Roxanne Varzi

“Reza looked at my Doc Martens and asked whether I could run in them. I thought he meant in case the morality police caught us outside together as an unmarried couple. I was more than ready to run away — even from the morality police, if necessary.

I had been confined to my uncle’s house for weeks and was desperate to discover the Tehran beyond the garden wall.

My 12-year-old cousin walked to school alone every morning. But for me, her 20-year-old relative from the United States, the city was “not safe.” In 1991, I neither spoke fluent Farsi nor was I familiar with Islamic social conventions. And I certainly didn’t know how to keep the morality police at bay.

My only contacts with the outside world were my family and their friends, who came for lunch once a week — a ritual my grandfather had established long before I was born. The last time I had been part of it was in 1979; then the Islamic Revolution burst into my sheltered Iranian-American childhood.

When, twelve years later, I told my Iranian father that I wanted to return to Tehran as a Fulbright scholar, he was horrified: “People your age would do anything to leave the country. And you want to go there voluntarily.”

But I didn’t want to become an armchair anthropologist, and I no longer wanted to listen to people saying that all Iranians were terrorists.”

Continue reading in Le Monde diplomatique (requires translation).

 

Connect with us: