I intended to become Iran’s president when I started working as a 19-year-old freelance writer at Hamshahri Newspaper in Tehran, equivalent to New York Times in the U.S. only with a larger circulation.
I was so disgusted by Iran’s hijab law that I was determined to change it single-handedly! When I asked people around me how to change the law, they said that only the parliament and the president can change it.
We are talking about the early 199s, a time when Mr. Khamenei, Iran’s current supreme leader, wasn’t visible. I decided I would become the most powerful person in the country, so I could fight the Islamic patriarchy and free women from the hijab. Or, so I thought. Nevertheless, I had a plan.
Hamshahri Newspaper
I was a sophomore with an Economics major at Azad University, known to be the rich-kids college of poor-quality education, when my sister introduced me to Elham. “She works at Hamshahri Newspaper. Didn’t you want to work for a newspaper someday,” Zohreh said.
Zohreh was a freshman at the Business school of the same university. “Yeah, I do,” Elham followed moving her hand while speaking. I glanced at her finger. She was wearing an expensive diamond ring. She looked much older than us. “I work in the accounting office, though. If you want, I can introduce you to Ms. Ghaderi. She used to work with me in the accounting office. She transferred to the newsroom lately. I can put you in touch with her.”
I intended to become Iran’s president when I started freelancing for Hamshahri Newspaper in Tehran. I was a teenager.
I felt a shining star flew over my head. I couldn’t be happier. “Do you have Ms. Ghaderi’s phone number?” I asked enthusiastically. “Yes, I do,” Elham said. “Let me call her first and tell her about you. Then, I’ll get back to you.” Then after a quick pause, “I love Zohreh. She is so nice, I do anything for her,” Elham said.
“Yeah, I know. She is the angel in our family. Which class do you take with Zohreh?” I asked while pulling a piece of paper out of my backpack. “Business 101,” Elham said. Being in a rush to take their next class, Elham continued, “Zohreh has my home number,”
Elham started walking away when I handed over the piece of paper with my number written on it. “Here is my mobile phone number,” I said. “You can contact me directly.”
“Wow, you have a mobile phone? ” She asked surprisingly. “Yes, I do, and I pay for it myself,” I said. She didn’t have time to ask further questions. They had to leave. “Cool, I’ll be in touch,” she said while heading toward her class with Zohreh.
Ghaderi called me
Two days later I received a phone call that changed the course of my life forever. I had been planning for this phone call since I was 16.
I was a quiet kid growing up, always in her books and magazines. Eventually I started speaking while discussion was about two subjects: politics and women. As a teenager around sixteen or seventeen, I mingled in men’s groups in our family and friends’ gatherings. My dad allowed me to sit down in the men’s circles and listen to discussions. They usually talked about politics.
Hamshahri Newspaper Newsroom was located in the wealthiest neighborhood in Tehran.
When the occasion was ripe, and I knew there was space for me to talk, I would explain my point of view, using the argument on the ground, and my knowledge of news and books. I used evidence, stories, and wisdom I learned in books. I never failed to prove my points, or make a successful counter-argument. I was an excellent debater. I felt words were too precious to waste. When I spoke, people listened.
My conversation with Ghaderi was short. She said she had already talked with Mosavian, the editor at the social desk, where she worked. Then she said, “I’m calling you from the newsroom. Mr. Mousavian is sitting right here. Would you like to talk with him?” She asked. “YES,” I said. “Ok, hold a sec,” and then she passed the phone receiver to Mr. Mousavian.
I really didn’t have time to think too much about what I was feeling. I said a very short prayer and put myself together. I knew I got a nervous butterfly in my stomach.
“Hello Ms. Jamshidi,” a calm and smiling voice greeted me. “Why don’t you write a piece about anything you are interested in, and bring it to me? We can discuss your writing and see if you are a good fit for us,” Mousavian said. “Yes, of course. When would you like us to meet?” I asked hurridly.
“How about next Tuesday? let me see … hmm how about 1 pm?”
“Of course, I’ll see you there.” I said and after a quick pause I asked, “What is the address again?”
“Let me have Ms. Ghaderi give you the address,” he said. In a few seconds, I learned that the Hamshahri Newspaper Newsroom was located in the wealthiest neighborhood in Tehran.
To be continued …