Azar Nafisi (37 page)

There were no public articulations of these humiliations, so we took refuge in accidental occasions to weave our resentments and hatreds into little stories that lost their impact as soon as they were told. Of the injured student's background very little was known, and no one seemed to care. It dawned on me only much later that despite the precision with which I remembered all the stories related to him and his comrades, I could not remember his name. He had turned himself into a revolutionary, a martyr and a war veteran, but not an individual. Did he ever fall in love? Did he ever desire to hold one of those girls whose throats, under their black scarves, blazed so white?

Like many others at that university, I had climbed the stairs and walked the halls with resentment. Resentment had erased all ambiguity in our encounters with people like him; we had been polarized into “us” and “them.” It did not occur to me or to my students and colleagues as we shared stories and anecdotes that day, like conspirators delighting in the setback of a far more powerful adversary, that he who seemingly wielded so much power was in fact the one with the strongest urge to self-destruction. Had he, by burning himself, usurped our right to revenge?

He who in life had been nothing to me in death had become an obsession. All we ever found out about his personal life was that he came from a poor family and that his only close relative was a very old mother, whom he supported. He had gone to the war as a volunteer. He had been shell-shocked and sent home early. Apparently, he never fully recovered. After “peace” with Iraq, he returned to the university. But the peace had created a sense of disillusionment. The excitement of the war was gone, and with that, many young revolutionaries had lost their power.

THIS WAR HAS BEEN A BLESSING FOR US!
For us, it was a war that we never felt quite a part of. Yet for people like him, in a strange way the war must have been a blessing. It gave them a sense of community and purpose and power. He lost all that as soon as he returned from the front. His privilege and power meant nothing to him now, and his fellow Islamic students had already moved on. What must have gone through his mind when he saw that his old comrades were more eager to watch the Oscar celebrations, via forbidden satellite dishes, than clips from the war? He could deal with us, but what could he do with a Mr. Forsati, who had become as unfamiliar and as baffling to him as characters in a novel by Henry James?

I kept thinking of him coming early to the university with two full cans of gasoline—probably not searched, because he was a privileged war veteran. I see him going into an empty classroom and pouring gasoline over his head. Next, he would have struck a match and slowly set fire to himself—did he light himself just once, or in several places? Then he ran down the hall and burst into his classroom, shouting, “They betrayed us! They lied to us! Look at what they did to us!” And that was the last of his rhetoric.

One did not have to agree with him or approve of him to understand his position. He had returned from a war where he belonged to a university he had never been a part of. No one wanted to hear his stories. Only his moment of death could spark interest. It was ironic that this man, whose life had been so determined by doctrinal certainty, would now gain so much complexity in death.

He died that night. Did his comrades mourn him in private? Nothing was said about him—no commemoration, no flowers or speeches, in a country where funerals and mourning were more magnificently produced than any other national art form. I, who prided myself on speaking out against the veil or other forms of harassment, also kept quiet. Apart from the murmurs, the only thing out of the ordinary about that day was that the loudspeakers for some reason kept announcing in the halls that classes would be held as usual that afternoon. We did have a class that afternoon. It did not go on as usual.

PART IV

Austen

1

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Muslim man, regardless of his fortune, must be in want of a nine-year-old virgin wife.” So declared Yassi in that special tone of hers, deadpan and mildly ironic, which on rare occasions, and this was one of them, bordered on the burlesque.

“Or is it a truth universally acknowledged,” Manna shot back, “that a Muslim man must be in want not just of one but of many wives?” She glanced at me conspiratorially, her black eyes brimming with humor, knowing she would draw a reaction. Unlike Mahshid, Manna had a way of secretly communicating with the few people she liked. Her chief means of contact were her eyes, which she focused or withdrew from you. We had developed a hidden code between us and only when she felt offended—and she could easily be offended—would she lower and divert her gaze to one side, the playful inflections wiped from her words.

It was one of those cold, gray early-December mornings when the overcast sky and the chill in the air seem to promise snow. I had asked Bijan to light a fire before leaving for work, and it sparkled now with a soothing warmth.
Cozy—
a word too common for Yassi's usage—would be the right term for how we felt. All the necessary components were there: misty windows, steaming mugs of coffee, a crackling fire, languorous cream puffs, thick wool sweaters and the mingling smells of smoke, coffee and oranges. Yassi was sprawled on the couch, in her usual place between Manna and Azin, making me wonder again how such a tiny body could take up so much space. Azin's flirtatious laughter rang in the air, and even Mahshid bestowed upon us a hint of a smile. Nassrin had moved her chair near the fireplace, her restless hands tossing orange peels into the fire.

It was a tribute to the degree of intimacy that had developed among us that we could easily shift from light banter to serious discussions of the novels. What we had with all the writers, but especially with Austen, was fun. Sometimes we even went wild—we became childish and teasing and just plain enjoyed ourselves. How could one read the opening sentence of
Pride and Prejudice
and not grasp that this was what Austen demanded of her readers?

That morning, we were waiting for Sanaz. Mitra, her dimples making a temporary appearance, had informed the class that Sanaz wanted us to wait for her—she had a surprise. All our wild speculations were met with a reticent smile.

“Only two things could have happened,” Azin speculated. “Another row with her brother and she's finally decided to leave home and move in with her wonderful aunt.” She raised her hand with a tinkling of gold and silver bangles. “Or she's marrying her sweetheart.”

“The sweetheart seems the more likely of the two,” said Yassi, straightening herself up a little, “judging by Mitra's expression.”

Mitra's dimples widened, but she refused to respond to our provocation. Looking at her, I thought of her own recent marriage to Hamid; their furtive courtship must have taken place right under my unsuspecting nose. They had invited me to their wedding, but Mitra had never mentioned her relations with Hamid before then.

“Did you fall in love?” I had asked Mitra anxiously, causing Manna to say, “That boring question again.” It was a joke among my friends and colleagues that I could never resist posing my obsessive question to married couples. “Did you fall in love?” I'd ask urgently and eagerly, provoking almost invariably an indulgent smile. Mitra blushed and said, “Well, yes, of course.”

“But who is thinking about love these days?” said Azin with mock chastity. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and clusters of tiny turquoise beads trembled slightly on her ears as she turned her head. “The Islamic Republic has taken us back to Jane Austen's times. God bless the arranged marriage! Nowadays, girls marry either because their families force them, or to get green cards, or to secure financial stability, or for sex—they marry for all kinds of reasons, but rarely for love.”

I looked at Mahshid, who, although quiet, seemed to be saying, “Here we go again.”

“And,” Azin continued, reaching for her mug, “we're talking about educated girls—girls like
us,
who've gone to college, who one might think would have higher ambitions.”

“Not
all
of them,” Mahshid said quietly, without looking at Azin. “Many women are independent. Look at how many businesswomen we have, and there are women who have chosen to live alone.” Yes, and you are one of them, I thought, a studious working girl still living with her parents at thirty-two.

“But most don't have a choice,” said Manna. “And I think we're
way
behind Jane Austen's times.” This was one of the few instances I can remember when Manna implicitly sided with Azin against Mahshid. “My mother could choose whom she wanted to marry. I had less choice, and my younger sister has even less,” she concluded gloomily.

“How about a temporary marriage?” said Nassrin, rearranging the orange peels on her plate like pieces of a puzzle. “You seem to have forgotten our president's enlightened alternative.” She was referring to an Islamic rule peculiar to Iran, according to which men could have four official wives and as many temporary wives as they wished. The logic behind this was that they had to satisfy their own needs when their wives were unavailable, or unable, to satisfy them. A man could enter into such a contract for as short a period as ten minutes or as long as ninety-nine years. President Rafsanjani, then honored with the title of reformist, had proposed that young people should enter into temporary marriages. This angered both the reactionaries, who felt it was a shrewd move on the president's part to curry favor with the young, and the progressives, who were equally skeptical of the president's motives and, in addition, found it insulting, especially to women. Some went so far as to call the temporary marriage a sanctified form of prostitution.

“I'm not in favor of the temporary marriage,” said Mahshid. “But men
are
weaker and
do
have more sexual needs. Besides,” she added cautiously, “it's the girl's choice. She isn't forced into it.”

“The girl's choice?” said Nassrin with evident disgust. “You
do
have funny notions of choice.”

Mahshid, lowering her eyes, did not respond.

“Some men, even the most educated,” Nassrin continued fiercely, “think of this as progressive. I had to argue with a friend—a
male
friend—that the only way he could convince me this was progressive was if the law gave women the same rights as men. You want to know how open-minded these men are? I'm not talking about the religious guys—no, the secular ones,” she said, tossing another orange peel into the fire. “Just ask them about marriage. Talk about hypocrisy!”

“It's true that neither my mom nor my aunts married for love,” Yassi said, furrowing her brow, “but
all
my uncles married for love. It's strange when you think about it. Where does that leave us—what sort of legacy, I mean?

“I suppose,” she added, brightening up after a moment's reflection, “that if Austen were in our shoes, she'd say it's a truth universally acknowledged that a Muslim man, regardless of his fortune, must be in want of a nine-year-old virgin wife.” And this was how we started our play on Austen's famous opening sentence—a temptation that almost every Austen reader must have felt at least once.

Our merrymaking was interrupted by the sound of the bell. Mahshid, who was closest to the door, said, I'll get it. We heard the street door close, steps on the stairs, a pause. Mahshid opened the front door to sounds of greetings and laughter. Sanaz came in, smiling radiantly. She was holding a big box of pastries. Why the pastries? I asked. It isn't your turn.

“Yes, but I have good news,” she said mysteriously.

“Are you getting married?” Yassi asked lazily from the depths of the couch.

“Let me sit down first,” said Sanaz, taking off her long overcoat and woolen scarf. She tossed her head to one side, with the proud ease of women with beautiful hair, and pronounced: “It's going to snow.”

Would she apologize for being late, I wondered, even on this occasion, when she has such a good excuse and no one would blame her?

“I'm so sorry I'm late again,” she said with a disarming smile that showed no sign of repentance.

“You usurped my rights,” said Azin. “Being late is my specialty.”

Sanaz wanted to defer her news until the break. Our rule was that the personal narratives that were increasingly creeping into our Thursday session should not interfere with class. But in this case, even I was too excited to wait.

“It was all done very quickly,” Sanaz explained, caving in to our demands. Suddenly, out of the blue, he had called and asked her to marry him—said something about running out of time. He told her he had already talked to his parents, who had talked to her parents (without asking her first, I noted in passing). They were delighted, and since he couldn't come to Iran because of the draft, perhaps she and her family could come to Turkey? Iranians didn't need a visa for Turkey, and the trip could be arranged quickly. She was dumbfounded. It was something she'd always expected, but somehow she couldn't believe it was actually happening. “Your fire is almost out,” she said, interrupting herself. “I'm really good with fires. Let me fix it.” She added some logs to the languishing fire and poked at it with energy. A long flame leapt out and died just as quickly.

At the start of the twentieth century, the age of marriage in Iran—nine, according to sharia laws—was changed to thirteen and then later to eighteen. My mother had chosen whom she wanted to marry and she had been one of the first six women elected to Parliament in 1963. When I was growing up, in the 1960s, there was little difference between my rights and the rights of women in Western democracies. But it was not the fashion then to think that our culture was not compatible with modern democracy, that there were Western and Islamic versions of democracy and human rights. We all wanted opportunities and freedom. That is why we supported revolutionary change—we were demanding
more
rights, not fewer.

I married, on the eve of the revolution, a man I loved. At that time, Mahshid, Nassrin, Manna and Azin were in their teens, Sanaz and Mitra were a few years younger and Yassi was two years old. By the time my daughter was born five years later, the laws had regressed to what they had been before my grandmother's time: the first law to be repealed, months before the ratification of a new constitution, was the family-protection law, which guaranteed women's rights at home and at work. The age of marriage was lowered to nine—eight and a half lunar years, we were told; adultery and prostitution were to be punished by stoning to death; and women, under law, were considered to have half the worth of men. Sharia law replaced the existing system of jurisprudence and became the norm. My youthful years had witnessed the rise of two women to the rank of cabinet minister. After the revolution, these same two women were sentenced to death for the sins of warring with God and spreading prostitution. One of them, the minister for women's affairs, had been abroad at the time of revolution and remained in exile, where she became a leading spokesperson for women's rights and human rights. The other, the minister of education and my former high school principal, was put in a sack and stoned or shot to death. These girls, my girls, would in time come to think of these women with reverence and hope: if we'd had women like this in the past, there was no reason why we couldn't have them in the future.

Our society was far more advanced than its new rulers, and women, regardless of their religious and ideological beliefs, had come out onto the streets to protest the new laws. They had tasted power and were not about to give it up without a fight. It was then that the myth of Islamic feminism—a contradictory notion, attempting to reconcile the concept of women's rights with the tenets of Islam—took root. It enabled the rulers to have their cake and eat it too: they could claim to be progressive and Islamic, while modern women were denounced as Westernized, decadent and disloyal. They needed us modern men and women to show them the way, but they also had to keep us in our place.

What differentiated this revolution from the other totalitarian revolutions of the twentieth century was that it came in the name of the past: this was both its strength and its weakness. We, four generations of women—my grandmother, my mother, myself and my daughter—lived in the present but also in the past; we were experiencing two different time zones simultaneously. Interesting, I thought, how war and revolution have made us even more aware of our own personal ordeals—especially marriage, at the heart of which was the question of individual freedom, as Jane Austen had discovered two centuries before.
She
had discovered it, I reflected, but what about us, sitting in this room, in another country at the end of another century?

Sanaz's nervous laughter brought me out of my reverie. “I'm so scared,” she said, her right hand going to her brow to push back an absent strand of hair. “Up till now, marrying him has been sort of a dream, something to think about when I was fighting with my brother. I never knew—I still don't know—how it would all work out in real life.”

Sanaz was worried about the trip to Turkey and what it would be like to see him again. “What if he doesn't like me?” she said. She did not ask, What if
I
don't like him? or, What if
we
don't get along? Would her brother become more vicious and her mother more depressed? Would her mother, with her martyr's look, make Sanaz feel guilty, as if she had failed her on purpose? These were serious questions for Sanaz. It was hard to tell if she was going to Turkey to please the others or because she was in love. This was my problem with Sanaz—one never knew what she really wanted.