Culture of Contradictions
Women on the move: Waiting for a taxi in Tehran. Photo: Talib Qizilbash
They’re holding hands. A double take confirms it. And they are not two men holding hands (or hooking pinkies) like some do here in the subcontinent. There is one man and one woman. In broad daylight. In Tehran.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon in early March – three months before the disputed national elections and subsequent protests that turned Iran upside-down – and the winding, uphill path in Darband draws a slow, erratic flow of meanderers onto its crooked back. Darband is at the northern end of the capital. Lying in the foothills of the Alborz mountain range, it’s the gateway to a hiking trail leading to Mount Tochal, almost 4,000 metres in the sky. The beauty of Darband, though, is not the main attraction: it’s a beginning-of-the-road mini-resort.
Carved into steep rock walls, restaurants and cafés have set up terraced seating, overlooking the pedestrian corridor that connects the road to the trail. Vendors selling boiled fava beans and dried, pressed fruit line the pathway up. Atypical late winter colours electrify every level of the route. Everything seems to get its colour from the reds and yellows of the stacked and packed berries, cherries and apricots. The railings, the painted walls reflect the amber of the apricot piles, glowing like suns. The rugs, cushions and awnings borrow the Venetian red of the sour cherries and the midnight burgundy of the endless mulberries.
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But within this colour wheel in the hills, what stands out the most are the women. Up here women outnumber men. Some are alone with a guy, like the one seen holding hands. Some are on double dates. Others lounge in bigger all-girl groups: they sit cross-legged on charpoys, chat, drink tea and puff on a qalyoun (hookah). Perhaps they are off from school early. In the lead-up to Nowruz (the Iranian New Year), some of them might be playing hooky.
All around the city, people seem to roam and carry about their business with, well, er, freedom. In Tehran, there are few overt signs of oppression.
Words like that could get a man choked at the hands of feminists (and so many more Iranians). The fact that women must cover up, from head-to-toe, in Iran, is an unacceptable in-your-face form of oppression. It is one of two glaring, undemocratic restrictions that outsiders see. The other is a spoon-fed press.
Otherwise, life looks normal. Men share the streets with women. Kids are seen coming out of school, knapsacks hanging off their shoulders. People hop on buses, go to work, window-shop, stop by the bank, pick up Versace shoes and fight through bumper-to-bumper traffic like anywhere else in the world. There is no disconcerting military or police presence – traffic cops, though, are at every intersection. There are no moral police combing the sidewalks looking for rebels to beat into submission. In this Islamic republic, there is a mingling of the sexes and no one seems to care.
Except that the government does. Which is why, after walking around the most cosmopolitan city in Iran, I saw only one couple holding hands. Which is why women are forced to hide themselves, become less visible, less individual. Women in Tehran, though, find ways to be noticed.
It’s hard to dress up a chador. So those with a more fashionable bent go for the manteau. The long overcoat covers the arms and legs, usually past the knees, and often is belted across the waist, promoting womanly curves. Yet, in terms of modest Islamic dress, the manteau is only half a compromise: it doesn’t cover the head. Enter the headscarf. Strategically placed, it acts more as an accessory than a hood. A colourful Hermès scarf can draw eyes towards a woman and her perfectly coiffed hair that is more than peeking out from the front, blonde streaks and all. From under the manteau, jeans and funky boots, stick out too, demanding to be noticed. Iran is just as fashion-conscious as anywhere else. And the men further confirm this.
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