“The proper dress for a woman is the hijab that requires them to cover their hair and arms and legs and zinaat - their enticing parts.” “I chose to wear the chador as a protest against the Shah, Meshang,” Zarah, his wife, had screeched at him. “I chose it! I did! I’ll never wear a veil or chador or scarf against my will, never never never…” “Coeducation introduced by the Satan Shah a few years ago will cease as in practice it has turned many of our schools into houses of prostitution.” “Lies, all lies! Ridiculous!” Sharazad had told Lochart. “The truth must be shouted from the rooftops. It’s not the Imam saying these things, it’s the zealots surrounding him…”
“The Satan Shah’s heinous Marriage Protection Act is disapproved.” “Surely that’s a mistake, Hussain,” the mullah’s wife had said carefully. “The Imam can’t be saying that. It protects us against rejection by a husband, against polygamy, and grants us the right of divorce, gives us the vote and protects a wife’s property…”
“In our Islamic nation everyone will be governed only by the Koran and the Sharia. Women should not work, they must return to the home, stay in the home, to do their blessed, God-ordained duty to bear and bring up children and look after their Masters.”
“By the Prophet, Erikki, as much as I wish to have your children and be the best wife to you,” Azadeh had said, “I swear I cannot sit idly by and watch my less fortunate sisters be forced back into the Dark Ages without any freedom, or rights. It’s the fanatics, the zealots, not Khomeini, who are trying to do this. I will march wherever I am…”
All over Iran women had prepared sympathy marches - in Qom, Isfahan, Meshed, Abadan, Tabriz, even small towns like Kowiss - but never in the villages. All over Iran there had been arguments and quarrels between most fathers and their daughters, most husbands and their wives, most brothers and their sisters, the same fights, pleadings, cursing, demands, promises, beggings, forbiddings and, God protect us, even rebellions - covert and overt. And all over Iran was the same secret resolve of the women.
“I’m glad my Tommy’s not here, that makes it so much easier,” Sharazad had told her reflection in the mirror this morning, the march due to begin at noon. “I’m glad he’s away because whatever he said, eventually I’d disobey him.” A tremor of excitement, pleasing and at the same time painful. She was checking her makeup in the mirror a last time, just to make sure that the bruise around her left eye was well covered with powder. It hardly showed at all now. She smiled at herself, pleased with what she saw. Her hair was curled and flowing and she wore a warm green sweater and green skirt and nylons and Russian suede boots, and when she went out she had decided to wear a matching fur-lined coat and hat. Isn’t green the color of Islam? she thought happily, all her soreness forgotten.
Behind her the bed was littered with ski clothes and other clothes that she had considered and discarded. After all, women have never protested as a group before so we should certainly look our best. What a pity it’s not spring, then I could wear my light yellow silk dress and yellow hat and… A sudden sadness took her. Her father had given her that dress for her birthday present last year, and the lovely pearl choker necklace. Poor dear Father! she thought, her anger welling. God curse the evil men who murdered him. God cast them into the pit forever! God protect Meshang and all the family and my Tommy and let not zealots take away our freedoms. Now there were tears in her eyes and she brushed them away. Insha’Allah, she thought. Father’s in Paradise where the Faithful belong so there’s no real reason to mourn. No. Only the wish to see justice done to the foul murderers. Murder! Uncle Valik. HBC. Annoush and the children. HBC! How I hate those letters! What’s happened to Karim? She had heard nothing since Sunday and did not know if he was denounced, dead or free, or anything more about the telex - nothing to do but pray.
So she did. Again. And swept those problems out of her mind onto the shoulders of God and felt cleansed. As she put on her little fur-lined hat, the door opened, and Jari hurried in, also dressed in her best. “It’s time, Princess. Her Highness Zarah has arrived, oh, how pretty you look!” Filled with excitement, Sharazad picked up her coat and ran down the corridor, skirts flying, down the stairs to greet Zarah who waited for her in the hallway. “Oh, you look beautiful, Zarah darling,” she said embracing her. “Oh, I thought Meshang’d stop you at the last minute!” “He never had a chance,” Zarah said with a laugh, a cute fur hat jauntily on her head, “I started on him yesterday at breakfast and continued all day and all night and this morning about the new sable coat that was absolutely necessary, that I absolutely must have or I would die of shame in front of my friends. He fled to the bazaar to escape and forgot all about the march. Come along, we mustn’t be late, I’ve a taxi waiting. It’s stopped snowing, the day promises to be fair, though it’s chilly.”
There were already three other women in the taxi, friends and cousins, two proudly wearing jeans and high heels and ski jackets, hair free, one with a ski hat, and they were all as excited as if they were going to a barbecue picnic in the old days. None of them noticed the muttering disapproval of the taxi driver, or cared about him. “To the university,” Zarah ordered, and then they all chattered together like so many birds. When they were still two streets away from the university gates where the march was to assemble, the taxi had to stop, the crush was so huge.
Where a few hundred had been expected, there were thousands and more arriving every minute from all points of the compass. Young old, highborn lowborn, literate illiterate, peasant patrician, rich poor - jeans, skirts, pants, boots, shoes, rags, furs - and over all the same fervor, even from those who had come wearing chador. Some of the more militant were already making speeches and a few were shouting slogans: “No chador by force …” “Unity, struggle, victory…”
“Women unite, we refuse to be forced into purdah or chador…” “I was at Doshan Tappeh against the Immortals - we didn’t fight and suffer to give ourselves over to despotism…” “Death to despotism by any name…” “Yessssss! Hooray for women,” Sharazad shouted, “down with enforcing the chador and veils and scarves!” Like the others she was caught up in the excitement. Zarah paid the man and gave him a good tip, turned back joyfully, linking arms with Sharazad and Jari, and none of them heard the taxi driver call out, “Whores, all of you,” as he drove away. The crowds were milling around, not knowing what to do, most of them overwhelmed by the enormous numbers and variety of women and costumes and ages - even a few men joining them enthusiastically. “We’re protesting, Zarah, we’re really here, aren’t we?”
“Oh, yes, Sharazad! And there’re so many of us…” Shouting in the noise, listening to a well-dressed woman, a well-known Tehrani lawyer and activist and champion of women’s rights, Namjeh Lengehi - a few groups of men, students and teachers, for and against, along with a few mullahs, all against, also listening: “Some mullahs say we women can’t be judges, should not be educated and must wear chador. For three generations we have been unveiled, for three generations we have had the right of education and for one generation the right to vote. God is Great…”
“God is Great,” a thousand echoed her. “Some of us are more fortunate than others, some better educated than others, some even better educated than some men. Some of these know modern law better, even Koranic law better than some men - why shouldn’t those women be judges? Why?” “No reason! Those women for judges,” Zarah called out with a hundred others, drowning the mullahs and their supporters who shouted, “Sacrilege!”