The uprising began in September, after a 22-year-old Kurdish woman, Mahsa
Amini, died in the custody of Iran’s morality police. She had been arrested on
accusations of violating mandatory-hijab rules, and a gruesome photo and video
of her unconscious in a hospital bed went viral, sparking outrage and grief.
The protest movement — known as Woman, Life, Freedom — quickly morphed into
broader demands for an end to the Islamic Republic’s rule.
Marches, led by women, spread across the country from September to January,
and the government has cracked down violently. Authorities have also dismantled
the morality police and are trying new methods to enforce the dress code.
To this day, acts of civil disobedience continue. Women and girls appear in
public without the hijab. At night, Iranians chant antigovernment slogans from
their rooftops.
To better understand how daily life in Iran has transformed, we asked three
young women to keep a diary for five weeks. Their entries have been edited for
length and clarity, and their last names are being withheld for their safety.
Like many Iranians, they are trying to figure out what their lives should look
like as they continue to fight for, and dream of, change.
March 4
Ghazal, a
20-year-old college student living in Tehran:
It was my
friend’s birthday today. When I got into the car service, the driver asked me
if I had anything to cover my hair with. I replied, sternly, “No, I don’t.” He
then explained that drivers can be fined for passengers without proper hijab. I
later thought about what he said — if I wore a hijab in his car, I would be
surrendering. If I didn’t, the poor driver could be penalized. I was really
confused. But I realized that looking out for one another is the most important
thing, so I’ve decided to cover my hair in taxis.
March 11
Parnian, a
23-year-old recent college graduate who lives in Tehran and works multiple
jobs:
There were at
least 40 of us in the train’s women-only carriage. I could feel the bag of the
passenger behind me pressing against my waist. It was hot, and there was no
oxygen. Once the train door closed, people started talking. I couldn’t see her,
but a woman was selling well-priced cosmetics inside the carriage. One
passenger passed her credit card, from hand to hand, to the woman, who then
took the card and shouted, “What’s your PIN code?”
The
passenger’s reply came from another side, “2-5-4-2.” Several people repeated
the code until it finally reached the seller’s ear. She then sent the card and
a new mascara back to the other end of the carriage. A tube of mascara was sold
with the help of several people, and the train hadn’t even moved yet.
March 12
Kimia, a 23-year-old graduate
student who lives in Kurdistan Province:
I thought I would have fun after my master’s entrance exam, but now there
is nothing to do. I used to enjoy going to cafes once a week, but it has become
so expensive. Now I can afford to go only once or twice a month. I can’t even
download a movie or check social media properly with our stupid slow internet.
Pretty much every application you want to use in Iran is blocked, and to get
around the restrictions, we use virtual private networks. It takes hours. I
have to use multiple VPNs, and they disconnect several times. You have to keep
trying and trying.
Ghazal:
Something very strange and
interesting happened at the hair salon today. A woman came in with head scarves
and shawls for sale. One of the salon’s stylists jokingly told her that people
don’t buy scarves anymore, that it is no longer profitable and that she should
change her job. In response, the woman said that was not true and that certain
people are trying to promote secularism and prostitution in society. We were
all stunned, but nobody said anything to her.
Parnian :
I feel good for no reason. Ever
since the start of the Woman, Life, Freedom revolution, there has been so much
pain that feeling good seems bizarre. Yet I feel great today. I wonder why. The
lightness is weird.
One of the most disturbing manifestations of the government’s crackdown has
been the executions of protesters. For months, the Revolutionary Court has
staged trials and charged some protesters with “moharebe,” or waging war
against God. At least a dozen have been sentenced to death by hanging. Protests
have become sporadic and limited to occasions when the public has an excuse to
congregate, such as at funerals or outside prisons to demand a halt to the
imminent executions.
March 13
Parnian :
As I stepped outside today onto one
of Tehran’s busiest streets, I was taken aback. In 10 years of living in this
neighborhood, I have never seen it as dim and quiet. All the shops around the
metro station were closed. There were police officers and special forces
everywhere, waving their batons in the air, ushering people to move along.
One of the police officers had a hilarious expression. He tried to look
serious but seemed incredibly idiotic. Seeing that face, the stern gaze and the
amount of stupidity nestled in that uniform made me want to laugh. As I kept
walking, my chest suddenly started burning, and I felt short of breath. I must
have walked into tear gas.
One officer told a teenage girl to move and stand somewhere else. The young
girl looked at him coldly and said, “Are we bothering you?” Another guy came
and said to the policeman, “Reza, let it go,” and took him away. I looked at
the young girl and blew her a kiss. She blew a kiss back.
March 13
Kimia:
The execution
of Mohammad Mehdi Karami still breaks my heart. He was a protester and national
karate champion. We were around the same age, and I also have a black belt in
karate. I feel very close to him, more than any of the other protesters who
have been killed. I look at his picture often and try to imagine his life as a
young athlete. What motivated him to go out and protest? Did he just want a
better life?
There was a
call to protest today, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. There were riots in
several cities tonight, but the big day is tomorrow. Let’s see how it goes.
At night I
heard people chanting “death to the dictator” and the constant sound of
explosions. It went on until 1 a.m. I couldn’t tell if it was gunfire or
firecrackers. Boom, boom, boom.
Ghazal:
My friend and
I have found an exciting cafe on Enghelab Street that screens foreign films and
shows. I watch this show, “The Last of Us,” which I love. This week it was part
of the cafe’s program, so my friend and I made a reservation. You know, we
don’t get to watch foreign films and TV shows together with friends, grab a
bite and enjoy ourselves. And that cafe made it possible for us.
Most of the
customers were our age, and we shared the same vibe. It felt great to watch the
show and react to different scenes collectively. Nobody told us to keep it
down. To be honest, it felt like freedom.
March 14
Kimia :
My friend’s
brother was arrested during the protests in a city in Kurdistan and has been
imprisoned for several months. This morning, I learned that he tried to kill
himself. My friend told me that he had been fed up with living in limbo — he
had not been put on trial or formally charged.
I’m much less
hopeful than I was at the beginning of this movement. The Islamic Republic will
be gone one day, but I’m not sure it’ll happen this time around. We have seen
this cycle before: We get our hopes up and think that this time will be
different, that change is coming, that we will win, and then nothing happens. I
was really convinced that the regime would be toppled this time, but when I saw
the brutal crackdowns and all the killings, I realized this wasn’t it, either.
Parnian :
On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I work from home. Today one of my colleagues
called, sounding nervous. “Are you OK?” she asked. That morning, the metro on
the Tajrish line, my main daily commute, had stopped at a station for a while
because of a technical issue, and then one of the carriages caught fire.
Official reports did not mention injuries. I thanked my colleague for letting
me know and hung up. I thought about the people on the train. How scared were
they? Did they scream a lot?
For years we have grown accustomed to the fact that anyone, anywhere can be
unsafe. We have gotten used to shrinking our comfort zones. Back when the
morality police were active, almost every time we met with friends, one of the
boys went ahead, scoped out the situation and told us which way to go in order
to avoid the forces. Now, in the absence of the morality police, there is more
freedom, but also more anxiety. People meet near their workplaces, homes or
schools. Nobody talks about it, but we’re afraid to explore new areas.
Iran’s economy has steadily declined over the past few years as a result of
U.S. economic sanctions and the government’s systematic corruption and
mismanagement. Inflation is skyrocketing, and the Iranian currency has devalued
against the American dollar by 20 to 30 percent since the beginning of this
year. Middle-class and working-class families are buying less, eliminating
essentials like meat, chicken and dairy from their grocery lists. Many people
work two or three jobs to get by. It has become common for employees — even those
working for the government, like teachers and factory workers — to go several
months without a paycheck.
March 15
Kimia :
We went to the market to do some
shopping for Nowruz, the Persian New Year. Pastry shops were packed. Boy, how
expensive everything is! My mom wanted to buy pistachios and roasted nuts, but
it cost over 1.2 million tomans, more than three times the price they were last
year. We ended up buying a small box of sugar candies from a cheaper place.
Parnian :
The company I work for has been in
financial trouble for over eight months and cannot pay the employees’ salaries.
Several employees at my work resigned and left. The ones who stayed, including
me, are mostly young and single. Some of my colleagues are spending their
savings; others are borrowing money. I have no intention of dipping into my
savings, and I’m too proud to borrow, so I have taken translation jobs on the
side, working late after my regular hours.
Today I was having my third cup of coffee, struggling with a headache and
insomnia, when the door opened. In came my colleague, looking upset. “Look,
Parnian, my girlfriend is a modern person and doesn’t think providing money is
a man’s duty, but I’m just tired,” he told me. “She has been paying for
everything for several months, and her support makes me feel worse. The harder
I try, the poorer I become.” After staring at the kitchen floor for a few
seconds, he said, “I feel useless.”
I hugged him and whispered in his ear: “You will get through this. Don’t
forget that our only weapon is our thick skin. Be a rhino!”
Ghazal :
A few friends and I somehow ended up
talking about the protests and how the Mahsa movement has died down. But I
don’t believe the movement has ended.
This movement is not just about people coming to the streets, chanting,
fighting and getting killed. I am witnessing so many other changes. Now we can
eat in restaurants without wearing the hijab, and not a single person says,
“Madam, put your hijab back on.” The university security no longer pesters
students about their attire. People don’t defend this regime in classes
anymore. It doesn’t matter that we don’t protest in the streets. People are
kinder and look out for one another every day. If a guard or a security person
bothers a student, everyone will come to the rescue. I think it’s beautiful.
March 16
Kimia :
We haven’t turned on state television in years. The news is all lies, and
it has no entertainment. So my mom and I stay up every Thursday and Friday to
watch “The Voice Persia,” a singing-competition show broadcast from MBC Persia,
one of the satellite channels. We guess which songs will be performed and which
contestants will get ahead. Our favorite is a guy from Mashhad, a city in
northeast Iran, who now lives in Turkey and sings alternative rock. I hope he
wins.
Parnian :
I felt like running today. I went to
the park near my house for some fresh spring air. Almost two years ago, they
opened a women-only park in front of the old mixed one. I do not like gender
segregation, but I like the new park more than the mixed one
Last autumn, fewer women were without a head scarf, and they were wearing
sports caps to cover their hair instead. Most days, I either endured the heavy
gaze of a hijabi woman or I was directly scolded, told to have shame and cover
my hair. But today, many women didn’t have a hijab, and those who did exercised
alongside them in peace.
There was one beautiful girl with short blond hair. At the start of the
uprising, women were cutting off their hair as an act of protest and a sign of
mourning. Seeing her got me emotional. For years we had fantasized about the
day we would take off our scarves and let the wind blow through our hair. But
now that we can be unveiled, we no longer have our long hair. We cut it for
that very basic freedom. Our dreams are always one step ahead of us.
March 18
Kimia :
I went to the market with a friend.
It was very crowded, with many street vendors selling items for Nowruz. A
musician was playing an instrument, and shops were playing loud music, too. As
I was waiting to cross the street, I started dancing subtly to the rhythm of
the music. A police officer nodded at me and laughed. There were several girls
and women, including myself, without head scarves. I finally got into the
Nowruz mood.
Parnian :
I was checking the news on Twitter
when I came across a picture of a man dressed in brown. The tweet said that the
families of prisoners on death row have gathered outside the Urmia Central
Prison. Mohayeddin Ebrahimi, a political prisoner, would be executed tomorrow
with the morning call to prayer. “Let’s be the voice of our countrymen,” the
tweet read.
Executions have become an all-consuming issue; people follow the cases
closely, and when they hear that a protester will be executed at dawn, they
rush to the prison and stand outside the walls all night.
I was about to retweet it so that others, too, could become the voice of
Mohayeddin, when I saw the date of the tweet. It was exactly one day old. That
meant they had probably hanged Mohayeddin.
I closed the Twitter app, disconnected my VPN, locked the phone screen and
stared at the darkness in my room.
The government has struggled with how to respond to the most visible and
enduring result of the uprising: women refusing to wear a hijab. After
abolishing the morality police in December, officials said they would find
alternative methods for enforcing the hijab law. Some of the new policies would
include using surveillance cameras and facial recognition to identify women,
which could result in fines or the denial of civic services. Many women, for
their part, continue to disobey the law.
March 19
Kimia :
Today we went to the bank with my father. I
was waiting for my turn when I heard someone behind me say, “Madam, put your
scarf on.” Turning around, I saw only the shadow of a veiled woman pass by. She
came back a few minutes later and repeated the same thing. Again, I ignored
her. A while later, the bank’s deputy manager came and asked me apologetically
to wear my hijab. He said that they were told to tell clients to comply and
apologized once more. So I said OK and wore it.
Then, at
another stand at the bank, my shawl slipped down. In came the manager again,
asking me to fix my hijab. At that moment, I saw the veiled woman sneak out of
the bank. I was so pissed off.
The branch
manager of the bank told my dad that the veiled women were with the government.
It turns out that they go to banks, warning them not to serve hijabless women
or assume the consequences. I saw the woman again out on the street, telling
another girl to fix her hijab.
March 21
Parnian :
Until recently, I wasn’t big on praying. I considered prayer an insult to
my intelligence. But things have changed. We have been in an extraordinary
situation, bearable only with divine help and a lot of patience. Tonight I
closed my eyes and prayed from the bottom of my heart: “Dear God, spare
families from the pain of losing a child.” Then I broke into tears: “Let us be
a little happy. … Give us a little bit of happiness. … Just a little bit. …”
Kimia :
Today I was talking to my family about how much people check you out in
Iran and how much time you spend thinking about what to wear. It feels like
you’re under constant surveillance. But I’ve noticed a change in attitude among
men. Before this movement, if I went out with my red hair showing or wearing a
cool outfit, some men would follow or harass me. Cars would slow down and honk
their horns. Now we go out without hijab, we wear what we want and men don’t
say anything. They nod in approval. They smile.
March 23
Ghazal :
I saw a beautiful graffiti message on my way to a stationery store today
that said, “Move on but don’t forget,” with a Mahsa Amini hashtag underneath.
In order to succeed, we have to keep our spirits up as much as possible. We
must not stop living or lose hope. We shouldn’t feel guilty for being happy.
The government’s sole aim is to take our joy away, and we can’t allow that.
March 25
Parnian :
We came up with a new rule at home: No daily news during Nowruz. You could
call it something like compassion-fatigue syndrome. The volume of bad news is
numbing.
March 28
Ghazal :
On a group chat today, my friends and I discussed our summer attire; the
head scarf is, of course, out, but the long manteau or coat we must wear is
also hijab. We brainstormed about its replacement. One said we could wear long
T-shirts. Another said, No, that’s not my style; I prefer long dress shirts. It
felt great to know that months after this movement started, people are not
backing down.
March 29
Kimia :
I’m in Turkey on holiday to see friends and relatives, and I’m enjoying
myself. I wear whatever I want, not worried about getting arrested. People can
get together here without being bothered by anyone. And there are so many fun
places to go.
The streets are in good shape. The traffic lights work properly. Shops have
a wide variety of items, and you can easily find what you are looking for.
Twitter, YouTube, Instagram open easily here. God knows what we go through to
open them in Iran. The trains are fast, comfortable, clean and on time. All
this is happening only a few kilometers from Iran.
It’s a difficult decision, and I don’t like it, but I may have to leave
Iran.
March 31
Parnian :
We were in a taxi on the way to the airport after spending some time in
Kurdistan. The driver was a warm and chatty man, so we took advantage and asked
him about Kurdish dances. “A friend of mine got married a few months ago, but
they didn’t celebrate with music and dance out of respect for the victims of
the Woman, Life, Freedom movement,” I told him.
He asked if we knew how to do Kurdish dances. We all shook our heads, so he
pulled over, played a Kurdish song and told us to get out of the car. “Don’t be
shy,” he said. “The road is empty. No one will see you.”
We stood in a line, and he showed us how to move our hands and feet to the
rhythm of the music. We did our best. After we got back in the car, he said:
“Men and women are the same for us. We are all one.” His tone was serious. “We
stand in a line, one man and one woman, and hold each other’s hands. We are not
men or women. We are brothers and sisters.”
April 1
Parnian :
There’s a funny old story I read in elementary school. I don’t remember the
details; I only remember that it was about a dry, barren desert, once a
beautiful and glamorous city, whose people got so involved in their daily lives
that they gradually stopped noticing their surroundings. Ultimately, beauty
disappears when no one is left looking for it. But the truth was, it did exist.
Invisibility does not mean absence.
April 4
Parnian :
We were stopped at one of the busiest metro stations, and a lady dressed in
a work uniform was leaning against the train’s wall, frowning at every
passenger who got on. The carriage was packed. She was quietly checking her
phone when a beautiful young girl with curly blond hair got on, covering half
of the woman’s face with her hair.
The lady politely asked the young girl, “My dear, can you put your scarf
on?”
The young girl blurted loudly: “It’s because of people like you that we
live this way. When are you going to learn to mind your own business? Do we
have no other problems? Do I tell you what to wear?”
The woman listened to her calmly, turned back to her phone and said: “As
you like. You are very close to me. Your hair is in my nose.” People started
laughing.
April 7
Kimia:
On my way to the airport to go back to Iran, I wore a shawl around my neck
so I wouldn’t have to look for it in my backpack when I arrived. Once I put the
damn thing around my neck, my anxiety returned. I was still in Turkey, yet the
stress crept back into my body.
April 8
Parnian:
A Twitter friend posted something interesting. Until four or five years
ago, he wrote, he never missed a single prayer, but now every time he hears the
call to prayer, he starts cursing. Many people around me are turning away from
Islam. Some religious families have stopped practicing and even asked the women
in their families to take off their hijabs. What will happen to those who no
longer pray and are irritated by the call to prayer? Or those who even make fun
of religion? How are they going to feel once their anger has subsided? What
will happen when people are no longer humiliated and threatened in the name of
Islam? When religion is merely a matter of the heart?
Since November, hundreds of schools across Iran have reported mysterious
incidents of poisoning with toxic gas. The attacks have mainly targeted girls,
some of whom have been hospitalized with respiratory and neurological symptoms.
After not responding to the crisis for months, the government said in March
that it had arrested more than 100 people. It still remains unclear who was
behind the attacks and what motivated them. Education for girls has never been
contested by the Islamic Republic, and women constitute more than 50 percent of
university students and about 18 percent of the work force. Health officials
have said that some of the attacks involved toxins, but they have also blamed
stress, claiming that a majority of the cases were a result of psychogenic
illness.
April 11
Parnian:
My colleague sent me a photo of mothers sitting outside a school, guarding
the children against possible poisonings. After the student demonstrations and
school gassings, many urged people not to send their kids to school. They
argued that nothing would happen if the children didn’t attend school for one
year.
The truth is, I didn’t learn anything worthwhile in 12 years of school and
four years of university. If we ever objected to what we were learning, we were
immediately sent to the principal’s office. They taught us about Aristotle and
the elements of logic, but using them was considered a crime.
Reading classical novels for 12 years is more useful than going to school.
What better teacher than Shakespeare or Mark Twain? They aren’t taught in
Iranian schools, either.
Instead, I remember reading poems by some idiot pro-regime poet.
Ghazal:
I went to my grandmother’s house for Iftar, when Muslims break their fasts
at sundown during Ramadan. She invited the whole family for a big dinner of
chicken and saffron rice with barberries. My mom’s family is very religious. My
grandmother and all my aunts wear a full hijab chador. My mom does not
typically wear the hijab, but in front of them she covers her hair. At family
gatherings, I’m the only woman without a hijab. I don’t pretend anymore. At
first, my aunts would try to politely persuade me to cover my hair, but for the
past few months, they don’t dare ask.
At the dinner, one of my mom’s distant relatives started talking about the
hijab, saying that people must be free to choose their attire and that it is no
one’s business what they wear. He was basically in favor of our movement. But
later on, when I was talking to his wife, she said she really liked short,
over-the-knee coats but couldn’t wear them because her husband wouldn’t allow
it.
The same guy lecturing about women’s rights and freedom didn’t let his own
wife dress the way she wanted. This type of person really annoys me, and
unfortunately there are many of them — people who babble on about freedom
without knowing its real meaning.
April 13
Parnian :
I woke up to the sound of two girls, a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old,
gleefully riding their bikes in the backyard. The older one asked her mother
for something, first begging then growing irritated. The mother patiently
refused. While the older kid was grumbling, the 3-year-old was biking around
happily.
They rented the apartment downstairs over a year ago. I have never met them
in person. The mother is roughly my age, and her husband died from Covid. He
was a victim of a decision made by the highest political authority: to ban the
import of British and American vaccines for coronavirus, saying they would harm
Iranians. The widowed young mother, patiently pampering her older daughter,
whispered something in her ear. The 6-year-old girl laughed from the bottom of
her heart and joined her younger sister in biking around.
Kimia :
Stepping foot back in Iran always means being confronted with bad news:
They plan on enforcing the hijab law by fining women who don’t cover their
hair. They won’t be giving social services to unveiled women, and they will be
barred from entering universities. There is also a call for protest soon.
April 14
Parnian :
Never in my life have I been so eager for a day to come. The government has
announced that as of tomorrow, women cannot appear in public without a hijab,
and those who do will be dealt with brutally. The problem is that they cannot
force us anymore. I can’t wait for tomorrow.
April 15
Parnian :
Today was just a normal day, like any other. Not only were there just as
many women without the hijab, but many had deliberately let their long hair
fall over their shoulders.
The government’s threat was a bluff, and a funny one. The number of
hijabless women is increasing by the day. Boys are coming out with shorts now,
too. People boycott stores that don’t offer services to unveiled women. The
shawls that women used to have around their necks in case they were spotted by
security forces are now in the back of wardrobes. Short shirts are replacing
long coats. Skirts are replacing pants. Short pants are replacing long ones.
There is more and more unity. People have the upper hand. The other side is
nothing but bluffs.
Ghazal :
I saw several women on motorbikes today. Usually, men ride bikes, and women
sit behind them. But this time it was the other way around.
April 16
Parnian :
I like taking buses. Watching people’s lives on the street from afar truly
fascinates me: a pissed-looking teenage girl and her mother; a young boy about
17 years old selling balloons, wandering between cars, clearly exhausted; a
woman taking off her head scarf and giving the middle finger to the car next to
her; a female driver wiping her tears while eating behind the wheel; a male
driver sitting with his back straight and both hands on the wheel; three people
dressed in black with somber faces in a car with a big white bouquet on its
roof.
April 17
Kimia :
I went out with my friends this evening and had ice cream. I had a shawl in
my bag, just in case. Inside the shopping mall, we were thanked for observing
the mandatory hijab on loudspeakers every few minutes. We just laughed at them.
April 19
Ghazal :
There is a very popular show in Iran called “The Lion Skin,” a crime drama
about a father and a daughter. The father thinks his daughter has been murdered
and hunts down the criminal, but then he discovers she is alive. When they see
each other, they hug. We were stunned when we saw this scene, replaying it a
few times. Men and women who are not related are not supposed to touch each
other physically. And here was a male actor and a young female actress hugging
each other.
Today was the first screening for the public, and one of the actresses
attended the premiere without a hijab. Afterward, the manager of the movie
theater was fired for not telling her to cover herself. They didn’t post her
hijabless picture on the series’ Instagram page, but I posted it.
April 21
Parnian :
While eating her salad, my friend
asked, “What will Iran look like after liberation?”
“Imagine having only one job and being able to save money!” she said. “That
way, we can also buy whatever we want. We should go on a nice trip.”
“In a free Iran, women will not be discriminated from management jobs,” I
said. “Your mother will finally be able to become the bank director.”
“So many things will happen!” she said excitedly. “Imagine, things would
actually work!”
“We are used to working multiple jobs and always being busy,” I said. “What
will we do if we don’t have money issues?”
“We will find the most suitable job.”
“What do we do for the rest of the day?” I said. “We’ll get bored.”
“You’re right,” she said. “We’ll get bored. … Wow, free Iran will be
something! I can’t wait to turn the page.”
In the weeks since the three young women chronicled their experiences, the
government has engaged in diplomatic outreach to project stability. In April,
the government restored ties with Saudi Arabia, mediated by China. In May, the
country conducted prisoner swaps with European countries. Within Iran,
crackdowns continue. Businesses have been shuttered for catering to unveiled
women, including a government administrative office in northern Tehran. Women
say they are heartened by the solidarity they receive from men, including
shopkeepers who defy orders and give unveiled women discounts. Three more
protesters have been executed, bringing the total to seven. Prices of everyday
goods are still climbing, with the government’s statistics office announcing 47
percent inflation in a recent report.
For many in the country, including Ghazal, Kimia and Parnian, a desire for
a better life in a new, free Iran remains.
May 24
Ghazal :
The executions are heartbreaking.
There is nothing I can do. Everyone feels the same way. We post stories on
Instagram. So what? How does that help? They get executed anyway.
I detest the call to the morning prayer — that’s when they execute those
young kids who did nothing but fight for their rights. I have begun to question
Islam. I believe that our generation doesn’t truly believe in it, a religion
that for so many years, in school, in the university, was imposed on us. If we
are fighting them, then why should we believe in the same things they do?
May 27
Kimia :
I cannot fathom the executions. There is a story in the Shahnameh, a
revered epic poem, about a king named Zahhak who ascends to the throne with the
help of Iblis, the devil. The devil kisses him on each shoulder, out of which
grow two snakes. The only way to keep Zahhak alive is to feed the snakes the brains
of two young boys every day. It’s a perfect allegory to Iran’s current
situation.
I have started to play sports again after a few years. And it feels great
to go to the gym; at least I’m doing something worthwhile. I am also studying
English to prepare for the TOEFL exam.
The other day, I went to a governmental office wearing a scarf, a man’s
shirt and jeans. The guard at the entrance said, “I have no problem with what
you are wearing, but the woman inside will bug you.” I entered, and indeed the
woman told me that my coat was too short and that I should wear a chador. So I
went outside and borrowed a long one from someone.
It feels terrible — being deprived of things because of where you were
born.
Parnian :
A few days ago, I saw a new banner with something like a mirror in the
center surrounded by pictures of five martyrs of the war in Syria. What was the
message? See yourself in the mirror amid these men and feel shame for not
having sacrificed your life for Islam? I didn’t know any of the “martyrs.” They
were among the poor youths sent to fight in Syria in the name of helping the
Islamic Republic gain more power and expand its territory.
A few teenage girls with long hair hanging over their shoulders were
standing in front of the banner, taking selfies in the mirror, without the
hijab. It made me laugh. I rejoiced at their beauty and courage, in their
simple and harmless way of exclaiming, “I exist!” The government is not afraid
of women’s hair or the length of their skirts. They are afraid of our
existence.
This is a simple revolution: Do not mock or restrain people for their
gender, orientation, nationality, religion. Don’t kill. Don’t rape. Don’t
attack. Don’t threaten. We don’t want things to be perfect overnight. We simply
don’t want to be invisible. We want to be ordinary people, not subjects. We
want to make decisions, even mistakes. We want to exist.
Farnaz Fassihi is the United Nations bureau chief for The Times. She has
been writing about Iran for over two decades. She was previously a senior
writer for The Wall Street Journal, based in the Middle East and covering
conflicts and uprisings. She is the author of a book on the Iraq war and a
recipient of the Ellis Island Medal of Honor.
Fernando Norat, also known as Tropiwhat, is an illustrator from Aibonito,
Puerto Rico, and a Ph.D. candidate in Caribbean history at Brown University.
Most of his illustration work relates to themes of solitude and humor as
resistance in the Puerto Rican context.
Dreaming of a New Iran. By Farnaz
Fassihi. The New York Times Magazine, June
14, 2023
