I was jazzed up after I met with Mousavian. I couldn’t wait to go back and see him again. I wasn’t attracted to him whatsoever. He was a young father of nine kids, extremely busy, and so much focused on his work, kids, and family. And I was a naive young person determined to pave my way toward Iran’s hierarchical power structure. I thought journalism was my way in. I just wanted to work.
Sex and intimacy were forbidden in Iran
Since I’m talking about attraction and intimacy here, I have to say that the Iranian cultural mindset at that time tried to distract youth from sex or any sexual attractions. Our classes were segregated at my university, and educational institutions, for that matter. We had separate entrance doors for male and female students, and faculty alike.
For any evidence of alcoholic drinks, or sexy dresses for women, we would get whipped.
The words “male,” and “female” were never used in the facilities that were controlled by the government. In the eyes of Iran’s Islamic regime, we were not men and women, we were “sisters and brothers”. Yet, the irony was that even as sisters and brothers, we were strictly segregated. Our dining halls were separated. Our hallways were separated. For any large classes that were sat together, men were usually in the front and women in the back with a large gap of empty rows of chairs in between.
The only mixed space for us was the university’s huge yard. Even there, we had morality guards to making sure that sisters and brothers never mingle. They were so determined to keep the family members apart!
Public places vs. private sphere
It may come as no surprise, then, that outside public behavior was drastically different from indoor private spaces. Our family, like any Iranian families, threw parties a lot. We usually started parties sitting together, men and women. In some of the higher-up and more Western family or friend parties, alcohol was also served.
We were always afraid of Komiteh, or Guidance Patrol, if we served alcohol, or if we entertained ourselves with dance and music.
Serving alcohol was tricky. My dad never served alcohol. But at some parties that alcohol was served, we never saw the bottles. The host usually had a designated room to serve the luxury drink. They also kept the glasses in the same room, so they could collect and hide the evidence in case there was an attack from Komiteh, Iran’s morality police.
We were always afraid of Komiteh if we served alcohol, or if we entertained ourselves with dance and music. If any hostile neighbor would call Komiteh to report loud music or alcoholic drinks, we might face a barrage of Komiteh barging into the house.
The attack was usually sudden like SWAT-police style, like in Hollywood movies. If that happened, women would rush, usually screaming, to grab their scarves. The music must be shut down immediately. All evidence of alcohol must be destroyed in a few seconds. In the end, many of the guests ended up in police custody unless the host was quick and clever enough to bribe Komiteh.
If the host wasn’t quick enough to send Komiteh away, all the guests would be taken into custody for questioning, and alcohol tests. For any evidence of alcoholic drinks, or sexy dresses for women, we would get whipped. Women would get around 50 to 60 lashes, and men around 100 to 120.
If the host was quick enough to bribe, Komiteh would leave with a warrant that they would be back soon. At that point, the party would be annulled, and exhausted guests would take their leaves. No one ever wanted to deal with Komiteh.
I barely skipped the lashing sentence
Before accepting any invitation, when not accompanied by family members, I always asked if the host served alcohol. If s/he did, I didn’t go, except only for once!
I was around 19. I was a sophomore at the university and getting ready to freelance for one of the most important papers in the country. I never wanted to jeopardize my chances with Hamshahri Newspaper.
“Do they serve alcohol?” I asked. “No, they don’t. Peyman is my friend’s boyfriend. I’ve seen him. He is such a chicken. He never dares to serve alcohol,” Fereshteh, my friend said. “His parents are out of town. He is inviting his friends for his birthday party,” she said.
I got to Peyman’s apartment around 9. Before going inside, I examined the budling from the outside carefully. I was always careful everywhere I went for the first time. I noted the building had two entrance doors side-by-side, one for the east building, and one for the west. Peyman’s apartment was on the eighth floor of the west wing. I took the stairs. It was a habit of mine. On the eighth floor, I saw three “exit” signs. I gathered one was for the west building stairs, that I just climbed. And one was for the East side. I thought the third sign was for the emergency stairs, hanging on the walls outside of the building.
In the eyes of Iran’s Islamic regime, we were not men and women, we were “sisters and brothers”. Yet, were strictly segregated.
The music was a bit loud. More than 18 or 19 people were snacking on sandwiches and other finger foods. Just a few minutes later, a large group of boys arrived with four large bottles of white wine, and a few cans of beer. I remember Peyman was extremely upset. He kept telling them to take the drink out. “Don’t worry dude,” One of the boys sad. “Nothing would happen. If it would, we take care of this for you.”
- A scene from Guidance Patrol movie, IMDB (2012)
Around one hour later, I heard a boy shouting “Komiteh, guys. Komiteh,” he said. “They are leaving their car,” he shouted. I was close to my handbag. I was taking time off the dance floor. I looked around trying to find Fereshteh. She wasn’t in sight. I couldn’t waste a single second. I grabbed my bag immediately and rushed toward the door. Guessing that they may take the elevator and the west-building stairs, I took the east wing stairs and climbed up four floors, all the way to the top. I used to run very fast, until lately as I suffer from plantar fasciitis. Back then, my speed saved me from two government-planned kidnappings. I’ll explain that later.
One of the apartment’s doors opened and a woman close to my mom’s age hopped out, trying to fix her scarf on her head. “What happened?” she asked me. “We were at Mr. Dadfar’s house …. Komiteh came … I was able to escape… I don’t know what happened to my friends down there. I am really scared,” I managed to say between my tears and gulps of air. “Come on in, ” she said. “Did they serve alcohol,” she asked. I nodded yes embarrassedly. “Did you drink?” she asked again. “No Ma’am, I didn’t. I never drink,” I said.
She sat me on a stool close to the door. “Ok, take a deep breath,” she said. “I’ll grab you a cup of water.” While she was turning to make her way toward the kitchen, I saw a young girl, close to my age, come from the dark of the hallway looking like she was just awakened.
“Who is she?” the girl asked. “A naughty girl like yourself,” the mom said. “Go and see what happens to people like you when you don’t listen to your elders when we tell you don’t go to parties that serve alcohol and play loud music. What the heck should I do with girls like you and her,” she said disappearing in the hallway.
The girl in her sleep gown came close. “What did happen?” she whispered.
“I was at Peyman’s birthday party,” I said. “He is on the eighth floor, west building. Komiteh barged in. I left before they reached his apartment.”
“His parents are out of town. He was throwing a birthday party for himself,” I said. “I’m glad you were able to escape. God knows what happens to those who get arrested,” she whispered. Then, she went toward the window to check. “Oh look, they are taking the poor kids into a station,” she said. I got up to look out the window. We were one foot away. “Don’t get close you two,” the mom said. I looked a bit more carefully. I could see Fereshteh’s red scarf. My heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my God, she is Fereshteh … my friend. They got her,” I cried.
Free will, free speech, and being a normal human being was meaningless in Iran. I’ve always been afraid of government forces. Iran’s Islamic rules left me with no choice but to suppress my human desire, including sex!
Having said that, I would like to warn you that if you are a Western reader from Europe or the United States, please do not get too excited about reading my criticism for Islam. Soon, I’m going to explain how the inhumane and brutal sanctions of U.S. against Iran have made hardliners to strengthen their iron grip of power on people and their private lives, including sex!
Previous readings of the same series:
#1: To change hijab law, I had to become president
#2: Mr. Mousavian and my next step toward Iran’s presidency
More readings and listenings:
64: Kindness Diary: A Car Tank Full of Gas
66: Kindness Diary: Green Living Is Peaceful Living
I Failed to Practice Nonviolent Communication
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