The Crime of Being Different

If I lived in Iran and had the choice to wear the mandatory hejab (scarf and knee-length tunic) typical in that country, or to go bare-headed, I’d choose the latter. It’s a lot more natural to me, and I’ve not yet mastered the fine art of keeping the scarf on my head. It tends to fall off, and I have to constantly tug it up again, which can get rather tedious. There are certain situations where I’d wear hejab voluntarily – while visiting shrines, attending religious ceremonies, or as a guest in a traditional family’s home. But these things are not frequent items on my itinerary during a trip to Iran.

Of course, I don’t have much say in what I get to wear on the street, since hejab in public spaces is the law in the Islamic Republic, and I’m a law-abiding traveler who respects the rules and customs of every country I travel to, whether I like them or not. The way I see it, my struggles with the elusive scarf are more than worth the price of entry into such a fascinating society.

Still, I’m well aware that many Iranian women do find the hejab requirement a burden. But not for the reasons often cited in the West, where may people see hejab as the most visible symbol of women’s oppression in the Islamic world. But to Iranian women, hejab itself is not a sign of oppression, but the fact that the generic garment removes the choice of expressing one’s personal style and individuality.

I wish someone had mentioned this to French President Nicolas Sarkozy last spring before his government passed a law prohibiting Muslim women from wearing the full veil in public. The item the law refers to is the niqab, a piece of cloth worn across the face and hiding everything but the eyes.

Sarkozy sold the niqab ban to the public as the need to “liberate” women from the “prison” of their Islamic dress code. Huh? Did anyone ask the women whether they wanted to be liberated? Whether they felt “imprisoned?” Does anyone in the 21^st century still believe that Muslim women are not allowed to draw breath unless their fathers, brothers, and husbands grant permission?

It could be (and has been) argued that the niqab is a religious symbol and a secular society is justified in banning it in public, along with the symbols of other religions. In fact, this was the argument behind the 2004 decision to prohibit girls from wearing headscarves in French schools. (At least there was no pretense about “liberating” them from their scarves.)

But is the veil really a religious symbol, like a Christian cross, the Star of David, or the Muslim crescent? I doubt many veiled Muslim women would see it that way. They wear the veil because, to them, it is required for a woman to protect her modesty. And if the niqab is a religious symbol, then why not the khefiyeh (the checked scarf that many Arab men wear on their heads)? Why should only women be singled out?

Interestingly, in the months since France’s niqab law went into force, it has rarely been applied. Only a handful of veiled women have been arrested or fined, even though many are simply ignoring the ban. Unfortunately, attacks (both verbal and physical) against veiled women are on the rise. Bus drivers refuse to allow these women to board, shopkeepers and restaurants deny them service, people on the streets hurl insults and sexual innuendo at them. For many, a trip to run errands or drop children off at school has become an ordeal.

This unfortunate trend isn’t coming out of the blue. There has long been an attitude of suspicion against Islam in Western societies. Even here in the United States, I sometimes feel a sense of disapproval when people give me startled and sometimes pitying looks after learning I am married to an Iranian. But when a legislative body passes a law as discriminatory as the niqab ban, it gives people license to express and act on attitudes they would otherwise have kept to themselves.

But let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? The niqab ban isn’t a form of liberation. It’s islamophobia.

Journey to Persia

The first time I located Iran on the map, the country had recently tossed out its shah and was embroiled in a bitter revolution. As I watched crowds of bearded men and women veiled in black shouting “Down with America!” on my TV screen, it never occurred to me that this troubled nation would one day become my favorite travel destination.

My next encounter with Iran came two years later when, as a student at an East German university, I roomed down a dormitory hall from an Iranian graduate student named Ali. He lived like a hermit, rarely venturing out of his small room at the top of the stairs, yet everyone was terrified of him. Ali had a reputation for being a mean drunk who’d once tossed a Finnish student down the stairs in a rage, which resulted in a serious head injury.

When I first met Ali, he was far from the drunken lunatic the stories made him out to be. Slight of build, with wire-rim glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee, he almost always had a friendly smile on his narrow face. Later, I learned that the Finnish student had indeed tumbled down the stairs and sustained a serious head injury. He’d been falling-down drunk at the time, and Ali had been nowhere around.

It was another two decades before I set foot on Iranian soil, but my first encounter with that country went much like my meeting with Ali.

“You must wear a black scarf,” the Iranian-born photographer advised me when he took my picture for a brand new Iranian passport. “And cover every strand of your hair.” The picture made me look two decades older and rather like the witch from Hansel and Gretel. But at least I wouldn’t be breaking any rules.

“If they detain you at the airport, act more devout than the ayatollahs,” said a concerned Iranian friend, who also suggested choice passages from the Koran for me to quote as proof of my piety.

But when I arrived at Tehran’s Mirabad airport, the passport control officer couldn’t hide his amusement at my horrible photo. And no one detained me; they didn’t even search my luggage. Instead, the customs official waved me through the line with a friendly grin and a cheerful “Welcome to Iran.”

Before I ventured into the street the following morning, my sisters-in-law fussed with my appearance. “You need more makeup.” They dabbed at my eyes with the mascara wand and searched their cosmetics bags for a brighter shade of red lipstick then turned their attention to my hejab (head covering and loose-fitting coat). “You look too Islamic,” they decided and loosened my scarf, pushing it toward the back of my head to reveal a wide swath of hair.

Iran is a country that never fails to surprise me. It’s a place where ancient traditions coexist comfortably with modern life and 7th century laws clash much less comfortably with 21st century attitudes. Where pre-Islamic Zoroastrian fire worship is reflected in angled mirrors on the walls of Shiite shrines, catching the light until they sparkle like diamonds. Where polygamy is legal, yet socially unacceptable. Because I never know what to expect, even after many visits, I just look around, camera and notebook at hand, and absorb the sights, sounds, and smells. For I know that no matter what happens, it will be an exciting adventure just waiting to be turned into a new story idea.

What was your first encounter with another culture? Did you have any expectations and were they met?

From Hejab to a Handshake

“Do you have to wear a burka?”

This is the number one question people ask me when I tell them I travel regularly to Iran. It’s a question I never have a ready answer for, because the most honest reply is “yes and no”.

“No” because burkas are worn in Afghanistan, not Iran. Traditional Persian women wear chadors, like the two ladies in the photo. And “yes” because I know that the real question is this: do you have to cover yourself like a Muslim woman? The precise form of hejab, a woman’s proper Islamic attire, is irrelevant. I do have to wear a loose-fitting tunic and scarf under current Iranian law.

The follow-up question, often unspoken but apparent from the wariness in the speaker’s eyes is: but how do you feel wearing such a symbol of female oppression? The answer to this one is easy: it doesn’t bother me a bit. Mainly because I don’t see hejab as an oppressive symbol, but rather as an expression of religious devotion. But also, when I travel, I follow one primary rule: check your cultural attitudes at the door. Open your heart and mind to a new way of thinking, of being. For me, that is the whole point of travel.

Knowing what to wear on the street in Iran is the easy part. More difficult is navigating the many unfamiliar customs. This is complicated by the fact that Iranian hospitality makes everyone seem so open and friendly, it’s easy to forget that there are any social rules to be broken.

And yet I have broken a few—such as the time on my first visit to the country when my husband stopped a group of men on the street to ask for directions. At the end of the conversation, there were handshakes all around. Unthinking, I stuck out my hand as well. The men stared at me in alarm, and no one reached out to shake it. I realized I’d made a faux pas, and later I learned that Muslim men do not touch women they are not related to.

Like many rules in Iran, this one is routinely broken. Despite the lack of physical contact between genders, Iran is not a fully segregated society. Bus seating is organized by gender, with women sitting at the back, while savaris—the shared taxis that ply regular routes along Iranian city streets—are co-ed. Men and women share cramped quarters, practically sitting in each other’s laps. Where Islamic custom and convenience collide, convenience wins much of the time.

I’ve learned that the best strategy is to wait and observe. Not all men are averse to a handshake with a woman, and most of the time it’s pretty easy to tell who they are. A man whose beard and collarless tunic identify him as a conservative Muslim will certainly observe the gender separation rules. But a young guy with a gold ring in one ear and hair long enough to brush his shoulders probably isn’t going to think twice about it. For everyone else, I wait and let the man make the first move. If he sticks out his hand, I shake it. If not, a simple nod in greeting will do.

What about you? Do you have strategy for navigating unfamiliar customs? What mistakes have you made?