walked in with a tray of fresh tea and candies. She welcomed me and put the tray on the only desk in the small office.

“A perfect Persian hospitality,” I thought, wondering how to get away from drinking the hot tea without being rude in that hot late spring day. The office walls were covered with flyers, announcements, a picture of Ayatollah Khomeini and Khameniei, and some Hadith about the benefit of sports. A young woman fully dressed in a black chador with a clip board on her lap was sitting across a student. Maybe “a teacher-to-be?” I remembered university students coming to our schools and interviewing us for their thesis or for their field work. I shifted in my chair to be able to hear them better. “How do you feel about yourself now?” I listened and I immediately changed my mind about her profession. “She must be a counselor,” I decided and drifted into memories of having such young professionals coming to my school. My classmates and I used to make up stories to make fun of them. Back then, counseling was a new phenomenon. Most schools even didn’t have a full time counselor. Once every two weeks, a psychology graduate student would come and use the make-shift prayer room to set up and office to meet with troubled students. She would end up standing in the door way and watch students mingling during the recess. Those of us who were gutsier than others, had the courage to mess with her. Once I led a team of five girls to write a letter. We said that “my” father wants to marry me to a 50-year-old man, he beats “my” mother and “I” want to marry my neighbor  instead. We chose the code name, “red rose.” The desperate counselor who would post answers on the bulletin board. kept posting “Red Rose please stop by my office.”

The girl looked comfortable talking to the counselor in chador. In her laughter I saw our own laughter when the counselor kept refreshing the message on the board. Could she really help the fictional “me” if our story was real? I thought while looking at the consoler’s moving lips.

“My girls are here!” said Mrs. M taking me away from high school days. The tea was cold by now. I took a sip from the bitter tea and got up to leave. The counselor and her student didn’t even noticed me. “I am definitely participating in the games again next year to…” I listened till the conversation dissolved.

When I walked into a big arena that looked like a Futsal pitch/indoor volleyball court, almost all heads turned. The conversations stopped and everyone stared at me. I became conscious of my scarf again pulling it closer on my forehead. I think Mrs. M noticed it. She cheerfully ordered her class to get in lines for excercise. “This is my friend, Pah-reesa,” she said to a small group who were standing near by. I wished she would stop there but I knew there was more to come. “She’s from Em-reeca and has come to visit you today.” And to my–not–surprise, the crowd began to walk toward me. One after another, sometimes even at the same time I heard questions about my name, my age, my marital status, my state of residency of exclusively LA or NY, my favorite hollywood actor, and the field of my studies.
Parisa. “nice name.” “Oh, we have a Parisa too.” “Hello there, Parisa.”
Single. “cool,” “So is my brother,” Giggles. “And is my uncle.” Giggles.
25. “You look younger.” “No she doesn’t.” Giggles. “Shush.”
Massachusetts. “God forbid, Chus!?” Loud laughter. More giggles.
And then I said “Women’s studies.” I don’t know why I did so. I have been saying I studied English. It started as an old trick my father had suggested a long time ago to spare me fears and worries. I used it when he was around just to avoid any arguments, but after a while, I got used to it. Plus, it really was easier than trying to explain what the use of journalism and women’s studies in a culture that sends its children to the West to become doctors and engineers were.
“What is that?” ”What is there to study about women?” The first few questions were serious but then someone cracked a joke and everyone else followed. “Is it an art of finding a hus-baand?” “Nah, I think it means studying the female body.”

I had no way out of this now. I smiled, but my silence began to grew awkward. “For example, it’s about history of woman’s movement,” I desperately tried.  ”Oh, Where do women move to?” Jokes followed. should I say it’s about empowering women?  ”Hadn’t Iranian women already empowered themselves by taking up more than half of university seats and almost half of the work force?” That’s it! I had found the correct description in just a minute of being surrounded by some middle schooler who were probably more eager to know about Em-reeca than what women’s studies is. All of a sudden, a loud lasting whistle  interrupted everybody’s fun, and my what (I thought) brilliant answer.
“I said get in lines for the exercise,” shouted Mrs. M hugging two badminton rackets and a ball on top of her clipboard. The crowd around me quickly dispersed. She called out two names and asked them to lead the exercise.

“Here,” she handed the rackets to me. “I called Sara to come and keep you company.” I had met Sara once before. She was the superintendent’s daughter. She used to play badminton for the national highschool team. She had actually made me promise to visit the gym to teach me some badminton tricks. Few minutes later, she walked in with a big beautiful smile.

“You came!”

“Yes I did.” “How are you? Your family?”  We exchanged Persian pleasantries and walked  to the far end of the pitch where she showed me how to distinguish the colored lines from one another. I just figured that for Badminton I should stay within the blue lines. Amidst the commotion and echoing sound of screams, talking and exercise, I struggled to listen to her and ask her questions about her school and her newly-found part time job.

Not long after, we started to play and somewhat useless struggled to carry a conversation in the sound-echoing pitch, a group of girls began to sing. When I paused our game to look over, I found a circle of clapping people around two students dancing in the middle.  One girl was tapping on something I could not clearly recognize. Sara could tell I’m eager to join them and said “Ok, let’s go.”

“But, it’s the teacher!” I repeated in disbelief when I got  loser and saw the PE teacher of the high school class who was tapping on her clip board while others sang, clapped and danced. A young woman, maybe in her late twenties, was feeling her students’ need to have fun. “We used to do things like that hiding from our teachers,” I said in awe and disbelief. But but Sara confirmed calmly, “times have changed.”

Few seconds later, I was clapping and moving my hip, forgetting my astonishment and remembering memories of my own high school years. One or two girls would guard the door while others sang and dance in class. We would occasionally get caught and punished too for our un-Islamic behaviors, but it was all worth of the adrenalin-rush and the excitement. It was our version of youth rebellion. however, what I was seeing, was clearly not “rebellion” for these girls.

On our way back, Mrs. M hoped I had a nice time. “Did you see how “gherti” the high school kids were while you were worried about your headscarf!” she mocked me and stared into the distance. Then, she told me about one of her students who ran around the basketball court without her Hijab. She had to blew into her whistle and shout at her. “Don’t you see all these windows facing the courtyard?” she had to remind her and ask her to wear her maghna’e. “Do you know what bothered me the most?” she asked me, but I didn’t have anything to say so she answered her own question, “That he father was an akhond.”  ”To be the daughter of a Muslim clergyman and to run around the public gym courtyard without the head-covering” said Mrs. M is because of the “pressure.” It bothers her, she told me, to see how easy and quick Islamic values have disappeared from the generation she teaches.

These young girls talk back to their elders the way my generation did not dare. These girls have “boyfriends.” A disgraceful act my generation rarely dared to do. These girls have found a way to bridge the gap between their parents and their own values.

“That’s it.” I thought I found yet another brilliant answer, this time to Mrs. M’s concern and to my own puzzled mind. “That’s their rebellion.” I was ready to tell Mrs. M that her students’ behaviors are not entirely involuntarily and out of pressure, rather is their version of youth rebellion. But she pressed her palm on the steering-wheel, cursing a young man who cut her off on the motorcycle.

“bar pedaret..ahmagh…bi hameh…” my thoughts dissolved in the piercing sound of horn, Mrs. M’s curse upon his parents who should have taught him how to drive and my wondering what would have happened if the car had hit him.

Oct1

The Hidden Book

Posted on by
Standard

Iranian Female College Students Are walking to Class

Iran sleeps in the afternoons. It feels like the entire country takes a siesta in peace. But if you are not the nap-taker, there are a lot of lonely hours spent in killer silence and staring at the bare walls.

In one of such afternoons, I sit on my cousin’s bed and scan her room.  She’s been kind enough to skip her nap for the sake of keeping me company. Her room looks the same way as I have always remembered it; Clean and neatly organized.

She is particularly worried about hair strands and “invisible trash” on the carpet. She tears pieces of clear duck tape and sticks them to the cream-colored carpet. By each pulling she hunts some hair. It makes her content and she smiles in triumph.

Except the occasional sound of the duck tape violently pulled from the  floor, there is silence. In the far corner of the room a small round table stands tall. I recognize my childhood pink bunny stuffed animal I gave her  when I left Iran at the age of 18. There are two big Winnie the Poos and a fluffy dog her husband gave  her when they were secretly dating. A coat hanger holds her black college uniform and her husband work clothes.

“She is married,” I remember. My baby cousin whom I hated when she was born twenty-one years ago is married to her boyfriend of three years. I wrote her a letter from US and asked her to not to get married so soon. She had written to me that she’d met a boy in 7th grade and secretly dated him till his parents finally got her family’s consent.

The silence continues and there aren’t any more hair left on the floor. As she gets up to trash the pile of hair-infested, crumbled duck tape, I notice a slight untidiness in her book shelf. On the bottom left hand side of her yellow metal book shelf, underneath her psychology books and her husband’s management hand-outs, I notice a thick book that is turned backwards so the title is not visible.

“Een chiyeh?” I ask.

Checking the room for any unwanted visitors,  my cousin lowers her voice and says “it’s a book about ‘those stuff’.” She had to read the book for her premarital class.

The picture-less, hard cover pink book with the images of an over sized red heart interrupted by a green palm tree and a blackened outline of a couple holding hands on the beach is the “Marital Sex Education.”

Even though understanding of sexuality in Iran has been going through major changes, and more women nowadays acknowledge the importance of defying old gender roles, the book had been remained hidden in my cousin’s room simply because she feels shy about owning a sex education book.

Even though Iranian women have been raised to become proper wives and sacrificing mothers, the meaning of womanhood has been changed for them.

Even though the government has tried for three decades to enforce the Islamic values, the old traditions are disappearing. The young are willing to learn. Women are educated and nothing can stop them from learning more.

When my cousin took the class in order to get her marriage license, she was surprised to see how enthusiastic participants were to learn. Women of every background, educational level and social class were asking detailed questions or were contributing to the conversations.

The gender segregated class, taught by a religious woman was all about the methods of contraception and teaching women to enjoy their body and their sexuality.

My cousin turns red and points to specific chapters on the book. “I never thought women could enjoy it too,” she summarizes what she learned from the class in her–still shy–way.

I am reminded of many examples of studies on the understanding of sexuality in modern Iran. Pardis Madavi’s Iran’s Sexual Revolution or Azadeh Moaveni’s Honeymoon in Tehran for example give some fascinating insights. But more than any thing I am witnessing a transformation of beliefs and practices. Though for the older generation, these changes are blatantly destroying Iranian and Islamic values, the new generation does not find anything wrong in pleasure and enjoying one’s self.

Finally, even though sex educational classes in Iran are only offered to couples who are getting married, do not forget that other means like Internet and satellite TVs are pouring a sea of information into Iran.

The sound of crystal cups of tea slightly moving on the silver tray approaches. This means that siesta is over and every one is called over to enjoy the time being together. As I put the sweet hard candy in my mount and slowly feel it being melted from the hot tea, I think how proud I am of my Iran. While I have been in the US educating myself with books and women’s studies courses that being a woman does not mean being subordinate, Iranian women have been redefining the meanings of womanhood, sexuality, relationship, piety and etc in their own ways.

Living an unconventional life in Iran is like the hidden book that is surely put out of sight, but it’s been carefully read. And one day it will be in the shelf next to any other book–without any shame.