The following story is continuation of the link below.
Komiteh or Morality Police in Iran Created Fear & Intimidated People: Personal Story
After Komiteh, Fereshteh, and Mr. Amiri’s incidents, I felt even more energized to fight back. I, as well as many Iranian women, I learned to fight back against the regime’s bigotry. Many of us never felt we belonged to the regime or never felt the government supports us in any way. The structure of Iran’s government was designed to create a hierarchy between the sexes and separate them by using Islam and Islamic ideologies. The authorities used Islam as a political tool to govern a nation. Islam was the best tool to manipulate and control people.
The new establishment continues to fought as hard as it can to discriminate and denigrate women. And women continue to fought as hard as they can to resist and persist for the rights they knew they deserve to enjoy.
First time at Hamashahri Newspaper‘s newsroom
I decided to show up on Wednesday. I was scared. I didn’t have a clue about newsrooms, or how to write news stories. I didn’t know what to do, where to begin, how to write, how to organize. I didn’t know anything about news writing. I think my fear came from entering an unknown territory. It was also exciting at the same time.
Please do not try to imagine how I felt, because you may get a heart attack.
My appointment with Mr. Mousavian was at 3 p.m. I knew he was going to be late. He was notorious for being late with all his appointments. Who could be on time with nine kids, and a busy life?
I didn’t want to skip any of my classes this time. So, I attended my “Intro to Money and Banking” course at 2:45 for one and a half hours before heading out to Hamshahri Newspaper.
Taxis in Tehran
I took the bus from Enghelab Ave., the most important and busiest street in Tehran, to Vali-Asr. Busses ran on express lines on that street. They transferred passengers faster than taxis, or private cars.
Tehran is a mega city, just like New York, or Beijing, or Tokyo. I think all mega-cities share the same characteristics: the traffic is heavy; people are in a hurry; no one really smiles; air quality is too low; there are more opportunities for work and move ahead with life and career; the crime rate is higher, and everything looks much busier. Tehran had all of those characteristics.
I took the express lane to get myself to Vali-Asr. Then, from there, I took a taxi to Mirdamad Ave.
Getting a taxi in Tehran, or some other Middle Eastern and North African countries such Turkey or Egypt is very different than taking a taxi in Berlin or Rome. Taxis in Tehran drive south to North, or East to West. on straight lines. I usually shared the same car with four other riders. Every route is expected to last for around two or three miles.
I felt like I was standing on a cold winter day with wet clothes in the open air waiting to get frozen.
I paid a certain expected amount for every block of riding. Going from Enghelab to Jordan, I had to get a bus up to a certain point, then, take four taxis to get myself at the entry of Pardis Ave. It took me around one hour and ten minutes to get to the intersection of Jordan Street and Pardis Ave. where Hamsharhi Newspaper was located. I was at the security kiosk after a 10-minute walk on Pardis Ave.
The same two men at the security kiosk greeted me. I remembered the younger one.
“I’m here to meet with Mr. Mousavian,” I said.
“When is your appointment,” he asked.
“Well, supposedly at 3 p.m. But since he is usually late, I am here for my 3 pm appointment,” I said.
“No, he is not late today. He is at his desk upstairs,” he said and turned to the other man sitting beside him, “I think he got here at 2:50, didn’t he?” he said while checking back her logbook to check the time. I could detect Mousavina name in the list.
“Sweet, I f… up once more,” I thought to myself. Please do not try to imagine how I felt, because you may get a heart attack. I felt like I was standing on a cold winter day with wet clothes in the open air waiting to get frozen. I felt as though I’d been slapped one thousand times. I wanted the earth to be open and swallow me.
If you have read essay one of the same series under “To change the hijab law in Iran, I had to become a president,” you know that my family was ultra-cautious about the time. We were obsessed to be on time if not a quarter an hour earlier.
I didn’t say anything. I just stand there trying to remember to breathe. The younger man, whom I think has taken a liking to me, picked up the receiver to dial a number, “what was your name again,” he said. “Ms. Jamshidi is here,” he said to the receiver. “OK, Sure, Thank you.” Then, he took a yellow slip, wrote the time with a red pen, and gave it to me. “Please make sure you’ll have Mousavian, or anyone at the Social Desk, sign this. You need to return this before you leave Hamshahri Newspaper,” he said. I grabbed the slip and left the kiosk. It was 4:45.
Was I Late?
I climbed up the stairs in front of the chick red and white building before entering the main entrance. They were three men waiting for the elevator. I didn’t waste a second. I went straight to the stairs opened wide right in front of the elevators, and climbed up all three floors, skipping every other step. I was rehearsing what to say to Mousavian. At the entrance door of the third floor, I paused for a second to catch my breath. Inside, I was deeply embarrassed, outside, I put on my best face.
“I study behavioral therapy of rude people who are asking too many questions about one’s personal life, and how to cure them,” I said.
Slowly and collectively, I walked toward a desk right in front of me. There were two men and a woman sitting around the desk. I immediately recognized Ms. Ghaderi.
“Salam Ms. Ghaderi,” I said, “I know I am terribly late,” I said.
“No, you are not late. Mousavian was early. and he is not here now. He is at the editorial meeting since 3,” she said and continued, “They are deciding on story types, and some long-form pieces and op-eds. All the head editors in all departments are pitching today. It is an important meeting for the whole paper. Even Mousavian couldn’t be late or skip this meeting,” she said with a smile.
Suddenly, I remembered to breathe. First slowly, then I took a few deep breaths.
Ms. Ghaderi saw the yellow slip in my hand. “I can sign the slip for you,” she said. “Only Mousavian and I can sign those papers,” she said stretching her hand. I felt she was trying to show her sense of authority, over the other two men at the desk. “Thank you very much,” I said handing over the slip.
Before letting me sit, one of the men at the table asked, “How do you know Mousavian?” I looked at him intently and said “I am so grateful that Ms. Ghaderi put me in touch with Mr. Mousavian. One of my sister’s friends at the university connected me and Ms. Ghaderi,” I said.
“Which university do you go to?” the other man who looked younger, asked.
“Azad University,” I said.
“Oh, the rich people kid’s university,” he said mockingly. “What do you study?” he asked again.
“Behavioral therapy of rude people who are asking too many questions about one’s personal life, and how to cure them,” I said. Then, turned to Ms. Ghaderi, who was watching me with pride in her look, “Where is the bathroom?”
It was only there I could catch my breaths and straighten my thoughts.
Related stories 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
#3: Sexual Attention in Iran, Don’t Even Mention It!
#4: Komiteh or Morality Police in Iran Created Fear & Intimidated People: Personal Story
#5: I Barely Escaped the Morality Police and the Whipping
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