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A book in Persian, titled Rebellion (Shurish) was written by Mehrangiz Kar and was published by Baran Publication in Sweden. This book is a Women’s narrative of the Islamic Revolution of Iran. In this book, efforts were made to search for the roots of the women’s participation in the revolution and report the rights that were taken back from the Iranian women as soon as the revolution succeeded. A summary of the book is translated into English and is available below.
Cat Nap
Exhausted and disillusioned she walked away from the Mossadeq years. Like a hungry cat tired of a long battle with a felt mouse, Iran’s vast expanse was falling into a deep sleep, not knowing when she will rise again or be called upon to play. I also was moving away from my childhood and confronting adolescence and older people on the back of this tired cat. I can say now that when Iran slept, my generation woke up. I only remember two slogans from those years: "either death or Mossadeq," "either death or Shah." Later, when all the clamor settled, streets were cleaned, and walls, as they say today, became purified, I no longer even thought of those slogans. Politics was much bigger than me and my hands were too small to reach it. Instead, I focused on my budding breasts which were very much in reach.
I find it necessary to begin with this explanation for the story in which my velvet dreams, as well as those of my country, are interrupted. But how should I begin the story itself? Where should I begin?
Where does the story of women in this part of the world begin? Among the puritans or in the distance between two unwanted fates: a fate called the paternal home and the other known as the husband’s household. In order to make the reader familiar with the treacherous and turbulent path of the story, I must take her through the twists and turns of the first fate, that is, the dreadful corridors of my paternal home.
There is no need to mention my date of birth. The story begins with rebellion and I begin the story on the morning past which my memory registers the subsequent events as a series of rebellions and transgressions; from that sultry autumn morning when the sky was falling like molten lead on the inhabitants of Ahwaz. It was on that autumn morning that my sleeping conscience suddenly opened mouth and like a plowed field devoured the seeds of rebellion. From that cursed morning I became acquainted with the wind and force of destiny and will. Years later I realized that the clash between these two great forces can be productive as well as damning and, in the swift steeps of history, can turn the history and geography of a nation upside-down like an unbridled torrent.
Ahwaz was still feverous from a long hot summer and my skin, flesh, and bones were constantly burning and changing in the heat of precocious puberty which is specific to the girls of tropical regions. Having suddenly discovered the burning flames of adolescence in my eyes, my father had decided to change his behavior towards me. He stared at me and from the depth of his eyes a fear-generated anger leapt at me; fear from the possibility of me not taking his dominion and inherited proprietorship of the household very seriously, fear from the youngest daughter of the family who was very proud of her womanhood. It was customary for girls in our religious family never to find their way to high school or, if they did, to wear black chadors on the way to school and back. I did not accept this custom and my father could not stand my transgression. Finally, in that autumn morning which was the first day of the academic year, our eyes directly crossed, both carrying hatred; one hating the other who stood against inherited customs and the other detesting the one who wanted to silence the flames of youth and adolescence. For the first time on that day, or perhaps after a thousand years, the two forces went into battle in our family. The natural force swollen into my little bosoms was embroiled in a conflict with the force of tradition settled as an ancient heritage into the depth of my father’s bloodshot eyes. Two generations, in their first historical exercise of bodily strength were having a force-off in the dark corridors of an old house in Ahwaz. My father was deadly serious about all this. He wanted his fifth and youngest daughter to wear the chador immediately after the end of the elementary school, exactly in the same way the other four daughters had done. Even before adolescence, chador had been a part of my life but with the entry into high school, like woven hair, it became compulsory and official. I don’t know why on that morning I dealt with chador as something frightful and humiliating even it had put its heavy weight on my girlish shoulders before. My father was taken aback and turned into a ball of fire. He had always seen his tame and purposeless daughters, following mother one after another, putting on the black chador and leaving the house. The significance of this unexpected event was rightly grasped; his two wide and powerful hands put the chador on my head with an intensity and violence only shown by a commander towards the most rebellious of his troops. The two sides of the chador were pulled down towards my chin in such a harsh manner that my skull bent over my spine and made a cracking noise. Then he showed me the way out with his index finger which looked awfully long on that day!...And it was in that way that my apparently futile rebellion was crushed.
High school opened a new word full of surprises to me. The school principal was different from other women I had seen before. She talked with warmth and ardor, penetrating the hearts and spirits of an army of tired, listless and disillusioned local girls. Like sun she shined on frozen concepts and laid bare their incongruity with the age herself had become a symbol. When I saw “Mari” from afar, coming close to the hearts of the army she commanded, with tight skirt, close-fitting blouse, chestnut hair, and sport shoes, I was ready to fly with joy. Mari, who we will know better later, slowly turned into a star solidly lodged in the dusty sky of Ahwaz, remaining in that town’s geography for years to come. Like other girls in our high school, I had become thoroughly enamored by Mari. I stood along her path in school, shyly saying hello to her several times a day. Greetings coming out of my mouth flew like a nestless bird and landed on the fruit-laden branches of her being. I never forget the warmth of her long hands, firmly patting me in the back and commandingly saying: don’t bend your back, don’t hide yourself. What are you ashamed of? (Is being a woman something to be ashamed of? Hold your head up. Be proud to have become a woman).
Mari knew quite well the feelings of the girls who had surrendered their hearts to her and took advantage of this in time. We were all in need of the enchanting scent she was spreading around us: the scent was independence, freedom, and self-reliance. She had burst into our town, holding its pulse under her fingers. She did not like the small and contemptible world the town had built for its girls. She had been able to break the unnecessary barriers around her; rapidly and without giving an excuse to gossip-mongers, she penetrated the town and gained even the respect of local men. She also knew how to negotiate with the girls and their parents and was preparing Ahwas for a great change! She knew how to behave so that her desired rebellion and change would not be crushed on inception. She offered a beautiful, independent, and modest image of herself, respecting an orphaned girl as much the daughter of Khuzestan’s governor. She demanded respect from all and valued each and every person. Her secret of success and magic, however, cannot be reduced to these few lines. We must get to know her gradually through the course of events.
I said that Mari was independent. But I must immediately add that, unlike other socially-oriented women of the day, she did not imitate male moves and behavior. Her hair, smooth with soft curls, fell on her shoulders and enhanced her completely feminine moves. Two eyebrows, which had never been introduced to tweezers or any other means of plucking, shaded her small and sharp eyes. She had put herself into the hand of her rich female nature. With elegant moves of her hands and feet and voice of sweet-singing birds, she freed her environment of violence at once and softened the atmosphere. This exquisite woman was indeed a fountainhead for girls like me who could not consummate their thirst at home; a simmering spring full of forbidden female passions! I caught the first fire-colored gold fish from that chador out of spite, a dangerous thought suddenly took over my whole being. I relished the danger and nourished the thought in my heart. Like a free bird, under the excitement that had invaded my body, I was fluttering my wings, still standing on earth and wearing the thick black chador. The city of Ahwaz and its hot autumn sun, which was on its way to lose its sharpness in face of a temperate and rainy winter, looked heavenly to me. Heat was abandoning the ground and air and I was becoming oblivious to the pain of my father’s harshness. Surreptitiously under the chador, and away from searching eyes and expecting ears, I was interpreting words that I had snatched from Mari’s mouth. A treasure of her words had become my guiding light. Mari’s voice echoed in my ear: “Movement and change is life’s nature and youth is the most beautiful symbol of nature…” “Rivers do not just lay on their bed. They stubbornly move on the same bed you consider calm to reach the sea. The seas also go beyond their borders to join the oceans…Why should we human beings rest in a small pond like still water until we turn into marshland. Why?”
Walking to school on that day, the remembrance of Mari’s uplifting words just hit the spot and made me determined to imitate not only her way of thinking but also her looks. My vain and crushed rebellion now turned into a formed idea and plan, gradually blossoming and growing under the shower of her words. Mari’s voice had a transforming effect on my heart. Why shouldn’t I fly? Why shouldn’t I hurry towards the unknown and unattainable? Like a flower, I nourished and hid this decision in the corner of my heart until the day the strength and audacity to implement it came my way.
GREEN AUTUMN
The town let itself loose under the able hands of its midwife. Imitating Mari’s doctrine gradually turned into a reality. Girls talked about Mari over the dinner table. Mothers described her for their husbands with womanly pride and the repeated quotes from her influenced even the men regardless. At first they did not listen to their wives. But because of the void that existed in their lives, they slowly felt closer to Mari. It was as though the town was pregnant without knowing. With kind and dexterous hands, she invaded the unsuspecting pregnant town and stole the new-born child from Ahwaz's womb. She was able to influence family relations in every household that had a daughter in “Nezam Vafa” high school, without claiming to be a model or leader. When they went to see her to discuss their daughters’ grades or behavior, the fathers were all attracted to her. Insisting on their predetermined values, they would say: "Well if a woman can become a scholar like Mari, She could utter big words as well! But not every woman can be as audacious as her. Such big words do not become ordinary women!"
In this way, fathers closed the path of imitation to their wives and in an unspoken language encouraged their daughters towards scientific education, one of the forbidden kinds of education in those times. And this was enough for a woman who tirelessly pounded at the walls and fences that surrounded us.
What allowed Mari to transform our family relation was the ways she delicately chose for propagating and spreading her ideas. She did not recommend transgressions in their easily crushable prevalent shapes. In her doctrine, transgression meant penetrating public beliefs and thoughts and, of course, the importance of forerunners and precursors was never forgotten. Mari was stubborn after entry into the hearts. She made us, the shy and timid local girls, each lose the virginity of our secrets in front of her searching eyes and ears and let her know of all of our internal prayers. She heard everyone. In order to hear well and with peace of mind, she organized free classes. When the girls became emptied of secrets and Mari filled herself with their pains and needs, she would declare a message. The nature of the message always involved transgressions, but it was expressed with the same case and balance upon which her fine personality was built. She did not propagate quarrel and confrontation with the father or brother. Using various excuses, she showed us examples of proper and constructive family relations and spoke of efforts and sacrifices that human beings had made to gain freedom and equality. She had a small projector with which she occasionally showed us a film on a small screen. This screen was actually a white table cloth that belonged to the school guard and was pinned to the screws at the top of the blackboard for the showing. Unlike the health films of Point Four, Mari’s films did not report on the conflict between bacteria and cells; it the struggle of human beings against other human beings. Gradually we arrived at a kind of preliminary knowledge about history. We were more or less introduced to the British women’s struggles to gain entry into the parliament, the French women’s struggle to gain the right to divorce and so on. Mari, like Shehrezad of One Thousand and One Nights, instinctively knew that the smallest mistake in storytelling may cost her neck and lead to the agitation of adversaries. As such, she told her stories deliberately, with care and modesty, allowing us to reach our own conclusions and ways of resistance depending on our abilities.
After free classes, girls walked carelessly and boldly, their tongues, having become polished in the class atmosphere, developed the sharpness of a word. From the depth of their eyes leaped out liberal sparkles, no less burning than fire. Free and loose eyes moved ceaselessly, critically witnessing each and every image of city and family life. In their private thoughts these girls battled these unpleasant images and, in their own circles, they reproached reactionary perspectives.
The male half of the town was completely oblivious to the fact that a well-organized and spirited army was about to attack its foundations of power. They had heard from the women in their families that Mari dressed well, was very learned, pleasant, modest, and chaste…! For men who had daughters under Mari’s command, her modesty was enough to allow them to rest easy at night. They did not understand the delicate point that, in Mari’s doctrine, modesty was also a weapon; not until a woman is armed with it, in the traditional city of Ahwaz, is she able to destroy decrepit frameworks over the head of the city guardians.
Autumn was half way through. The city was feasting on the sudden rain that was inundating its earth. The metal gutters were becoming crooked under the weight of heavy rain, taking the cobs on the roofs to the ground. The ground was all muddy. The hot and merciless sun of the South gave in to a bath, patiently waiting for yet another burning summer in a corner of our land’s high sky. Like all the other cities in Khuzestan, Ahwaz only has two seasons: spring and summer. Autumn is half of spring’s body, and spring part of summer’s flesh. They city is a stranger to yellow autumns.
In that year also a green, rainy and pleasant autumn arrived. The tall Eucalyptus trees, pools full of muddy rain water, flowery alleys, and small frogs that came with pouring rain were all souvenirs of this green autumn. I was not alone in this autumn; Mari was with me. Thousand hopes were blossoming in my heart. My feet were pounding the muddied earth, at times even ruthlessly crushing the baby frogs that blocked my way. The aurora of youth was gleaming on me and whoever wanted to deny this was not worthy of my pity.
The green autumn provided me with that magic opportunity for which I was waiting. One day my chador merged with the mud and slush in the city’s street and, when I turned into a narrow alley to wash its bottom, my crushed rebellion became alive again. I took off my chador unwittingly, scrunching it into my school bag. I quickly fixed my hair with my fingers, pulled my socks up to my thighs, and hurried briskly toward school. From the alley I turned into a crowded street. Like a blind person who was miraculously healed, I was grazing the city with my eyes, as always, oblivious and self-consumed people were passing me by. I saw myself standing taller than everybody else, attempting to take solid steps like Mari. On that day I overcame my shy disposition forever. Straight and firm I stood, furtively glancing at my chest. Like newly-hatched birds, two small bulges were peeking at the city streets from under my gray uniform. I was showered by the praises of high school boys and took delight in them. Finally, with the carefreeness of a freed pigeon, I entered school; and only then did I realize what I had done! ...The girls’ screams and shots went beyond the school yard. Mari joined in to participate in their celebration and excitement. But this time Mari was silent; a cunning silence out of caution, avoiding direct intervention in the private lives of families who had daughters under her supervision and cleverly remained quite in order to maintain her position in that exceptional city and high school. Nevertheless, my hungry eyes noticed her approving smile. Without expressing her opinion, Mari had witnessed the effects of her doctrine. She was neither surprised nor full of questions. She merely laughed with all her being like a mother who is witness to the happiness of her child. She looked at me and I understood her look completely, becoming confident that I had made the right move and did it well.
From that day on I went out of my father's house wearing a black chador, taking it off and putting it in my school bag when I reached a safe alley. On my way home, I would walk freely halfway through the same alley and then plunge into veil until I reached my father's house. Both my father's share and that of life and youth were paid. My father's share was his right. Is it possible to sit at someone's table and not pay his due?
TWO THIRSTY PEOPLE
The patriarch was shaken in his position of power. This time it was he who chose silence. Words find wings in small towns and fly to every house. He must have heard them too: “Why are you sitting still? The youngest daughter of the family is out there to limit your thousand-year power!” under the weight of my father's silence, the foundation of power was disturbed in a house in which the resident lizard and bat were proud of their uncontested and long lasting presence. Without admitting it, my mother and sister benefited from my father's new and shaken situation. They turned into my domestic accusers, engaging in many intrigues to compensate for my father's silence. Mother soon realized that she had no stomach for resisting her rebellious daughter. Like a turtle she crawled into her shell and left the scene of struggle. My sister, however, quarreled with me, attempting to take away the smallest audacity while burning with envy. Once tired of belittling me through abusive language, sarcasm, and beating, they would rest and wait for better opportunities.
I did have an enlightened aunt who, from under her chador, would direct her dark and at times devastating humor towards anything she considered wrong. Khaleh jan had Koranic education. In the olden days, Iranian women attended Koranic lessons, learned and at times gained extensive social insight. Although they could not write very well and, in their own words, did not have proper penmanship, they became quite learned and knowledgeable, even at times opening schools themselves. The homes of these women mullah's and their Koran lessons were parts of their schools, extending throughout the town. Although the many girl schools that had been established throughout the town attracted girls, the schools of these mullah bajis were still popular and religious families preferred to send their daughters to these closed and protected environments. Khaleh jan was a distinguished product of this ancient kind of education, having quite a reputation in the city of Ahwaz. Whenever she set foot in our house, the environment would change.
In those days when power struggle was taking strange forms in father's house, the cheerful and light hearted kahleh jan walked in with fresh words and invaded my father's frozen silence like a hot sun. Father always received her words darted at him with a smiling face, confessing his complete surrender by whispering: “God forbid ... Curse upon the Devil!” On that day too, after disarming father well and bringing him down from his historical seat of sermon and exhortation, khaleh jan laughed mischievously. Caressing my cheeks with her kind fingers, she murmured into my ears: “the fate of bullies is always the same; from their lap another bully will rise and ultimately bury them.” In this manner, khaleh jan declared that the news had traversed the city like wandering bird.
Like my mother, khaleh jan was chadori, but she looked at the sociopolitical conditions surrounding her in a different way. Although she had Koranic education, she knew hafiz by heart and instead of the prayer book, which was my mother's permanent companion; she always carried a small book of his poems in a red velvet cover. She opened the book randomly and told fortunes for everybody and, when tired of reading poems, she deliberated on advances in medical sciences to the extent she had read in bulletins and brochures stolen from physicians waiting rooms. In response to the always-forthcoming question of: “Khaleh jan, with all this incisiveness, do you take of the chador?” she would always have a specific answer which essentially said: "Obstinacy against Reza Shah has brought me this affliction. One day when a passing Police man pulled the chador off of my head on Reza Shah's orders, I became so mad that I decided not to bow to the word of bullies for as long as I live. Whenever I get tired of chador, the face of that policeman comes in front of me like the Devil's curse. My hair has become white and rotten under this wicked chador. May god extinguishes the bullied from this earth. The things they do; for no reason at all they make life difficult for people. Their supporters engage in one kind of craziness and their opponents in another. There is no underlying difference between the two sides. They are both into extremes, harming the general welfare of the people. My stubbornness against Reza Shah's men is just one example of the harm done by his bullying. Now hear about his friends. For no reason at all and in order to ingratiate themselves they bothered and irritated people so much that when the British took him away, killed him and sent his mummy back, nothing changed at all."
Although kahleh jan made big political statements every once in a while, her mind and thoughts revolved around nothing but Hafiz. Everybody wanted her to read the poems and surround her to her it. Women in the house and girls waiting to be married begged her to open the book of Hafiz. His poems rolled from her mouth and turned into a string of pearls. At the end of each ode, they asked her to interpret the poems for them. When this part of khaleh jan's task was finished, a tear would be shed by the one whose fortune was being told and an optimistic wait for the results of patience and fortitude would begin. Whoever wanted her fortune to be told by khaleh jan had to perform ablution first. With dirty hands or a heart full of hatred, one could not mingle with khaleh jan's Hafiz. Hafiz was pure and without malice and he needed nothing but purity and freedom from wants. Khaleh jan had chosen her sacred book, religion, and rite consciously and not on the basis of heredity. She did not have children and in order to compensate for this, her being had given in to Hafiz's spiritual generosity. Accompanied by Hafiz's poems and blessed with her mocking tongue, she would visit us every once in a while, breathing new life into our house and clearly touching all of us. I could easily feel that the more my father avoided khaleh jan's audacious look and sharp tongue, the more he became enamored by them. Perhaps he was compensating for my mother's blind obedience and unconditional surrender with the company of her spirited and rebellious sister. Shamelessly, she would assault my father, completely devastating his beliefs and ideas. Her deep and protested voice still reverberates in my ears: "Only god can save you. If there is a heaven and hell, you will have to suffer. The more you push your forehead on the praying stone, the worse off you will be. Your heart is not pure. If it were, you wouldn't hang on to your money so tightly and putrefy your daughters in this prison. Why don't you loosen your purse strings and send these kids abroad."
In response my father would merely laugh loudly. It was hard enough for him to have his daughters find their ways to high school. Going abroad was out of question! Nevertheless, khaleh jan's sinful words would somehow find their way to father's heart. It was as though sin coming out of her mouth was sweet. Throughout years khaleh jan had found her way to my father's heart and I understood this truth since childhood. Despite his mocking laughter in response to her sharp sarcastic remarks, father relished khaleh jan's presence. The days she sat at our table were essentially joyous and blessed days. With humor, mockery, or pretending not to pay attention, father prodded khaleh jan to continue her ridicule and teasing. And when she would become silent he'd ask her to open the book. As soon as khaleh jan's voice resonated in the house, reading Hafiz's poems clearly, father would calm down, fantasizing about an old forbidden love. The affects of her visit would remain for several days. Father would soften and become balanced. He would become kind towards us, affectionately caressing the hair of the women in his harem; hair that had become dull under his cold tyranny. After a few days, father would begin the torture with the same anger, bitterness and prolonged silence until khaleh jan's renewed visit would take another pinch at his depressed and frozen spirit. Once again, she had to awaken a man who lay miserably in his coffin of fabricated beliefs, and set ablaze the excitement of life in his eyes. Father needed the warmth of khaleh jan's being to the same extent I needed the luster of life in Mari's being. In utmost thirst, we drank from the same fountain; the fountain of passion and rebellion!
GRAY CREATURES
The string was placed in the middle of khaleh jan's golden teeth and her chin came forward to show me the way I had to move my legs. My hairy foreleg, which had become repulsive like that of a monkey, bothered her eyes. On that day she had decided to teach me stringing, the art of using a string to remove even the finest of hairs. My mother and sister stood silently as protesting witnesses. They said nothing out of fear of khaleh jan, or perhaps were hiding their protests for a better, more suitable time. As soon as khaleh jan saw traces of shame and modesty on my cheeks, she raised the blackened and hairy string and with a voice shaking from anger said: "Damn you. Why are you blushing so much? Are you killing somebody or stealing? Look here, you are throwing away dirt, that's all! God also likes cleanliness. Haven't you heard 'cleanliness is having faith?' … Are they at war with Koran's command in this wretched place?"
Similarities between Mari and khaleh jan were becoming more clear. It was as though they were comrades at war against the existing system. Each had chosen ways fitting her resources. One relied on her university education, elegant appearance, and knowledge while the other took advantage of her religious education and wisdom, and her old, modest, and experienced face. Both looked to the same direction. I was happy that both gave me worth in their difficult task. With a veil that had been practically ripped and a foreleg that had emerged like a fresh flower from under a mass of needless hair, I faced longing eyes and felt danger. In those years I was a youthful girl who aspired to walk the whole city with a burning candle. I protected the weak and tottering flame of the candle with my small hands with difficulty and with the same belief and sincerity Zoroastrian high priests protect the holy fire, sanctifying the candle in its trembling glimmer. I held in my small fists the flame Mari had ignited in my heart, knowing that the creatures of the ash in our house and town are watching and anxiously waiting for a slip. Finally, the creatures of the ash in the house, my sisters, exaggerated the hair plucking story and allowed my father to hear it. This time, instead of the previous silence, father used his fist and strong hand to put down the flame in my being. But it was not long before I emerged from the ashes and turned into the same girl, whose whole existence could be reduced to a candle with a tottering flame, facing a long and dangerous path.
The old clock reported of my father's waning power. Like cats and dogs I predicted the occurrence of an earthquake and instead of fear I took pleasure at the thought. Gradually the iceberg that constituted my father's absolute power was melting. Collaboration of three women, Mari, khaleh jan and I - one at the center of father's power, the other at the educational center of his native city, and another at the center of his repressed emotions - made the implementation of his absolute power difficult. This female triangle was becoming dominant over his repressive forces and gradually limited the boundaries of his power to a small room in which he worshipped God and the shop in which he used his abacus to count.
MERCILESS CITY
An incident caused Pandemonium in the city. In this event, the city showed an amazing face. It laughed with half of its face and cried with the other. It began on the morning when the passer-by heading for the city found Na'imeh's head with thick blood stuck on her wavy hair in front of her family residence. Na'imeh was a young native Arab woman whose death sentence was issued and implemented by his father and brothers. In the initial questions and answers, it became evident that she had given herself to a forbidden love and, in order to remove the disgrace, the male members of the family had no choice but to behead her and publicly display the result of their act as a means to maintain their honor. The victim's father and brothers were proudly sitting in their house and showed no fear of condemnation or interrogation. The clamor generated by the crowd that surrounded their house threw a ray of satisfaction on their faces. Sitting next to her bloody dress, Na'imeh's mother was drinking strong tea without shedding a drop of tear. Triumphantly, she had already served her husband and sons with tumblers of the same blood-colored tea. The smell of burnt firewood that heated the smoked kettle and fastened tea-pot filled the house. The cows and sheep happily munched grass in their pen. One could hear the groan of the milking cow twisting in pain whose teats had not been emptied by Na'imeh's powerful hands on that bloody morning. Plates of rice-milk probably cooked by Na'imeh were spread all over. It was not long before the police came, kicked us all out, and began to examine the room in which honor was weltered in the warm and young blood of a girl.
I had seen Na'imeh many times as she traversed the city wearing silver and belled anklets that were particular to women native to the South. She had a bony figure and walked straight and dauntless under the weight of several copper pots she carried over her head. On the hot soil of the South, her feet were always bare; her hands always decorated with henna, and a silver ring hanging from her nose. She briskly moved around under her black cloak and searched the garbage in the ruins behind our house for cardboard or wood to keep their stove afire. She also collected watermelon and melon peels for her cows and sheep. Her steps were quick and agile, clearly reflecting the fact that a major part of her family's economic burden was on her delicate shoulders. Perhaps, even on that fateful day, the family's stove was lit by the wood Na'imeh had brought home; and that thick tea the murderers were drinking had been brewed by the heat produced through her efforts!
The merciless city easily sat in the seat of judgment and exonerated the criminals. As we got closer to noon, the city that wept in the early morning hours now cheered the criminals and smiled at them. It was around then that I left the crime scene, sobbing. Attacked by superficial and cruel public opinion, I was fluttering. I searched and found Mari, placed my head on her chest and cried well. I reported on what I had witnessed and sought her help. Her cold and depressed lips shook. Filled with hatred, she swallowed her tears and with a clearly tired and broken voice said: "Go and prepare yourself for another disaster. They will soon release the father and brothers, you'll see. They will soon be endeared by the town. You'll see. Law and Shari'a will support them. You'll see! ... Now go home and prepare for the confrontation with the future. We will talk more, later."
Depressed and rejected, I threw myself at a cornr of the dinner table. A piece of food provided by my father, who by law could kill me, was caught in my throat. In front of the women in the house, my father supported the criminals. Before choking on the food I left the table and took refuge in my bed, the only arena for my flourishing thoughts in my paternal home. On that night no one in our family approved of father. Even my always obedient mother angrily looked at my father's talking mouth, confronting him with silence. My sisters also swallowed their food without being hungry and until I fell asleep I could heard them whispering objections to Na'imeh's murder.
The nightmare of Na'imeh's untimely death weakened me; it took my audacity. My inability to understand the words of law and Shari'a added to my internal problems. How could the reliance on these two words make the beheading of spirited and agile girls possible? A feeling of impotence took over me? Who are we? Why did Na'imeh and I were born to this world? I looked at the mirror. It seemed that the same deep groove that had been created next to Na'imeh's bloody lips after the knife had met her artery was now sitting on my face.
Later, when Na'imeh's father and brothers were freed and returned to normal life, I learned that I was born in a dreadful and terrifying place. My sorrow heightened when I saw with my own eyes the way other local people began to deal with the murdered girl's father and brothers, acknowledging them more and even rewarding them for the murder they had committed. The criminals became more successful economically and some local folks even became diehard customers of the milk and rice-milk produced by Na'imeh's mother. In the same year, after Na'imeh's death, another honor-related crime occurred in our town which resulted from the sympathy the merciless city showed to Na'imeh's murderers.
The weight of sorrow for Na'imeh did not easily leave me. Time passed by. With youthful energy and Mari's miraculous ability, I found myself once more and saved my wounded spirit from the reign of Na'imeh bloodied throat. As soon as the memory of her murder began to vane in my mind, as well as the mind of other girls, Mari once again began to browbeat us: "Girls, if one cannot change Shari'a verdicts, legal verdicts can be changed instead. Law is not eternal and your goal should be to make law compatible with our times." In this way Mari did not allow me to live without the memory of Na'imeh. She fed all my internal turmoil and this time, for me and some other local girls, she was able to turn the nightmare of Na'imeh into a commitment that we could not ignore. In those days, due to my youthful nature, I thought of the task as an easy one. Years later I learned that the order for Na'imeh's murder was not issued on the day of the event, but thousands of years earlier. Any change in it entailed a difficult and dangerous task. But I was never able to forget Na'imeh and the commitment I undertook on the face of her bloodied hair. Na'imeh's murder and the spectators' cheers were repeated many times throughout my life.
By the way, I forgot to mention that concurrent with Na'imeh's murder a three year old girl sang and danced on stage in Ahwaz. The tickets for her show were bought by most of the middle-class Ahwazi families. The girl imitated the voice of Tehrani singers and excited people through all kinds of dances. Her presence diminished the reign of violence over the town. What a pity that this three year old girl, Na'imeh and I were all stepping onto an eventful and dangerous path. The fiery Gougoush, the future star of Iranian show business, danced and sang on stage on her father's order and, whenever she was about to fall asleep on stage, he would slap her delicate cheeks in front of the audience, not allowing them to calm down. The hot-tempered Sabir was a worldly and mature man; he understood the mentality of the people who could be merciless witnesses to Na'imeh's murder and knew that whenever these spectacle loving people are not satisfied, they will rebel and demand the money paid for the tickets. On the basis of this knowledge and sociology, Gougoush's father had trained her daughter only for spectacle and later tasted the sweet nectar of this foresight. The three-year old Gougoushes danced on father's order while the sixteen-year old Na'imehs died on father's order.
WINDOWS AND TABOOS
The more seasonal and torrential rain muddied Ahwaz's streets, the more my internal and hidden life accepted change. The blossoms of puberty were growing so fast in me that they made the previous blossoms old and exhausted in comparison. Among the masses of newly emerging blossoms, I was madly sipping the nectar and poison of youth. My hidden life looked more and more like the woven roots of forest plants. Decrepit roots and emerging blossoms commingled in the depth of my existence, simultaneously getting close and moving away from each other. Finally the result and product of all these activities sat proudly on the ground. The passer-by were so busy in their daily lives that they could only see this straight and fertile stem, and not those rebellions, tensions, and root battles that occurred in the nature's ground.
When I became dizzy from the conflict between the blossoms and roots, and tired out of the attempt to reconcile prefabricated molds with youthful transgressions, Mari opened a new window for me. With erect posture and always hopeful eyes, she stood in front of the students from second grade A and gave us the good news: "Kids I have finally convinced the Culture Bureau (Ministry of Education) to allow us to have a club instead of regular and classic classes two afternoons a week." Baffled, the girls looked at each other. The looks were full of questions. What does club mean? The word club was completely foreign to local girls. We had never dealt with it in the culture of our home life or even the culture of our educational and social lives. Mari understood the meaning of our looks. She took a chalk and wrote on the blackboard: "Monday and Wednesday afternoons, from 2 to 4, club." Then she let go of the chalk, once again mounted the horse of speech, and began to ride with us deep into unknown territories.
One rainy Monday afternoon, the girls from second grade A experienced the club for the first time. Well-groomed, orderly, and anxious, we all gathered before the meeting hour. With ironed white collars, sharply pleaded and even skirts, shining hair ....perfumed from head to toes, we stepped into the club. We let ourselves loose on our benches and hid our youthful excitement under a deliberate and dignified mask. Iranian girls have an age-old familiarity with this mask; any kind of exciting event in life is enough to push them into this deliberately cold cast and defensive posture. They stubbornly prevent others from peeking into their insides and learning about their wandering hearts beating away on rainy autumn days. On the club's opening day also, Ahwazi girls, at the height of excitement and restlessness, put on their deliberate and dignified mask and sat calmly in their places. Mari's long and beautifully-etched finger, accompanying her stern voice describing the taboos, tempted us to accept hell's fire in exchange for reaching for the forbidden! In that time and place most of the things that were permitted for the urban male half were declared prohibited for the female half. In this way one could see the importance of Mari's message, about windows and the taboos, which undermined centuries.
Mari introduced to the town a young girl who had just graduated from University of Tehran in natural sciences and had come to our town to teach. This woman showed off her free spirits by wearing sneakers and casual clothes, expressively declaring that she is fully prepared to perform her new role and manage the club hours. Miss Ja'fari had still maintained the fitness and lightness of her teen years. Immediately, she got close to the girls and asked them to talk plainly and without inhibition about their problems.
At first, Mari and Miss Ja'fari's instructions added to our confusion. We could not easily settle into the new situation. After a few sessions, however, our lips were unlocked. Coming out of the dignified mask, the girls showed signs of fever. With blushed cheeks and in the danger-free embrace of the club, they unveiled their thoughts and desires, becoming naked and exposed. Leaving the imposed mask, they flared like fire and protested against the existing situation. In order to direct all this emotion, Mari and her assistant were forced to teach us some discipline necessary for discussions. For instance, they taught us that we had to take turns talking and priority belongs to the first one asking permission from the chair. I, along with a few other girls, understood the disciplinary principles and atmosphere of the club. This understanding represented a turning point in my social life because I was unanimously chosen as Miss Ja'fari's assistant in a free election. Now I spoke and expressed my opinion upon any excuse and with every opportunity. At times, I did not even recognize my own voice. My voice spread like the twitter of a free and happy bird. So drunk with what I sang that I did not see anyone in front of me. Instead of looking, my eyes leaped from one star to another in the skies that I was continuously discovering. I wanted to parade in the city on the wings of words and not allow the inhabitants of this tired city to rest calmly. I had understood that slumbering cities need wake-up calls. I would have liked, to the extent of my capabilities, to break the nap of one of these cities. The club became my territory. From under their benches, the girls pinched and kicked me to shut up! These were not effective and the bird that had fled its cage would not return. Ultimately, not only me but all the girls from second grade A learned to breathe like free human beings. Fathers and mothers got used to listening to their daughter's endless talk describing the club. The town learned to see the smiling and happy faces of girls outside their cold dignified posture. The girls walked gracefully in the city, going from one bookstore to another. Out of curiosity, I looked at the girls and myself after a few months. It was clear that a heavy burden had been lifted from our shoulders. The imposed and cold mold had been broken. We had come out of our defensive postures, with drawn swords and with the intent of invade. It was as though the passive period had been put to rest, and we were stepping onto a new stage.
Happy and restless, we welcomed the spring. We had learned about each other's mental world in the heated club session, now we knew with what kinds of hope, desire, and longing each is struggling. The club had been quite successful during the academic year; it had become a window to the taboos in the town. Our mouths were stuck to it, yelling our existence.
The establishment of the club in Ahwaz in the 1950s and 60s should not be taken lightly. There were movie theaters in the town at that time that showed banal Indian, Arabic, and Persian movies. The atmosphere in these theaters was very male and respectable women did not hang around them. There were also a few small boats that anchored by the Karoun River and took self-indulgent passengers from one side of the river to the other. An Imamzadeh called Ali ibn Mahzia, located about two kilometers from town, summoned worshippers who were mostly women and brought them peace and serenity. Women bought cloth dolls and plastered cats from vendors living around the shrine, giving them as souvenirs to their daughters. The town's cemetery was another place of recreation to which women referred as sahra and, whenever they became fed-up with all their problems and difficulties, they went there and cried their hearts out. There was only one street full of stores in town which, like all main streets in Iranian towns, was named Pahlavi. In this town where middleclass housewives had no other means of entertainment but Ali ibn Mahzia, sahra, and Pahlavi Street, every once in a while a magician would lay out his show in a corner and would plant needles all over his body or carry a big rock on his stomach, taking coins from the female spectators. Occasionally also someone would gather a crowd around himself and through a variety of means pocketed the small savings of housewives before moving to another comer.
Besides the enumerated distractions, imprisoned housewives had another intermittent special hobby which is worth mentioning. In the 50s and 60s, a famous character lived in Ahwaz that women released quite a bit of their tensions through him. Known as Abdulreza qoru, he was a small and crazy man who had somehow developed swollen testicles in his youth and publicly displayed this enlarged and unnatural member. Crazy Abdulreza earned his living through peddling goods, while displaying his warped and blemished sexuality, until a surgeon passed through Ahwaz and operated on him for free. Although Abdulreza's health had improved, he was still quite sensitive and responded with the outmost profane obscenities when the word qor was used. The imprisoned housewives never allowed Abdulreza to forget his old deformity. They laid in waiting behind their windows and whenever Abdulreza came to their streets to peddle whatever goods he was selling on that day, they would curl their tongues in their mouth and say with emphasis: ghorrrrr .... Angered by the expression, Abdulreza would wait for a few minutes and then pull down his pants, showing off his improved member and dispatching all sorts of sexual obscenities toward the unknown woman. Women laughed their heads off behind their windows and for a while forgot their sorrows which surrounded them like a circled snake. AbduIreza ghoru satisfied their natural needs. He was the concrete and symbolic reflection of all the needs that were later fulfilled by movies, theater, and television. But beyond all this, the Abdulreza phenomenon and other similar things in the 50s and 60s represented a major part of Iran's social history which compensated for the lack of festivity and spectacle that existed in the daily lives of imprisoned housewives.
In order to understand Mari better, we have to imagine her within the context of a city in which Abdulreza ghoru, with swollen testicles, was the source of entertainment and fun. Her presence led girls, instead of furtively peeking at Abdulreza's prohibited parts, to search curiously for all the hidden taboos in human thought and nature through the club's window and question everything that surrounded them at home, in the city, and at that time and place. It is in such a city that the founding of a club in a girls high school can be considered as monumental as the European Renaissance. A city in which, at times simultaneously, in three movie theaters three parts of Banu Mahvash's buttocks went up and down and the singer repeatedly asked her audience: "Is this ass crooked?" .... a city in which women easily became naked on screen and easily got killed in their real lives. In this amazing city, I looked at Mari like a wonder. She was a star that had abandoned her galactic life and landed in our terrestrial life. If you rely on your imagination and come to the sleeping and silent city of Ahwaz of the past, you will know Mari better. Of course, you should pass through the dirt roads and look for a small and crazy old man.
You will then see concealed women, surrounded by traditional forts and enclosures, dominated by the most violent of husbands, who are waiting for the old crazy man to pass by their house, make them laugh, and remind them of the feeling of joy.
FEAR AND INSECURITY
It was not long before Farah Pahlavi, Mohammad Reza Shah's third wife, stepped into our mentally agitated world; a world which was becoming increasing tired and weary under the tensions and rebellions of adolescence. Based on a detailed and calculated plan, Mari had made arrangements for us to see Farah from up close. She had managed to put into the new queen's visit to the Khuzestan Province the opening of a small laboratory in our high school. Let me say in advance that Mari did not pretend to be a shah-lover. But she was a smart woman seeking progress and in this path she relied on anything she could find. In her student days, she was even involved in nationalistic struggles, which were of course no longer valued in post-1953 Iran.
Upon Farah's entry into Khuzestan, our laboratory was opened. On that day, her face looked tired and all puffed up because of cravings one has during the early months of pregnancy. Her girlish and unrefined face still did not show signs of the self-confidence that comes with power. The glitter of power in her black and almond-shaped eyes had to be delayed until she gave birth to a boy and became secure in her new position. On the opening day, Farah could not hide her anxieties and apprehensions from us. Suffering women and girls like us could understand her situation well. Like a sneaky insect, fear crawled under her skin and made all her behavior and words weak and trembling. Farah was afraid that her newborn will not be a boy. In an ancient land, the source of fear for a woman located at the zenith of political and economic power was the same that of a miserable, rural woman who relied on her destitute husband for livelihood. Both had to deal with the same complex problems. Both feared that they will not give birth to boys; both of their destinies were dependent upon the sexual organ of a creature that crawled inside their bellies. Farah knew that she had been placed at the seat of shahbanu, with a crown on her head and royal jewels all over her body, in order to give birth to a boy for them. Her fear emanated from law and Shari'a -- in the same way Na'imeh's murder was rooted in those two pillars of social life. Law's venom had been poured into the body of Iranian women from God knows when and all women, without exception, were afflicted. We also clapped for Farah, jealously inspecting her, and sympathizing with her and Nai'meh. If she did not give birth to a boy, she would be discarded like litter. If we were all boys we would carry a smaller share of pain and suffering. Then, we wouldn't be forced to beg for our smallest of human desires and become such clever tricksters. Now, the Queen of Iran, with shaky hands, was cutting the colored ribbon with scissors and entering the new laboratory, for the establishment of which Mari had resorted to many tricks. The first laboratory for girls in Khuzestan was opened through Mari's efforts.
Microscopes, laboratory equipment and chemical solutions, tables, tall and white stools, baby frogs and white mice, and curled up snakes in formalin solution welcomed us. Farah looked around for a while and then distanced herself from us and our city.
We had an appointment with Mari in the laboratory once a week for two hours. She was like a magician, mixing acid with various solutions and teaching us how to play with them -- the same way we were used to play with cloth dolls from Imamzadeh Ali not too long before.
Just as Mari had given the club to us as a window to our emotional and psychological taboos, the laboratory was also a window to scientific taboos. From then on, whenever we became bored with ourselves and the routines did not satisfy us, we would lay our eyes on the microscope and from that window sneaked into the wide world of small creatures, always restless and engaged in a continuous struggle for life.
Mari taught us never to stop at the level of phenomena; she taught us to always see behind things with the help of armed eyes. She slowly equipped us with the principles of a scientific outlook. The club and the laboratory were to embark us on a felicitous path, enabling the next generation of Iranian children to leave their mark in the world.
CHAIN LINKS
What is the source of all this hostility and discord? Whose hands are involved? I set upon the path to the house of Ruhaniyat. Like termite I gave my body to the soil and sank in it. I rushed toward the Shi'a center of power. Invaded by political declarations and slogans propagated by groups and political parties, a thoroughly skeptical mind was my only companion ... I did not know the clerics. We had met from distance in history books. In historical narratives, they were presented as having a constructive role in the shaping of the Constitutional Revolution, assisting the Iranians to get the king to sign the constitutional order during the Qajar era. The historians had taught the educated class of the Pahlavi period that, without the effort and persistence of Ayatollah Behbehani, Ayatollah Tabataba'i, and Ayatollah Shirazi, the people of Iran could not have founded their new history upon the pillars of constitutionalism and anti-colonialism. They made us believe that the Constitutional Revolution had put an end to judicial chaos and unlawfulness. .. The constitutionalists, they said, were spirited and progressive nationalists who reached their goal hand in hand with the clerics. We were even told that a reactionary mullah named Sheik Fazlullah Nuri wanted to change the direction of the revolution and replace the concept of limited government (mashrutih) with that of a religiously legitimate government (mashru'ih), handing governance to religious rulers who were against nationalism and legalism. We learned, throughout our education in the Pahlavi era, that the patriotic clerics blocked Sheik Fazlullah Nuri and did not allow the replacement of mashrutih with mashru'ih. So, now that I had embarked upon the journey to find the clerics, I was searching for the footsteps of those great men. In Tehran of 1980, not only I could not find a trace of them, a highway was named after Sheik Fazlullah Nuri to celebrate his ideas. It felt as though the battle to put mashru'ih in place was still alive and waging.
I hid all my thoughts and questions under the cover of the black chador. The thoughts and questions that were not only mine but also belonged to the educated generation of the Pahlavi era. Wherever I saw an opening, I would peek to see Ruhaniyat's posture and disposition ... The dirt on the back alley's of the sacred city of Qom was swept under my chador that was constantly slipping from my head. I did not know how to hold the chador like a member of my body, the way my mother and sister managed to balance it so that it would cover them head to toes. My whole body rejected it like an external object and I was trying really hard to maintain its balance by pushing my teeth into it. At times I was ready to cry out of desperation. From the day I took off the chador half way to school and in effect unveiled myself voluntarily, the love for freedom and deliverance had flown in my blood. I had found myself in the eyes of those passing by. I liked to see the effect of my presence in the glimmer of their eyes. This was merely a human need, not a sexual one. I felt chador effectively nullified any kind of presence and tore apart all the parts of my formed character. I walked like a wooden doll. Tired steps moved slowly. It was as though I had been enchained…
I reached a dirt alley. A school appeared in front of me with fit and quick talabehs (students) moving about. Cloaks danced on their shoulders ... Next to the school an old house could be seen, where the cleric who ran the school resided. The inside (andaruni) and outside (biruni) of the house were separated by a yard and a constantly coughing servant who constantly said "ya Allah" and carried a tray of sometimes empty and sometimes full tea tumblers from andaruni to biruni and back. He was familiar with the whole household on both sides of the yard. I enter the andaruni. The man of the house, mystified by power and wearing a large and black turban, is sitting on a folded blanket in one of the andaruni rooms. With concern and anxiety he watches the presence of the only female pilgrim of the day. He does not look at me directly. With accustomed commanding manner he directs me to the snuggest corner of the room, a place where I am apparently not in his field of vision. I am now sitting to his right. He pretends that he does not see me, listening only to the words of male visitors. But I feel that this is not really the case and he is fully aware of the corner where I am sitting. Time passes very slowly ...
The old servant is called upon. The host asks him to do something in Azari. The servant goes in and out several times and comes back empty handed. From the cracked open door, I see the tired servant. The woman is not willing to be dictated. The host is angry. He picks up the telephone and, without dialing, violently bangs on it. The woman in the andaruni picks up the phone and continues to be unrelenting. She does not accept to come and meet with an unknown Tehrani woman in the biruni. The host pretends that the phone is not working but I can hear her resonant voice from the adjacent room, reproaching aqa. The man angrily stands up, wraps around his cloak, sluggishly passes by waiting men and visitors, and goes to the andaruni. His soft voice can be heard, begging the woman to do something about the uninvited female visitor. The woman gives orders instead of taking order. Immediately a female hand pushes aside the dark thick curtain that is hanging over the window on the other side of the yard and, with a loud, kind, and melodic voice, says: "Please come in. Come into the andaruni, I do not come over there ..." She again disappears behind the dark thick curtain. With an apologetic smile and broken pride, the man also collects his cloak and directs me to the other side of the building with the movement of his hands. Finally I leave the biruni prison which has become the history-making men's fiefdom. Before leaving, I take a look at the pilgrim surrounding aqa. What do they seek? I swallow my laughter like my tears. I had learned my lesson well ....
A robust, middle-aged, and smiling woman appears in front of me; a woman with short, small and meaty hands and legs; a woman whose figure had left its mark on all the pillows and cushions in this political house. As she sees me, she starts to laugh: "You are very welcomed here ... It seems you are not used to wearing chador. Thank God, I am dealing with a decent person. When Aqa said I had to talk to you, I thought I was going to die. I don't have patience for all the non-sense they talk about. I don't like them. You know who I am talking about? Those who are meddling with politics all too often these days. At least in the old days of taqut, everybody's position was clear. We had one queen and several princesses. Now bunches and bunches of queens and princesses are coming out of these same andarunis and no one can block them."
The woman takes the chador from me and folds it twice. She lets herself loose on the pillow and makes me sit on another pillow next to her. Next she puts a pillow under my arm and another under my feet. I look around. She has her own interests. All the tools and instruments needed to give her power to rule over her territory are spread around the room. A telephone directly connects her to the main biruni room, the latest afternoon newspapers, a short-wave radio that can receive all foreign stations, a few religious books, and a picture of her husband who is always referred to as Aqa in conversations. Next to the picture a vase full of fake red flowers and a Qur'an can be seen. In another corner, a television is protected under an embroidered tablecloth. On a small table next to the woman, a mirror, comb, two cases of face powder and cream, a pack of Winston cigarettes, and a lighter can be easily accessed ...
It is the first day of Ordibehesht 1359. Tehran, in the vicinity of the center of
Shi'ism, is restless. Bani Sadr, the president, is calling upon the people to cleanse the universities of anti-revolutionaries groups and elements. When I was leaving the tumultuous and clamorous Tehran, I thought that the revolutionary fever was also flowing in Qom. Now I can clearly see that not only this center and seat of power is not controlled by the revolutionary leadership; it does not even submit to it ... The woman is rebellious. She is at war with ugliness, ignorance, and superstition; her lips only opens to protest ... She is the symbol of the kind of protest and transgression that is present in the most westernized circles of Tehran in those spring days. I am in disbelief. Here, next to a well-known religious school I have come face-to-face with an example of this type of woman. Explicitly, she rejects the current situation while smoking one cigarette after another. What she has to say is worth hearing:
When Aqa entered our house to ask for my hand, my father discussed the issue with my older sisters and I. They both refused but I accepted. I became an akhund's wife and I don't regret it. Now my anti-akhund sisters who married bow-wearing bureaucrats have both turned into revolutionaries and are tearing themselves apart for akhunds; one is hezbollahi and other a supporter of Bani Sadr. But I, who has lived with an akhund all my life, next to this sacred court as a pious believer, am an anti-revolutionary and believe that akhunds must not govern. Bani Sadr who is also raised by akhunds should not govern...
I was becoming more and more confused. I realized that Iran is truly an indomitable and unpredictable cat. With a clam and playful face, she showed us the kind of games she had in mind. With all these contradictions, what games and tricks lay ahead?
When I first came to Qom I thought I had stepped into a large cemetery. Now in the depth of that cemetery I see with my own eyes that life roars with all its colors, contradictions, and differences. The eyes of zan-i aqa shines with the flames of protest and rebellion. Andaruni is full of life, biruni full of deceit ... She speaks without interruption and asked unabashedly: "For God's sake, tell me the truth. How many women like you live in Tehran?" She grabs my chance to answer and immediately asks: "Why does nothing change then?" It is a question that has no response. The hands do not reach each other, they only move in the air. I have come here to figure out the magic that prevents hands from reaching each other …
The woman becomes restless and open mouth to protest:
"There is no magic. Don't tire yourself for no reason. The magic and spell is in this radio you see ..."
She squeezes the radio antenna with her meaty hands and says: "Magic is right here: You have led yourself astray in Qom ..."
From then on, she speaks and I listen; reminiscence after reminiscence. In her spirited heart she has hidden many stories:
Before revolution became too hot, when he still had not come to Tehran, one day I heard the clamor of the talabehs. The noise came from the school yard. After many years of living with Aqa I have become quite learned in politics. I went and I stood behind the joint wall between the school and the house and heard them say: "Alas! What should we do! The imam of the Age called upon us and we did not recognize him! The Christians recognized him before us. All Muslims in the world
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