Perspective, Spring/Fall 2021

PERSPECTIVE universi t yofcaliforni a,berkel e y Spring/Fall 2021

Dear Reader, It is with great pleasure that we introduce Perspective Magazine’s 2021 issue. If the past two years have taught us anything, it is that we must be adaptable. Confined to our laptops, we had to reshape our collaborative processes; there were no longer moments like writers meeting with their copy editor at Cafe Strada or brainstorming their ideas in person with their peers. We quickly realized this new reality would require flexibil ity, particularly with regard to deadlines. To maintain the quality of the publication while ensuring the well-being of our staff, our editorial team decided to break with our usual semesterly model and instead publish issues annually for the duration of the pandemic. Despite these challenges, our writers delivered the insightful, origi nal work they always have. In the last few years, as institutional racism reached the forefront of our national conversations, our writers have turned to examine our own communities, grappling with the perva sive racism within and against the diaspora. Several articles reflected thoughtfully on women’s social issues including abortion, hijab, and the MeToo movement in Iran. Others explored modern Iranian art through a global lens, considering how artists have interwoven foreign styles into their works while retaining their quintessential Iranian nature. These articles and many more are interspersed with original poetry and photo collages. The diversity of these works continues to represent the diversity of Iranian-diasporic voices. In a time of isolation and loss, working on a magazine centered around our shared identities offered an avenue for meaningful connection. We hope that you, too, will share in our sense of community as you engage with these works.

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

SPRING/FALL 2021 2 STAFF EDITORS IN CHEIF Ariana Dideban Sara Zoroufy ASSISTANT EDITORS IN CHIEF Sahar Zarafshan M. Rastgoo FINANCE Mia Karimabadi OUTREACHYaasFarzanefarNikiBorgheiDESIGN Kat Davenport STAFF WRITERS Shirin Khanoom Niki Borghei Niki ShaadiZachEbrahimnejadRoknipourKyleNewmanAhmadzadehSofiaAbolfathiAvyssaTorabiNZK JananMihanparastMostajabi Sean Abidi

SPRING2021 The5DeclineofPersianDressSaharZarafshanZarafshan 9HurryM.RastgooIran’s7MeTooMovementYaasFarzanefar Racism Iranian17Nation-alisminIranianDiasporaMihanparast Rows15andCornersM.Rastgoo 13SirvanKhosraviSeanAdibiWhere11CyrusMeetsKhomeiniKyleNewman Iranian20CinemaWithinaGlobalContextJananMostajabi21HopeofMyReleaseM.Rastgoo

Racism23isNotExclusivetotheWestNZK The33WomanWhoWantedtoBeQueenandtheWomanWhoWantedtoBeShahNZK 31 AReflectionofModernizationUrbanNikiEbrahimnejad30PriceyAbortionsAvyssaTorabi UnveilingBeing29theBarbarianNikiBorghei25theDualityoftheHijabShirinKhanoom27PhotoCollageShaadiAhmadzadeh35TheMomentIRealizedIWasn’tWhiteZachRoknipour FALL2021

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EVERY COUNTRY HAS ITS OWN STORY of how the period of “modernization” caused their cultural clothing to go into decline, perhaps only occasionally coming back out into normalized wear for festivals or cultural celebrations. In my research, I have found that the Iranian case is unique. Every Norouz, I see pictures of jili kurdi and Afghan traditional dress, and can’t help but wonder what happened to our clothing after the Qajar dynasty, with their veils secured by headpieces, dresses and low-sitting belts, and detailed earrings. I have found, firstly, that most of the sources regarding Persian traditional dress revolve around women, and often, the laws mandating compulsory veiling and unveiling. There I discovered the violence we Iranian women were met with when our choice did not fit the agenda of either Reza Shah or the Islamic Republic. I grappled with the incredible hypocrisy of the former — claiming to be “liberating women” while Iranian women who did not want to follow the fascist law had to relegate themselves indoors, save for hopping the fence of their village’s communal bath in the cover of darkness, which was the only way to clean themselves since the home did not have a place to bathe. What’s more, it makes clear what every Iranian woman knows to be true: that our bodies are politicized to either make us appear more “Western” and palatable to the European power concen tration, or “non-Western” as a pendulum shift from that stance, neither stance taking into account that women have our own individual, well-thought out, intellectual thoughts that inform the choices we make in our daily and spiritualSecondly,lives.I have found that ample archival and current traditional clothing exists for the various tribes and ethnic minorities in Iran. The Kurds, Gilakis, Lors, Bakhtiaris, Arabs, Armenians, Qashqais, Azeris, and Ba lochis all have traditional clothing that is alive and well despite the “modernization” laws (of which an analysis is forthcoming). Conversely, the traditional clothing of the Fars Persian majority has faded even from cultural celebrations. This article will specifically explore the decline of Persian Fars clothing among the majority of the Iranian population.

THE OF PERSIAN DRESS

The decline of Fars clothing can be traced back to a series of laws rolled out between 1932 and 1953 by Reza Shah, in his attempt to modernize and unify Iran, as European powers grew their involvement in Iranian affairs, namely in the oil industry. The first of these laws was the requirement for all men to wear suits in public and for women to look like “the civilized women of the world.” (Chehabi, 1993) This required compul sory unveiling (at the risk of beating) and the shedding of Qajar-era clothing. Violators would be subject to a fine or jail time. These laws were largely supported by upper-class Iranians and were enforced until Moham mad Reza Pahlavi permitted the choice of veiling and no longer enforced Western clothing through punitive measures. But at that point, traditional clothing had generally become a rare sight. Sahar Zarafshan

But what’s more telling of why the decline resonat ed and lasted is the reasoning behind the creation of these orders in the first place. The most candid explanation for these laws came from a conversation between Hedayat and Reza Shah, with Reza Shah stating “that he wanted Iranians to become like everybody else [i.e., European imperialist powers in the Middle East] so that they would not be made fun of.” This remark, combined with his com petition with Ataturk’s Turkey over the status of Europe’s favorite “modernized” Middle Eastern country, sounds more like children quarreling in a playground than cultural discourse happening on an international stage. It requires us to take a look at why we saw our clothing as “backward” and “shameful”, to quote Reza Shah. Who decides what is forward? Does wearing a beret instead of an araghchin (skullcap or prayer hat) constitute a greater thinker? Hafez and Rumi await your answer. What’s more, is Ataturk, a virulent nationalist and conductor of the Armenian genocide, the person whose footsteps we’d like to be following? A particularly interesting law to highlight was the requirement of men to wear “Pahlavi Hats.” These hats mimicked the French and English fedora, yet the monar chy claimed they were the “ancestral headdress of Iran” in the Sasanian period. This reflects a bastardization of Iran’s pre-Islamic history in order to seem connected in root to Europeans and to be distinguished from our neighbors. My largest qualm with the above inferiority complex—that we allowed to carry us into culture loss—is the shame we felt for our culture, including the exchanges among our Arab and Middle Eastern minority neighbors, which have shaped all the color that is to be Iranian in our 3000-year history. We have deeply intertwined and well-documented history and shared knowledge with our neighbors, from our ancient capitals, our stunning places of worship, our wealth of scientists and poets, and our exchanged legends, loanwords and translations. At a conference in Berlin five years before the Second World War, in Nazi Germany, we asked foreign diplomats to begin calling us “Iran,” as in the “Land of Aryans,” and to begin to “purify” our language from Arab loanwords. Beyond the obvious psedoscience and inaccu racy of race theory and what has become known as “the Aryan myth” for Iranians, the chilling similarity to Nazi rhetoric and the Nazi sympathy Reza Shah possessed cre ates an easily traceable reason why our clothing was seen as “barbaric” and Western clothing “civilized.” There is massive tragedy in the painting of Iranian history with one simplistic, White supremacist brush within which we will never truly fit. It erases thousands of years of our history. There is a stark difference between the natural ebb and flow of empire, cultural exchange that has enriched the Middle East, and modern westernization. For years, the elite of Iran had wanted the approval of Europe, the concentration of global power. An essential part of examining the decline of Persian traditional cloth ing is recognizing why we felt ashamed in the first place. So we have to ask ourselves, what did we stand to gain from shedding what makes us outward ly Iranian, and what did we stand to lose from keep ing what makes us different? To wear our traditional clothes for Norouz or Yalda requires us to make an active effort toward reviving our clothing, and to shed the toxic mindset that being closer to European cul ture is better, or that it will save us from exploitation.

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Looking at our country’s history, we can see that Iran is not at all exempt from the same global power imbalance that our neighbors and region suffer from, so we might as well be unapologetic about everything that comes with being Iranian — includ ing dress. That could start with correcting our fabri cated nationalist narratives and taking back what we shed as a misguided and ultimately futile attempt to increase our global power.

مه نم#Iran’s MeTooRoaringMovement“WHATISASHIRZAN?”my5-year-oldcousinaskedmeassheheardhermotherandItalkaboutit.Shirzantranslatesliterallyto“femalelion”,andisusedtodescribestrong,in-control,andunwaveringfemaleheroines;anypersonwhospeaksagainstanddoesn’tbenddowntoinjusticeisashirzan.Shenodded.“Shirzan,”sherepeatedtoherself.Whenthe#MeTooMovementsentshockwavesaroundtheUSandinternationalTwitterin2017,Iwatchedasstoriesandexperiencesofmillionsofwomenpouredforthonsocialmedia—millionsofshirzanswerespeakingtheirtruth.NewschannelsandmassmediawerecoveringsexualallegationsagainstprominentHollywoodfigures.WitheveryrefreshonmyTwitterfeed,newvoicesjoinedthechantsofthecollectiveoutpour.Myeyes,however,weregluedelsewhere:IranianTwitter.TheTwitterbirdwasflutteringwithstories,andexperiencesthathadbeencagedfortoolong,blazingapathforIranianvoicestoflyforward.Couldthisbetheflighttheyhadbeenwaitingfor?ForIranians,joiningthemovementwentbeyondspeakingagainstsexualharassment,offeringempathy,andstandinginsolidarityforvictims.IranianshadtobreakdownthetallbrickwallsrootedinpatriarchalextremistIslamistbeliefsandshatterthedarkceilingsbuiltwithsocietalnormsandtaboosaroundsexandsexualitythatcontainedmillionsofcries,horrorstories,andvoiceswithin.Icouldn’thelpbutwonderwhethertheglobal#MeTooMovementwouldempowerIranianstobreakdownbarriersandspeakoutagainstsexualassaultandharassmentforthefirsttime.CouldthisbethemomentIranianwomenhadbeenwaitingfor?Twitterwasabreedinggroundforempathyandoffereditswarmfertilewelcometoanycryorvoicethathadbeenkeptsilencedfortoolong.IranianTwitter, however, was hesitant to plant the seeds that would grow to dismantle a systematic patriarchal block over the bridge of public dis course around social taboos. There was some minor movement in 2017. Some courageous shirzans including actors and journalists shared personal stories using the hashtag #مه ـ نم (man-ham, which translates to me too in Farsi). However, the fire of the Iranian Twitter movement couldn’t spread for long, as it gave its fuel to political protests that were occurring at the time. The Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei, responded to the movement months later, referring to sexual ha rassment as a “Western” problem. His tweet read that “the hijab [has] shut the door on a path that would pull women towards such deviation,” demeaning the women who had come forward with their stories and ultimately implying that Iranian women were immune to such abuse because of the Iranian law that requires compulsory hijab. I shivered when I saw this tweet. When the leader of a country undermines the trauma and hardship of sexual harassment victims, what can that say about the 80 million people living inside the country? How many women and men had been en couraged to keep their stories, experiences, cries, and trauma caged deep inside of them because of such teachings? It reminded me of my own experience in school. We were strictly told to “cover our flares of fire” — the phrase used to refer to our hair— whenever a male teacher would enter our classroom. In another instance, I was condemned by the school principal for looking a male teacher in the eyes when asking him a question. Our gazes, hair cover, discourse, and even our stance closely monitored, we were taught that our behavior, our actions, and our attire could prevent abuse. Yaas Farzanefar 7 PERSPECTIVE MAGAZINE

Topics around sex, sexuality, and sexual assault are taboo in Iran. Even among the Iranian diaspora, topics regarding sex and sexual education remain veiled in most families. The lack of sexual education in Iranian schools, families, and even in the diaspora has resulted in children not having access to safe resources, perpet uating the continuation of limiting beliefs about sexual topics regarded as taboo. To understand the societal taboos, one has to understand the extremely complex existential and culturally influenced power aberoo holds in the Iranian world. The word aberoo literally translates to the water of the face in Farsi. The pure water facade has to be kept at all times to show a shining face. The internalized notion of aberoo leads to hiding, blaming oneself, fearing others’ judgments, and even enduring pain or abuse because disclosing the truth would open the door to judgment — or the fear of judgment, per haps. Aberoo perpetuates a misogynistic victim-blaming mindset which prohibits the discourses around sex and sexuality and thus makes speaking out against sexual abuse impossible.Whenthe#MeToo Movement erupted globally in 2017, Iranian Twitter was hesitant to participate. In 2020, however, three years after the #MeToo Movement surged in the US and around the world, the rage and pain of many women struck Iranian Twitter with a bolt of lightning that sparked the rainfall of courage, outcries, and col lective voices. Soon after a group of Irani an journalists shared a video on social media of their experiences with sexual harassment in the workplace, many other women followed with their own stories and experi ences either on their own accounts or anonymous users. Within days, Iranian Twitter was flooded with thousands of stories of sexual harassment and assault in the work place, in the streets, at home, and even in school with the hashtags #مه ـ نم (“man ham”- Me Too), #سىنجـرازآ (“azar-e-jensi”- Sexual harassment), and #زواجت (“tajaavoz” - Rape) Honortrending.and aberoo took a back seat as Twitter bore witness to a hashtag storm and, Instagram, other social media, and even news channels for the first time broke the boundaries of socially unacceptable topics and spoke about sexual abuse and harassment. Despite the limiting belief held by some that sexual harassment is a Western struggle because hijab and Islam offer immunity to sexual abuse, Twitter overflowed with the stories of women and men, describing their experiences with sexual harassment at work, at school, in public, and at home.The movement acted as a wake-up call both for the legal system where rape had not been defined as a standalone offense, and victimization discourses that viewed victims as accomplices. The #مه ـ نم movement shed light on the deficiencies of the education system, that is linked to the problematic perspective of victim shaming and the social stigma tied to sexual harass ment. Many shared their experiences, many listened, retweeted, and posted messages including, “if I’m follow ing your abuser, DM me and I will unfollow them.”

Masoumeh Ebtekar, the vice president for Women and Family Affairs, even praised the millions that were speak ing up stating that “there is a lack of access to the right information and correct education and this creates the grounds for sexual violence and abuse.”

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Honor and aberoo took a back seat as Twitter bore witness to a hashtag storm and, Instagram, other social media, and even news channels for the first time broke the boundaries of social ly unacceptable topics and spoke about sexual abuse and harassment. We were taught to protect our bodies and to be ware the male gaze because a girl’s high school, as they said, was like a “safebox for jewels.” Like diamonds, our bodies were sacred and precious, only to be taken out on special occasions. We were never given a definition for sexual assault or harassment, nor were we taught how to identify it, just how to prevent it. In this manner, Hijab was often used to implicitly place the responsibili ty to prevent sexual harassment on us, on all women.

Still ongoing, the movement has led to multiple arrests of prominent figures, redefining sexual assault, sexual harassment, and rape in the law, as well as initiat ing public discourse among families, clerics, and even at schools. In January, Iran’s government approved a bill that criminalizes violence and sexual misconduct against women and specifies punishment for perpe trators. Although the bill still falls short of interna tional standards as it does not address child marriage, domestic violence, or marital rape, it is indeed a step forward. Shirzans roared, and for the first time, the world listened.

What profit is there in the trade of love, with all its woe?

No longer have I refuge in my dreams and wishes now;

All traces in my heart besides the ash I’ve kept have gone

The credit in my heart’s vault, put there long ago, has gone

Towards the one whose use for waiting all his days has gone?

We heard the farewell of the rose — be wary while you mourn;

The darkness of the night for sleep — that lights allow — has gone

All hope I have to taste the sweet kiss of the shore has gone Oh Rastgoo! Hurry, and towards the ones you love go race; All peace you may have had outside of their embrace has gone.

2021–03–28 “Hurry” «نک باتش» 9 PERSPECTIVE MAGAZINE

The nightingale was wracked with grief and separation’s woes

My youth is gone! O, idol, won’t you spare a little gaze

I’ve lost all my surprise at the calamities fate dealt Surprise has left, all free will that I’ve ever felt has gone

The rose is dead, the jasmine dead, the tulips’ ring has gone

For old men, all besides their thoughts and memories has gone

The flame of my excitement sputtered, drowned in tears I wept

Two days and two whole years are one in children’s reveries

In autumn, even moans that from its grief arose have gone

When morning comes, that gift of love that should be there has gone Majnun went, his head bent, and eyes a-weeping, to his doom; Besides the willow, all who’d stay beside his tomb have gone

I’ve drowned without love, in the sea’s embrace, I’m doomed — what for?

The sun gives stars as jewelled gifts for every Night’s dark hair

Who said the rose’s sharp and dangerous stinging thorn has gone?

The blossoms came and went, and now the time of spring has gone

تسین رگید راهب و تفر و دمآ هفوکش تسین رگید راز هللا ،لگ و نسوس دربِم شاب بقارم کن ،میتفنشب لگ عادو؟تسین رگید راخ زیت کن شین تفگ هک دوب نلاان قارف درد یپ زا لبلب هچ تسین رگید راز و لان نامه و دیسر نازخ دنگنرکی لاس ود و زور ود ،لفط یارب تسین رگید راگدای زجب ریپ یارب راهنز ناوت ینم بماوخ هب و وزرآ هبتسین رگید رات ،باوخ بش ،قلخ رون ز دهد ربج هک اه هنتف نیا زا مرادن بجعتسین رگید رایتخا ،رگد دنانم بجع شیوخ هدید بآ ز مقوش هلعش دربِم تسین رگید رابغ زج یرثا لد نورد دیشروخ بش فلز هب رتخا رهوگ دادب تسین رگید راثن نآ ،دمد حبص رهم وچ تفر نونجم ،هدیمخ رس ،تفص یوج هدید ود تسین رگید رازم رب شسک دیب ریغب ؟رازاب نینچ رد رجه مغ و قشع ، دوس هچ تسین رگید رابتعا لد ی هنازخ نیرد ینکن رظن !اتب ،مربص هب تفر بابش؟تسین رگید راظتنا ز یا هدیاف هک ارم قرغ متشگ رحب شوغآ رد قشع نودب تسین رگید رانک سوب ز زین دیما ارت هک ! وگتسار ،تسود یوس هب نک باتش تسین رگید رای شوغآ زجب یتناما وگتسار .م M.Rastgoo SPRING/FALL 2021 10

HOW AN ISLAMIC REPUBLIC GRAPPLES WITH AN UNSHAKABLE PRE-ISLAMIC INFRASTRUCTURE

The revival of an Iranian culture that integrates both its pre-Islamic and Is lamic roots is in no way new, bearing its own historic genealogy that starts with the Abbasid Caliphate. Before the Abbasids, the Umayyads sought to “de-Zoroastrianise” Iran by chang ing the administrative language throughout the empire to Arabic and dismissing the last of the Zoroastri an officials of the Sassanid empire. It was not until the successful rebel movement led by the Iranian Abu Muslim Khorasani — who toppled the Arab ruling class of the Umayyad Caliphate — that Iranian converts to Islam gained the same status as Arab Muslims in the later Abbasid period. Khorasani created a hybrid Irani an-Islamic discourse, installing Shiite Imams into power to distinguish Iranians from their Sunni Arab coun terparts and claiming the restoration of Mazdean or Zoroastrian rule. This phenomenon led to the predom inance of the Buyid dynasty after Abbasid rule, which was the first uniquely Iranian and Shiite Islamic power base of the Muslim world.

The 20th Century: Revolution after Revolution and changing nationalist discourse by Kyle Newman

Buyid leaders took on the pre-Islamic title of Shahanshah and claimed royal Sas sanid lineage. The Buyid merger of Shiite and pre-Islamic cultures was arguably strong enough to persevere an interreg num in Iranian history when Mongol and Turkic forces took the reins of Iranian society for about 500 years. After a long period of silence, this cultural merger reappeared in the 16th century Safavid dynasty. Although Iran’s Islamic practice was still significantly diverse at the time of Shah Ismail I’s hegemony, efforts were created by the Shah to institutionalize a clerical Ulama composed of Twelver Shiite scholars from the surrounding region. The Safavid rulers from there on gradually reinforced a narrative that interpreted Shiism as being uniquely Iranian and adopting aspects of pre-Is lamic Iranian culture. Until the Iranian Constitutional Revolution and Reza Shah Pahlavi’s modernization campaign, Ira nian national identity would be defined by a fairly consistent cross-talk between the clerical class and the monarchy. The monarchy would recognize the religious authority of the clerical Ulama while the Ulama would legitimize the rule of the monarchs, who often served as represen tatives of both Shiite Islamic and pre-Is lamic Iranian culture. While the mutual adoption of both Islamic and non-Islamic influences in Iranian culture proved a strong model for national identity, 20th century modernization efforts created a significant but temporary shift in this dynamic. The Iranian Constitutional Revolution of 1905 destabilized the back-and-forth nature of governance between the Ulama and Shahs. Despite the elimination of the previous power dynamic, the revolution preserved the clerical class and made it a prominent political body in the new Iranian Majles (parliament).

WHERE CYRUS KHOMEINIMEETS

The Roots of a Balanced Culture: Pre-Islamic and Islamic influences merge

The 1979 Revolution undoubtedly marked a significant cultural shift in Iran’s history. The new Islamic Repub lic birthed a movement — led by Ayatollah Khomeini and promoted by Iran’s Islamic Republican party — that changed Iran’s national identity. During the Cultural Revolution of 1979 to 1983, Khomeini and his supporters sought to remove all remnants of pre-Islamic symbolism and cultural supremacy from the Pahlavi era. They were led by Khomeini’s prevailing pan-Islamic ideology and narratives of religious martyrdom. This effort proved to be unpopu lar from the beginning of the Iran-Iraq war, when prominent leaders realized Islamic identity could not serve as the stand-alone motivation to continue a war against Iraqis. Therefore the Islamic Republic forged a new nationalism that merged pre-Islamic Iranian and Shiite Islamic cultures into a singular all-encompassing Iranian identity.

The Ulama was further weakened when Reza Shah came to power because of his attempts to em phasize Iran’s pre-Islamic roots. In order to legitimize his rule, Reza Shah argued that he had lineage related to Cyrus the Great. Reza Shah went so far as to ban the chador or women’s veil and replace the Islamic lunar calendar with the pre-Islamic solar calendar.

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The frustration of the clerical class and their unabashed unity would lead to the upheaval of the Pahlavi regime during the Islamic Revolution and the rise of Khomeinists that sought to erase this new Undernationalism.Ayatollah Khomeini, Shahs were referred to as taghut — an Arabic word referring to evil, oppressive figures. Pan-Is lamism in the Shiite conext was promoted in order to erase the ethnonationalism of the Pahlavi dynasty. Despite this shift, holidays like Chaharshanbeh Soori and Nowruz, which are celebrations rooted in ancient Zoroastrian traditions that hon or the arrival of Spring, still remained a large part of Iranian society. The survival of pre-Islamic cultural traditions was the first indication to the new regime that they would have to make adaptations to their governing philosophy. The 20th century was therefore marked by a harsh divide between embracing pre-Islamic Iranian tradition and attempting to remove it — a significant break from the soft merge of the Ulama’s Islamic influence and pre-Is lamic symbolism of dynasties that preced ed the Pahlavi era. The Islamic Republic was soon met with attempted invasion by its Sunni Arab neighbors, which helped the regime realize a pan-Islamic identity could not single-handedly motivate its constituents to fight for the revolutionary effort. The regime therefore utilized the Shiite Islamic rhetoric of Imam Hussain’s resistance to motivate its troops during the war effort.

The Revival of a

The story of Imam Hussain’s resistance to Yazid at the Battle of Karbala in 680 CE is paramount to Shiite religious identity, which allowed soldiers of the war to chan nel this spirit of resistance and frame the war as a battle between Sunni Arab and Iranian Shiite. This newer ideology worked hand-in-hand with the concept of Shiism being uniquely Iranian which originated during Safavid rule. In the aftermath of the Iran-Iraq war, Shiite Islamic resistance to Sunni oppression became equivalent to Iranianness, which created a revival of pre-Islamic Iranian symbolism and art in the mainstream.

Iranian-and-IslamicUniquelyculturalnationalism

The reemergence of an Iranian nation alism that fused Islamic and pre-Is lamic Iranian cultures was used as a political tool by the Islamic Republic regime to reinforce its constituents’ support. This new nationalism became important when government efforts, such as the Iranian Nuclear Program, could not be justified through Islamic motivations alone. During Khata mi’s presidency, politicians garnered domestic support for the new Iranian nuclear program by asserting their need to defend the longevity of an Iranian civilization that started in the pre-Islamic Achaemenid period. The discourse around Iran’s pre-Islamic roots in the Islamic Republic grew larger throughout the presidency of Khatami and heavily influenced president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad as well. Due to the contentious nature of Ahmadinejad’s rise to the presidency — famously accompanied by pro tests in which demonstrators called for an “Iranian Republic” instead of an Islamic one — Ahmadinejad himself channeled heavy pre-Islamic rhetoric during his term to appease the people which angered revolutionary officials and clerics in the process. In 2011, Ahmadienejad attempted to deliver a speech for Nowruz (Iranian New Year) at Persepolis, which he was prohibit ed from doing because of Iran’s most cherished pre-Islamic relic failing to align with the ideals of the martyrs of the Islamic Revolution. That same year, Ahmadinejad framed the Islamic Revolution of 1979 as “Iranian” in a speech to the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, garnering resentment from prominent clerics and Ayatol lah Khamenei. Ayatollah Khamenei and other figures in Iran’s conser vative religious establishment wish to promote a narrative that glorifies Iran’s early Islamic period as being more advanced than any other period in its history. The religious establishment therefore stands in stark opposition to the new nation alism that has emerged and actively avoids it. On Ayatollah Khamenei’s website, for example, it is impossible to find transcriptions of his Nowruz speeches while his speeches cele brating uniquely Islamic occasions are both transcribed and translated into multiple languages. Since the Islamic conquest of the Iranian Plateau, Iran has grappled with the duality of both its Islam ic and pre-Islamic identities. As a civilization that began during Cyrus’ Achaemenid empire, its people hold onto their pre-Islamic roots despite being heavily attached to Shiite Islamic culture. While Shahs and clerics balanced Islamic and pre-Is lamic cultural histories for a long time by legitimizing each other’s power, 20th century Iran witnessed a polarizing shift in this dynamic. The re-emergence of a unique nationalism in 21st century Iran that integrates pre-Islamic and Shiite cul tures is yet another sign that both Islamic and Iranian ways of life have a deep impact on Iranian civilization.

BORN INTO TEHRAN TO KURDISH PARENTS, 38-year-old Sirvan Khosravi has contributed to Iran’s pop music scene as a singer, songwriter, instrumentalist, DJ, and producer since 2001. As of April 2021, he has released five albums and over 40 singles, in addition to several collabo rations with his younger brother, Xaniar. Interviewers and radio announcers alike have classified Sirvan’s music as a blend of electronic, pop, and rock music. But in a 2016 interview on Did Dar Shab, Sirvan asserts that his tracks consist of more than just an array of catchy beats and lyrics catered to teens — he has also introduced what he calls an ‘international’ style of music to Iran. Not to be confused with world music, Sirvan’s international fusion of pop, rock, and electronic beats possesses an uncommon quality: if the lyrics were removed, the music could easily feel native to any country in which it is played. Conversely, modern Iranian singers — from Mohsen Yeganeh to Sasy Mankan — frequently blend traditional tones with modern electronic beats in the production of pop ballads, dance hits, and lyrical melodies. Sirvan, however, refrains from showcasing any quintessentially Iranian musical elements by avoiding traditional instruments, like the setar, and rhythms, like 6/8 time, entirely. In interviews, Sirvan admits that he would like viewers to acknowledge him not as an electronic dance DJ or an exclusively Iranian singer, but as a multifaceted artist who is expanding the boundaries of what it means to be an international musician in Iran. Sirvan has managed to blend musical genres in each of his albums, often drawing from Western musicians, from hard rock artists like Def Leppard, Roger Waters, Bon Jovi, and Sting, to modern soft rock groups like Cold play, Keith Urban, U2, to heavy metal bands Metallica and Megadeth. The influence of these musical groups is evident in each of his albums, which typically include an array of musical genres, from alternative rock lyrical serenades to heavy metal extended guitar solos. Despite emulating his musical inspirations, his first two albums, To Khial Kardi Beri and Saate 9, did not gain immediate recognition in Iran. Prior to Sirvan, western rock and metal artists had not garnered mainstream fame among Iranian youth, so Sirvan responded to this initial apathy to his music by strengthening the lyrical interpretations of his songs. While his largely Iranian listeners may not have dissociated from more prominent Iranian blended pop hits, the release of Sirvan’s mid-2010s musical fusion pieces transformed his perception among younger listeners. Moreover, in interviews, Sirvan prides himself on his intergenerational fan a base, who connect with either the classic rock or electronic dance components of his songs, regardless of age. While Western artists are not particularly popular in postRevolution Iran, Sirvan has mimicked their styles while also distinguishing himself with more poetic Farsi lyrics characteristic of traditional music. This has resulted in the production of a musical repertoire that cannot be neatly classified into distinct genres. After nearly a decade of refining his artistic expression, Sirvan’s top singles Ghabe Akse Khali, Soojehat Tekrarie, and Doost Daram Zendegiro, which combine guitar solos, electronic beats, and extended vocals, garnered immediate attention and widespread popularity, with over 30 million total

INTRODUCING INTERNATIONALISM TO IRAN’S POP MUSIC SCENE BY SEAN ADIBI

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SIRVAN KHOSRAVI

streams on Iranian music app Radio Javan. For one, Ghabe Akse Khali, with over 60 million views combined across streaming platforms, is Sirvan’s most viewed single. Its lyrics, while syntactically simple, incorporate several instances of figurative language, including in the chorus. In this piece, Sirvan laments the end of a romantic relationship and subsequent depression, with a flooding house as an illustration of how ties may be severed between two individuals in the face of unprecedented circumstances. The house being “underwater,” or submerged, symbolizes the emotional trauma associated with breakups. While the topic appears pedestrian, Sirvan’s candid exploration of modern-day romantic relationships, void of traditional, male-dominated depictions of love, serves as a departure from ordinary Iranian ballads. His lyrics, albeit written in Farsi, do not replicate the ornate, embellished expressions typical of Iranian traditional pop music, but rather employ accessible, quotidian language to characterize interpersonal relationships. Sirvan’s use of simpler, internationally-applicable verses has broadened his overall appeal among Iranians of all ages, setting him apart from long-established Iranian pop singers. Not unlike traditional poetic ballads, however, Sirvan’s songs leave space for multiple lyrical interpreta tions. It is this duality, between his catchy lyrics and their underlying profundity, that has captivated Iranian listen ers years after the release of his initial albums. In mid-2020, Sirvan released his latest album, Monologue, in a manner never attempted before in Iran: alongside his band atop a helipad overlooking the Teh ran skyline. The album tells the coming-of-age story of a young person in their journey toward self-actualiza tion and belonging. Each song, replete with piano and guitar solos, is an unapologetic display of Sirvan’s hard rock beginnings and impassioned approach to musical synthesis. Albeit less popular than soft pop singles like Ghabe Akse Khali, Sirvan’s latest album serves as a source of inspiration to amateur Iranian musicians that they, too, can successfully perform rock music without overt ly employing Iranian traditional instruments or genres. Kian Pourtorab, Milad Derakhshani, and Alireza Riazi, among others, have produced albums through Sirvan’s ‘international’ approach, a testament to the popularity of genre-blending among youth in Iran and in diaspora. Rather than listen to western artists like Coldplay, U2, or Sting, Iranians can turn to Sirvan — a musical synthesizer and industry innovator — to listen to songs that utilize western instruments, explore modern poetry varieties, and examine modern cultural themes. Over a decade has passed since the release of his first album, yet Sirvan’s music continues to grow increasingly pervasive. Beyond a pop, electronic, or rock artist, Sirvan is a versa tile musician whose songs cannot be neatly classified into a single genre; it is his unique musical adaptability that has captivated his fans and sustained his popularity for over a decade.

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هبارطضا و مغ نم لاح هگید وت دعب هبارخ لماح ردقچ ینیبب هک یدوبن مقشع همه اب نم متخاس ور هنوخ نیا یمهفب هتخس یلیخ هبآ یور ت هنوخ After you, I feel grief and anxiety You aren’t here to see how horrible I’m feeling With all my love I built this house It’s hard for you to understand That your house is underwater

ROWS ANDA LOOK AT TRADITIONAL IRANIAN MUSIC

Isn’t that nice and clear? Even to me, whose grasp of the Ira nian classical music theory is, I wager, slightly better than the average person’s, this description is forbiddingly opaque. While the Wikipedia explanation does have its merits, I believe there is a better way to define the radif, a way that might perhaps not be fully accurate, but representative enough to understand the basic concept.

IN THE WESTERN VIEW, the explanation is encoded in a vast music theory, with melody and harmony, major and minor scales, and intervals and chords; a supremely effective tool for analyzing and creating Things That Sound Good. Its seeds planted in Ancient Greece, dormant during the Middle Ages, and blossoming with the advent of Bach and his theoret ical Baroque counterparts, this music theory is the foundation upon which all of Western music, from classical to jazz to tinny elevator muzak, rests. It would, I hope, not surprise the esteemed reader that this system is not the be-all and end-all of music theory in the world. It is certainly prominent, but is limited in its scope, and while it provides an amazing language in which to classify Western music, its ability does not fully extend to non-Western musical systems, be they Arabic, Indian, Chinese, Malay, or, indeed the Iranian system of radif. You may be tempted to ask what the radif is, and fear not, dear reader, I shall tell you: it is a collection of dastgāhs, “a number of principal musical modal systems (generally twelve), … consisting of seven basic notes, plus several variable notes for ornamentation and modulation… and which revolve around a set of gūshehs, …where the process of centonization is personal and of great import.” So says Wikipedia.

What makes music sound good?

Iranian dastgāhs and āvāzes, then, are sets of melodic phrases which each have a distinct sound or feel to them, and often are characterized by differing modes. The modes in question, though, are not confined to those familiar in Western music, which only differ by half steps and whole steps (and such multiples). New notes altogether are common in the Persian system, of which the most common is made with the koron accidental, which denotes a quarter step below the natural, and leads to new intervals and scores (no pun intended) of new modal possibilities. Even taking these differences into account, the Persian system is still not strictly modal; each dastgāh has a central set of intervals that it operates on, akin to a mode, but it is not strictly confined to the notes of that mode, and often even incorporates two or more different modes. Phrasing, also, plays an extremely important role. In a sense, the system is multi-modal; the inter vals between the notes of the different dastgāhs and āvāzes usual ly differ, but even when they don’t, what phrases are played and what notes are emphasized make all the difference. Take Māhour, the closest dastgāh there is to a major (or minor) scale. Its intervals are identical (WWHWWWH, or such sequences starting at different points along the scale), but one cannot get Māhour by listening to major. Each dastgāh is also characterized by its phrasing, the common melodies that define it: playing three random notes on the Māhour scale does not automatically signal the Māhour dastgāh, but three notes that fowllow the characteristic patterns of it do. Shūr is another dastgāh worthy of mention, since it is patterned on the G minor scale (or any minor scale, since the dastgāh system is fully diatonic) however, the second and fifth of that scale (A and D if we’re in G) are brought down a quar ter step, so that the interval sequence goes from WHWWHWW to ¾-¾-W-¾-¾-W-W, and an entirely different musical space is born. There are seven dastgāhs Shūr, Māhour, Homāyūn, Navā, Segāh, Chahārgāh, and Rāst-panjgāh and (usually)

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The definition of some basic terminology would be helpful at this juncture. The radif (lit. “order” or “row”) is the central repertoire of Iranian classical music, and is the name of the entire system. It is subdivided into dastgāhs (lit. “the place of the hand”, in reference to note placement on the neck of a stringed instrument) and āvāzes (lit. “song”); each of these are their own musical landscape, and are themselves composed of short melodic phrases and themes, called gūshehs (lit. “corner”). The distinction between a dastgāh and an āvāz is merely to do with length: a dastgāh has anywhere between twenty and forty gūshehs, while āvāzes generally go from four or five to twenty.

To understand how these concepts fit together, we first need to understand the concept of a mode. A mode, in music theory, is a complex concept, and explaining it in its entirety is beyond the scope of this article: suffice it to say that the differ ence between two modes lies not in their notes, but in the intervals between them. A major scale starting on C (C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C) and a major scale starting on G (G-A-B-C-D-E-F#-G) have different notes, but the intervals between those notes are the same in both cases — in sequence, a whole step (W), a whole step, a half step (H), a whole step, a whole step, another whole step, and then a half step (abbreviated WWHWWWH) — so the two are in the same mode; namely, major. A major scale starting on C and a minor scale starting on A (A-B-C-D-E-FG-A) are composed of the same notes, but the sequences of intervals are different (WWHWWWH vs. WHWWHWW), and thus major and minor are different modes. The concept of a mode transcends that of key – a major scale starting on C and a major scale starting on G, as explained above, both fall within the major mode, while the C major scale and the A minor scale are different modes, though they are ostensibly in the same key.

The radif is an intensely melodic system — while West ern music places a lot of emphasis on harmony, and a lot of its pieces are defined by their chord progressions first and foremost, Iranian music is mainly concerned with the art of making mel ody, and as such, melodies are all that the radif consists of. This is not to say that there is no harmony in Iranian music — it is present in the melody itself, but the system is not defined by it. Each dastgāh and āvāz has a narrative, a similar structure of ascent and descent. Each goes through a rising and falling progression, with each gūsheh higher (i.e., with a higher central pitch) than the one before, then coming down after the peak. Starting with the “darāmad” (lit. “entryway”), which sets the character of the dastgāh or āvāz, the gūshehs go up in central pitch until the “‘owj” (lit. “peak”) in the higher end of the scale, and back down to the “forood” (lit. “descent”), stopping, going up and down, and playing either free improvisation or rhythmic melodies along the way. The phrasing that is so vitally important in distinguish ing the dastgāhs and āvāzes reflects another aspect of the Persian system absent in Western music: its dependence on literature and poetry. In the vast majority of cases, the phrases that comprise the gūshehs are modeled on poetic meters, so that Persian poems in those meters can be sung with them. One of the formats of traditional Persian music is the tasnīf, an improvised or composed piece based in the radif which accompanies a specific poem and since Iran has such a rich poetic history and tradition, the music and the literature go hand in hand to create something exquisite. It must be stressed once more that this musical system is, at its core, improvisational, and the radif framework is very much cobbled together. Each musical master has their own personal radif, the melodies and emphases and progressions they’ve learned and taught throughout the years. Even the most mainstream radif, those of Mirzā Abdollah Farahāni and of his brother Hossein Qoli, differ by a substantial amount, and of course the radif’s peculiarities and subtleties also change depending on the instrument used, the one for the voice alto gether different from the one for the tār or the santūr. The roots of these disagreements lie in the radif’s historical origins. Each region of Iran had its own melodies and music, and with Iran’s contact with the West in the 18th and 19th centuries and the introduction of Western music theory, Mirzā Abdollāh and others decided to assemble this diverse repertoire into a central system for the first time, as signing names to melodies based on local names or geographic origin (Bayāt-e Tork means “the Turkish peoples”, and Bayāt-e Kord the Kurdish). As with any such endeavor, there was no way to neatly order things that had evolved over a long time Rāst-panjgāh, for example, is very close to both Māhour and Navā, and some masters do not even consider it independent, but it is generally classified as a dastgāh of its own. It is no stretch of the truth to say that there is not a single radif, but many, each different but still similar in the core elements. Played on the tār by Lotfi, on the santūr by Kiani, or sung by Karimi, Shūr still sounds like Shūr, Chahārgāh like Chahārgāh, and so on. Textual descriptions only go so far, so the best thing to do is go listen to some traditional Persian mu sic, and all of this will quickly become far clearer — just type in any of the dastgāh names into YouTube, listen, compare, and enjoy.

So far, I’ve attempted to describe what makes the differ ent sections of the radif, well, different. To give an idea of what, exactly, the point of all this is, I will, if you bear with me, indulge in a metaphor. In my view, the radif on which Iranian traditional music rests is for all intents and purposes a phrase book, a guide for expression, there to begin with but ultimately to transcend. To compare Iranian music to a language is a useful analogy: the radif, our collection of dastgāh and āvāz, is a phrasebook divided into different dialects, all of which make up the language but sound at times different and at times similar to each other, with melodies recurring in all the different dialects, but with their own local flavor and their own mood and feel. Each dastgāh and āvāz, each dialect, consists of gūshehs, individual phrases or melodies that are given their own names. Once these are all learned, the musician then incorporates them into his repertoire, and builds upon them in his original improvisations.

The Iranian radif is an exceptionally diverse and vast landscape, a color wheel that traditional and even modern musicians use as a framework for their composition, and traces of it can be found in virtually all Iranian music. Like scales and chord progressions are in classical music and jazz, the radif is ultimately a guide with which musicians can structure their pieces and ultimately innovate; having learned the entire phrasebook and steeped themselves in the language, the stu dent can stop repeating common sentences and start writing their own poetry. M. Rastgoo

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five or six āvāz —Bayāt-e Esfahan, Bayāt-e Tork, Abū’ atā, Afshāri, Dashti, and sometimes Bayāt-e Kord. The āvāzes in some sense branch off from the dastgāhs (Bayāt-e Esfahān from Homāyūn, the other five or six from Shūr), and are shorter. Each of these twelve or thirteen have their own musical character and their own feel; they each consist of a central scale of whole steps, half steps, and, (unlike in Western music) three-quarter and five-quarter steps, with different start notes and final notes and emphasis notes, and, crucially, different common phrases.

Although some might share a central scale (in fact, all the āvāzes have the same scale as the dastgāh they are associated with) they differ in which parts of the scale they emphasize, and on which notes they start and end, lending each a distinct musical signa ture.

CORNERS

IRANIAN IN IRANIAN DIASPORA

Mihanparast “Iranians believe themselves as a civili zation rather than a territorially limited nation.” – Ali Ansari A SIMPLE ONLINE SEARCH for protests by the Iranian diaspora results in a surprising set of images. Absent are the famous peace signs and emerald paint made internationally recognizable as the symbols of the Green Revolution, a movement that saw broad support in the Iranian-American community. Also missing are the compelling photographs of the fuel protests of late 2020 and the subsequent outrage among Iranian-Americans at having the Internet silenced across Iran. Rather, photos online of diaspora protests almost always consist of images of exiled opposition groups, most commonly those supporting a restoration of the monarchy through Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi or the Marxist-Islamist Mujahedin-e Khalq (MEK). It is likewise shocking that such a famously nationalist community only witnesses unity in its most controversial sub-divi sions. Essentially, patriotic-nationalist conceptions of monarchism and Marx ism have replaced classically nationalist interpretations of secular liberalism and socialism as the popular ideologies of organized Iranian diaspora groups. The theoretical phenomenon of nationalism is one that is widely prevalent in the Irani an diaspora as the community exists in America today, yet unique components of the ideology strongly distinguish it from both its roots in the secular nationalism of pre-1979 Pahlavi Iran and from its coun terpart in the modern Islamic Republic. The questions arise as to how national ism manifests in the Iranian diaspora, why this manifestation fails at garnering popular support or unification, and what consequences result from this attribute of contemporary Iranian-American society. To provide answers, we must ana lyze not only scholarly theory but also social aspects and factors affecting the Iranian-American community today.

NATIONALISM

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First, we must define Iranian national ism in terms of theory to identify what makes it unique amongst other forms of nationalism across the globe. The typology of nationalism in the inter national schema has been written on extensively; the broad definitions of Yael Tamir and David Miller will be sufficient for our purposes. Put simply, nationalism is considered as pride in the unique aspects of one’s historical nation – be it realistic or mythologized – being distinct and superior to similar aspects of other nations. Iranian na tionalism, by and far, exists as cultural nationalism in the Iranian-American diaspora. This is sharply different from ethnonationalism, which centers on components of ethnic identity, as explained by Anthony Smith. At the same time, cultural nationalism exists in contrast to civic nationalism, which is rooted in shared belief of political values and institutions welded together by citizenship. Therefore, the major ity of Iranians in diaspora focus their nationalism not around shared race or citizenship but rather around common historical and cultural heritage. Visualizing the sense of na tionalism in the international sense, we can turn our attention to typologies of nationalism within Iranian polit ical history. Ali Ansari divides these into four general components as they have applied to Iranian politics in the twentieth century: monarchical na tionalism, Islamic nationalism, secular nationalism, and leftist nationalism. Without retracing steps trodden by other writers, several assertions can be made as to which of Ansari’s categori zations can be said to describe Iranian Americans most accurately. To begin in this endeavor, it should be clarified that although the Iranian diaspora is nowhere near as secular as ste reotypically idealized, very few families in the larger community subscribe to the notions of Islamic Shiite nationalism perpetuated by the Shiite ulama in the Islamic Republic. This aforementioned clerical class is the primary driving force behind Islamic nationalism, which seeks to unite the many Shiite minorities of the Middle East in a united national block. Shared religious traditions do not translate well into a highly diverse religious complex such as the Iranian-American diaspora, which has strong elements of Jewish, Zoroastrian, Baha’i, and Christian minorities as well as a Shiite and Sunni Muslim majority. Leftist nationalism similarly has not transitioned successfully into Iranian-American communities for a variety of reasons. The fail ures of leftist movements in early revolutionary Iran and the Soviet Union (the main backer of leftist groups in the country throughout the twentieth century) eroded con fidence in the ideals of socialism as it intersected with realities of struggle under Islamic and Ameri can government systems. As for monarchical nationalism, Ansari’s definition mandates pride in the institute of Iranian monarchy as the sole source of legitimacy for the Iranian state. This branch of nationalist ideology had signifi cantly more efficacy in the United States than the two branches listed above, especially after the trauma unleashed by the Islamic Republic on the ancien régime and non-Is lamic revolutionaries alike. Many Iranian exiles adopted the mon archy’s restoration as the healthy alternative for an Iran they viewed as damaged by the introduction of Shiite Sharia. Such a phenome non occurred hand-in-hand with

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these same Iranians consolidating their American identity with hardline poli ticians who promised the community a restoration of the son of the nowdead king, Prince Reza Pahlavi, onto the throne. Violent regime change and the Republican Party drew these same Iranians into a pipe dream of an ideol ogy that slowly eroded the nationalism away, as political ambition replaced national pride. At the same time, Reza Pahlavi himself has publicly asserted that he seeks a democratic alternative to his father’s reign should he be placed at the head of a new provisional government, leaving the institution of monarchy innately separate from the ideologies of Pahlavi monarchists in the diaspora. Subsequently, for multiple reasons, we can characterize the Iranian-American diaspora as philosophically unable to tru ly be monarchical nationalists by Ansari’s definition. Lastly, according to Ansari, there exists the branch of secular liberal nationalism, the most commonly con ceptualized version of the philosophy when one visualizes Iranian nationalism from a historical perspective. This was the primary political ideology of the Iranian Revolution prior to its being co-opted by the Islamist faction, and most political asylees from Iran to the United States during the several years following the foundation of the Islamic Republic fled due to their affiliation with secular nationalist groups. It should be noted that the National Front of Dr. Mohammad Mossadegh in the 1950s and 1960s held similar political ideologies of its later version restarted in the 1970s; however, its agenda was far less coherent and agreed-upon as the earlier iteration. Whereas, in the initial inception of a united nationalist coalition, the primary objectives were reclamation of the Irani an oil industry and rejection of colonial influence in Iranian politics, during the revolutionary period, the movement was severely divided between advocates of a welfare state under the existing monar chy and those who sought democracy or, at the very least, constitutional monarchy through regime change. Namely, the National Front split between supporters of Shahpour Bakhtiar, the Shah’s last prime minister who desired secularism as opposed to the religious radicalism he foresaw in the revolution, and Karim Sanjabi, the official leader of the Nation al Front, who viewed Mohammad Reza Shah as the tumorous cause of Iran’s political disarray. More importantly, these divisions would never truly heal in the Iranian community as a portion of it fled the homeland. Even today, it is easy to find Iranian Americans who agree that the revolution failed but quite challenging to come to a consensus as to how it could have been avoided or salvaged. Hence, secular nationalism may apply as a personal philosophy but cannot prescribe political ideology for the Iranian-American community.

It is with this perspective that we are able to diagnose specifically what general sense of nationalism pervades the diaspora. While certain fringe groups certainly adhere to each of Ansari’s four subdivisions of Iranian nationalism, we can clearly see that the geographical displacement of such a large and diverse community has crafted a sociological shift, effectively requiring the ideology to adopt a fifth category. This foreign, retrospective nationalism, or ‘external nationalism’ as it shall be referred to moving forward, is distinct for its various aspects of validity allowing individuals of multiple viewpoints to adhere to rough ly the same political theory. External nationalism can collectively be under stood to comprise three essential criteria.

First, Iranians in diaspora can only be considered to be externally nationalist if they view the government of the Islamic Republic as needing some aspect of re form, be it internal policy shift or regime change. Second, Iranians abroad must visualize Iranian history and culture as a larger metanarrative that can exist within the hearts and minds of the community for generations to come without distinct ties to the homeland, such as citizenship or completion of mandatory military service. Third, the preservation of intangible cultural heritage, such as language, cuisine, and music, are to be seen as duties of task, replacing political or military achievements sought after by individuals subscribing to classical nationalism. This ideology is one that is not unique to a particular religion or ethnicity, and it does not advocate a united politi cal end adherents can have differ ing objectives for Iran but share the philosophy nonetheless. This makes external nationalism, just like the four subdivisions, a form of cultural nationalism. Finally, the position stands unique for its concentra tion of focus upon Iranians living in exile, prioritizing them — both consciously and unconsciously — over Iranians in the homeland in deciding the nation’s future. This creates overlap in several instances, where regime change-supporting monarchists adhere to both exter nal and monarchical branches of nationalism; nonetheless, it should be made clear that such a practice is quite common in Iranian history and does not disqualify any branch of Iranian nationalism. For instance, the famous Marxist-Islamist juror Mahmoud Taleqani was known to combine aspects of both Islamic and leftist nationalism in his rheto ric, which fell cleanly behind sup port for the creation of an Islamic Republic.Yet, as previously mentioned, external Iranian nationalism is far less unifying than its pre-rev olutionary counterparts. This is telling, particularly in the field of politics and American foreign policy toward Iran. From the period of 2003 until today, many events have sharply divided Iranian-Americans along ideological lines; these include the Iranian nuclear program, Ira nian influence in the Middle East, American sanctions policy, the Green Revolution, American and Israeli assassination campaigns, and the Iranian travel ban. (cont’d.)

For instance, American universities, the University of California, Berkeley being a telling example, stand by as Iranian Studies programs are cut and discarded in favor of more profitable Arab and Turkish Studies curricula paid for by wealthy investors. As the recently idealized MENA (Middle East North Africa) coalition replaces the uniquely Iranian-American voice, that voice is silenced in academic institutions just as it is suppressed in home environments.

The blame, of course, lies not just in ex ternal manipulations of Iranian identity but also in a rise in internal inaction on behalf of newly created Iranian families among upcoming generations within the diaspora.Inconclusion, the Iranian diaspora in America has crafted a new nationalism that is starkly different from commonly understood types of Iranian national pride such as secular or monar chical nationalism. This external nation alism is defined by the centrality of the diaspora in Iran’s political future and an emphasis on cultural pride rather than civic duty as means of ideological legiti macy. Unfortunately, the divisions pres ent in the Iranian-American community present obstacles that will be extremely difficult to surmount, most of which stem from the political atmosphere of a partisan United States combining with trauma of an Islamic Revolution. This phenomenon, coupled with a national decline in Iranian Studies programs and an unwillingness to explore the Iranian identity among younger generations, paints a dark future for the prospects of the diaspora existing as an Iranian enti ty. The paradoxes inherent in external Iranian nationalism require an ideolog ical shift toward inclusivity and educa tion lest they doom the diaspora to the end of a silent and forgotten chapter in the storied history of Iran.

To some extent, this is a result of the Islamic Revolution inflicting severe trau ma on Iranians who managed to flee the country during the tumultuous events and in the Iran-Iraq War that followed in the next decade. Specifically, Iranians split rather cleanly into two American political camps that each had their sepa rate approach to combating the Iranian government. Those with less-lasting connections to Iran (meaning those who lost significant wealth, members of fam ily, or who no longer consider Iran their homeland) largely lived an emigration experience that drew them to the Re publican Party, which offered and still offers intervening regime change and ‘maximum pressure’ to attempt to bring the Islamic Republic to its knees. On the other hand, many Iranians managed to salvage their ties to their country — be they monetary, familial, or ideologi cal— and, as a result, these emigrants eventually sided with the Democratic Party and its message of diplomacy and normalization of relations. While there are outliers in both camps, we see that partisan divisions in the American political system certainly lead to some divisions in today’s diaspora community. These same divisions unfortunately have political ramifications beyond simple policy goals.Crucially, another damaging factor against intracommunal unity is an overwhelming number of prejudic es sourced from both Western culture and Iranian history that pervade the diaspora like a disease. These include but are not limited to anti-black racism, anti-Latino racism, sexism, anti-Arab racism, anti-Afghan racism, homopho bia, and Islamophobia. The majority of these stem from American social policies in the 1980s, specifically in the Republi can Party. Reagan-era political maneu vering, such as the infamous Southern Strategy, pitted communities of color against white, white-passing, and Mid dle Eastern model minorities to recover conservatism from the political disasters of the 1970s. Messaging and signaling introduced Iranians fleeing from per secution to the role of persecutor as propaganda explicitly and implicitly implanted ideas of Iranian supremacy over other races. Whereas the Aryan myth of the early twentieth century began scientific racism in Iranian com munities against Arabs and Afghans (the latter of whom are ethnically Iranic peoples), American systemic racism amplified these sentiments upon black and Latino peoples as well. More dan gerously for community unity, however, conservative Islamophobia has com pounded upon Iranian trauma from the Islamic Revolution to solidify a fear and hatred of organized Islam, be it Shiite or Sunni. Symbols of the faith, from the turban of the Shiite clergy to a female headscarf, have been known to trigger vile and disgusting incidents of racism, let alone subtle microaggressions com mon to the community. Despite Shiite Islam being the majority faith of Iran, the diaspora rapidly deteriorates into divisions of hate upon the first mention of religion. A final factor to be discussed (although many more do indeed exist) in the failure of external nationalism to unite Iranians in the diaspora is the lack of education in the immigrant commu nity, especially in younger generations.

External nationalism sadly manifests itself in a surface-level understanding of Iranian history and politics, with cultural education being the only field claimed ‘safe’ by a diaspora disillu sioned by what they largely see as a government brought about by political misjudgements committed by their compatriots in 1979. Even in cultural learning, it is exceedingly rare to find Iranian children abroad enrolled in Persian language education programs, let alone Iranian music, literature, or art classes. As young Iranian-Ameri cans depart from their Iranian identi ty for any number of reasons, so too does the core tenet of external Iranian nationalism, the central role played by the international Iranian diaspora determining Iran’s future, slowly fail.

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Janan Mostajabi Kiarostami’s Shirin as a National Mediator of International Cinematic Exchange

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DO FILMS EVER EXIST EXCLUSIVELY within na tional boundaries? The response tends to be an easy “no” when we consider films that are created deliberately with an international audience in mind; but is that also the case for films with a primarily national focus? Abbas Kiarostami’s Shirin (2008) is one such film, as it consists solely of close ups of Iranian women’s faces watching the story of “Khos row and Shirin”–a mythical Persian tale about a woman’s love andAbbasliberation.Kiarostami is arguably one of the most prominent figures in Iranian cinema, and one of the pio neers of a major cinematic movement–the Second Iranian New Wave–that emerged after the Iranian Islamic Revo lution in 1979. Film scholars have categorized Kiarostami’s career into four delineated phases–Experiential, Episte mological, Auteurism, and Innovation–each with certain technical and stylistic hallmarks that were shaped by the sociocultural context and the artistic restrictions in Iran at the time. In addition to his national acclaim, Kiarostami is arguably also one of the most internationally-recog nized Iranian filmmakers, with prestigious awards from the Cannes and the Venice film festivals under his belt. Interestingly, despite Kiarostami’s international eminence, Shirin, with its markedly different style, has received little recognition outside of Iran. Shirin is viewed by some film scholars as Kiarosta mi’s “most paradoxical” work. The film is all the more fasci nating especially given its ostensible national focus on the one hand and, on the other hand, the diverse contextual backdrop of the Second Iranian New Wave that the film was a part of. The Second Iranian New Wave movement is often associated with niche art films that typically have sociopolitical and philosophical themes. Cinematically and stylistically, the Second Iranian New Wave was significantly influenced by Italian Neorealism: a contemporaneous cin ematic trend that flourished in Italy after WWII in response to the atrocities of fascism. Another cinematic paradigm that inspired the Second Iranian New Wave, specifically its theoretical framework about cinematic representation and visual pleasure, was the classical Hollywood cinema. Given the eclectic cultural background of the Second Ira nian New Wave as well as Kiarostami’s global acclaim, is it not ironic that such an innovative film as Shirin has not won formal international recognition? As tempting as it may be to surrender and accept Shirin as a parochial Persian-spe cific film, once we consider the parallels between the film and Italian Neorealism and classical Hollywood cinema, a different image manifests. It is noteworthy that both Italian Neorealism and the Second Iranian New Wave were, in a way, post-trauma cine matic movements, as the former emerged after WWII and the latter in the aftermath of the Islamic Revolution. Therefore, both movements emerged in social contexts that significantly impacted women’s role in society. Even though both movements arose in similar transitional periods, their differ ent representation of women is particularly revealing. For exam ple, in Rome, Open City (1945), a quintessential Italian Neorealist work, women are portrayed as inferior to men, therefore unilater ally buttressing and maintaining the post-war Italian patriarchal schema. In contrast, Shirin’s depiction of women is more complex: on the one hand, Shirin’s hyper-emphasis on female faces for the entire duration of the film implicitly destabilizes gendered religious ideologies and yet, the female characters are veiled in accordance with Islamic etiquettes. Therefore, such an equivocal depiction of the female characters creates an ambivalent relation to the predominant religious demands in Iran and makes Shirin at once subversive, as it defies religious prescriptions by fore grounding the women’s feminine facial features, but also compli ant, since it presents the women in Islamic clothing. Furthermore, in classical Hollywood cinema, the female closeup functioned as an adaptive response to the censorship restrictions of the 1930s-1960s in the United States, and Kiarostami’s Shirin adopts a similar approach. The exten sive use of closeups of veiled women in Shirin is a strategy to still capture women on the screen while also complying with the Islamic Codes of Modesty, a set of censorship guidelines on the cinematic representation of women that restricted the on-screen depiction of the female body. Nonetheless, Kiarostami has skillfully crafted the shots so that the women’s veils come to serve as a frame-within-a-frame, which further isolates the female face against the dark background and am plifies the closeup effect. In fact, Kiarostami’s extensive use of closeup shots in a film exclusively about women creates an experience of “ethical intimacy” and connection between the audience and the female characters, according to film scholar Asbjørn Grønstad. Therefore, this accentuation of the women through closeup shots serves to situate them at the center of the plot and to convey a sense of feminist empowerment, which has implications for the societal status of Iranian women more broadly.Shirin showcases Kiarostami’s mastery in unifying foreign influences from Italian Neorealism and classical Holly wood and aptly morphing them into a coherent, nation-spe cific whole. This unveils the cross-cultural dialogue that occurs between different cinemas and the subsequent cultural trans lation that enables otherwise universal cinematic techniques, such as the closeup, to be molded into a unique social con text, such as the sociocultural context of post-Revolutionary Iran. Shirin, a seemingly Persian-centered work, underscores a productive dialectic between national and international film forms and, in effect, at once embodies both cultural specifici ty and universality. A GLOBAL CONTEXT

IRANIAN CINEMA WITHIN

The flowers all have gone, the flower-face is present still

21 PERSPECTIVE MAGAZINE 2021–09–28

The hands of fate took me away from where my heart resides I worry not! Free will, which helps and guides, is present still

The tulips gone, the dewdrops could not drink their woes away Without their cups of wine, their hot dismay is present still

The running stream’s sweet songs and murmured prayer are present still

Although the poppies all have left, and jasmines wear their veils

Rastgoo, don’t flee the grief your wish’s death has caused, be brave! A flower died; but flowers on its grave are present still.

Last year I was beset by grief in love, and all its woe Godspeed to those for whom that fearsome foe is present still

The clouds rose up toward the sun, in love, but all in vain

If dates are missed and promises are broken, she’s excused

My youth was spent in waiting for a message from my friend And yet the nights awake, in wait, I spend, are present still

The sweet shade fell from branches, turning, dancing in the air

In trees, the sweet smell of the winds and gales is present still

And there’s no way to say the dark of night is present still

There is no hope of my release, your eyes have captured me; While hope for one drowned in the deepest sea is present still You’re all the way the other side of town, and I am here My fervent hope to see you, though, my dear, is present still

If messy tresses from her head diffused are present still

The autumn has arrived, but springtime’s trace is present still

Her face is like the moon and eyes like stars; they shine their light

The burning tears they cry in shame and pain are present still

Don’t sit in sadness, you’ve the antidote to all your pains

While fragrant wine that in your cup remains is present still

«ییاهر دیما» “Hope of My Release” M. Rastgoo وگتسار .م SPRING/FALL 2021 22 زونه تسه راهبون یلو ،دیسر نازخ زونه تسه راذعلگ ،لگ مسوم تفرب خاش ز صقر و تلغ هب نیریش هیاس تخیرب زونه تسه رابیوج همزمز یاون باقن تشاذگ نمس ،قیاقش تفر هچرگا زونه تسه رانچ رد ابص داب ماشم یلو ربج دربب ناناج لزنم ز ارم زونه تسه رایتخا لد هر رد ؟کاب هچ شیارات مشچ و هام نآ تروص رون هب زونه تسه رات ماش نیا هک تفگن یسک تسا روذعم ،رارق رب افو درکن رگا زونه تسه رارقیب ششوخ فلز هک یتب قشع ز راز ،راک ،راپ یسب تشگب ارم زونه تسه رازراک نآرد هک یلد اشوخ وت هدید قمع ز ییاهر دیما تسین زونه تسه راگتسر انف رحب قیرغ میجنک نیا رد ام و یرهش رس نآ زین وت زونه تسه راودیما تندید هب ملد لصاحیب ،ربا تفر قفش و رهم یوس هب زونه تسه رابکشا تقفشیب زوس ز بابش تفر تسود ز یمایپ راظتنا رد زونه تسه راظتنا مبش همین کیل و شیوخ مغ رد ،تسم هلاژ دشن هللا رجه ز زونه تسه رادغاد دوخ رغاس نودب تسارت درد جلاع ،ینیشنن مغ جنک هبزونه تسه راوگشوخ یم لعل رمخ وچ زیرگم وزرآ گرم مغ ز ،وگتسار وت زونه تسه رازم رب شلگ و دربِم یلگ

THE IRANIAN-AMERICAN COMMUNITY in Southern California is as confusing as it is absolutely glo rious. With Westwood being deemed a second Tehran and Persian restaurants popping up all across Los Angeles and Orange County, it is easy to get wrapped up in the positive aspects of a homogenous Iranian-American population in California. However, as we Americans know all too well, racism is difficult to unlearn. Simply moving to liberal, diverse, and seemingly progressive California is not enough for many Iranian-Americans, especially the older genera tions, to shed their racist tendencies. An epidemic of white-washing is rampant in Or ange County, where the combination of racist upbringings in Iran and a desperation to fit into an inherently racist American society causes Iranian-Americans to become un knowingly trapped into a cycle of internalized xenophobia. It seems purposeful to me that American society morphs Iranian racism into a conglomerate of American-brand bigotry with a dash of historical Iranian ethnic superiority. There have been many times at Iranian functions in Orange County that I have heard someone say that they would disown their child if they married an Arab person. Or how African-Americans are good people, but not good enough to be granted access into their friendships and relationships. Quite frankly, we must do better as Irani an-Americans living in a time that no longer tolerates this type of backwards behavior. There is no question that ethnicity is integral to national identity. However, the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) is notorious for its strong commitment to maintaining and protecting its ethnic identity. This very commitment and protection oftentimes leads to exclusionary, bigoted, and racist ideals deeply engrained in many, if not all, cultures within the MENA region. Iran is no exception; in fact, Iran proves to be a perfect example of how a deep commitment to ethnic identity leads to racism in the national population.While Iranian society is very committed to the idea of having one ethnic identity, Persian, the fact remains that Iran has a history of diverse ethnicity. Since the dawn of the Persian Empire, all major Persian emperors, Xerxes, Darius, and Cyrus, prided themselves in their devotion to syncretism, operating on a system where their conquered subjects would be unified but be permitted to retain their ethnic identity.

RACISM IS NOT EXCLUSIVE TO THE WEST NZK

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Iran’s Attachment to Indo-Aryan Supremacy

Iran has historically maintained an immensely diverse ethnic makeup, with ethnic groups including the Persians, Kurds, Lors, Azeris, Arabs, Turks, Baluchs, Gilaks, Mazniks, and more. Though over 50% of Iran’s ethnic makeup identifies as Persian, the fact remains that though mostly united under a common Shia faith, Iran boasts a beautifully diverse ethnic makeup.The question of whether Iran holds a homogenous or heterogenous ethnic population is complicated for one reason only: the answer differs based on whether you value principle or reality. In principle, Iran is inarguably heteroge nous in its ethnic makeup, as over ten ethnic groups call Iran home. However, in reality, Iran, and more specifically the Islamic Regime, is notorious for acting as if Iran is homog enous, for they see the larger ethnic groups of Persians as superior to all others. Rooted in beliefs of Aryan supremacy, Iran is notably desperate to act as though it is a homogenous Persian nation-state, for Persians are known to be descen dants of the original Indo-Aryans.

In addition to the Islamic Regime’s attempts to Aryanize Iran, Western politics and culture are equally re sponsible for pushing Iranians into a single, homogeneous ethnicity of Shia fundamelists. The West has purposefully established an internationally-held stereotype of Iran as a monolithic state where all Iranians are to blame for the Islamic Regime’s shortcomings, in order to invalidate the reality of Iran’s historical identity. Within Iran, there exists a sort of superiority complex among the ethnic majority, Persians, that proves to be infinitely dangerous to the safety and integrity of the nation’s minority groups. Due to their long history in Iran stemming back to the early rise of the Persian Em pire, Persians hold themselves in vastly higher regard than their fellow ethnic Iranian counterparts, and feel no shame acting on these prejudices through racist rhetoric or un founded violence. After all, Afghans in Iran are notoriously ill-treated in Tehran, with Persians poking fun at their class status as they simply seek to provide the labor that Iran so desperately needs in order to maintain its economy. Slurs like “sorkh-ghoosh,” translated to something synonymous to redneck in English, are often used by Persians against ethnic minorities they deem inferior. Countless other ethnic minorities in Iran face this sort of treatment, and worse. Even in Iranian diaspora, there exists this interest ing phenomena in introducing oneself as Persian, as op posed to Iranian. A seemingly small difference, but boxing oneself into the identity of Persian as opposed to Iranian furthers the already damaging divide between Iran’s Per sians and other minority groups. Whether one can track their family tree all the way back to the original Indo-Ary ans of the Persian empire, or was raised in the Hormozgan province as Iran’s only black population, membership of a certain ethnic group does not make one Iranian superior to the other. If the Persian empire was founded on ideals of ethnic syncretism, then it is the duty of modern-day Iranian-Americans to maintain their nation’s devotion to the diverse, inclusive, and outstandingly beautiful ethnic makeup of ThereIran.exists a dichotomy in Iran’s relationship with racism. On one hand, Iranian culture is unwaveringly racist in its treatment of ethnic minorities within the country, as Persians find themselves to be superior to their ethnic coun terparts. Yet, on the other hand, the Iranian government con stantly aims to capitalize on Western racism by utilizing its existence as evidence of the inferiority of the West. Following the protests surrounding the murder of George Floyd in the US, Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei chose to make a statement demonizing the United States for its oppressive and racist treatment of its African-American population. Ironical ly, at the same time as this statement, the Islamic Regime was facing major international pressure for its same oppressive and racist treatment of the Azeri and Baluch ethnic groups. Racism among Iranians is both internal- and exter nal-facing — internally Persians are racist against their ethnic counterparts, while externally Iranians as a whole are racist against other ethnicities and races, most notably Arabs, Black people, Asians, and South Americans. The most infamous racial tension in the Middle East exists between Iranians and Arabs, where a tumultuous history and differing Islamic sects propel the two groups into an unwavering battle of superior ity in the MENA region. The Aryan supremacy mentioned previously reappears when acknowledging that Iranians find themselves to be racially superior to Arabs due to their histor ical connection to the Indo-Aryans. In the same breath, Iranian-Americans complain that American racism brands them as “terrorists,” then turn around and cry out the same stereotype that says it was actu ally the Arabs and their Islamic fundamentalism that got all Middle Easterners living abroad into this mess. This unique brand of irony makes me want to laugh as much as it makes me want to Despitecry. this, I know for a fact that if there’s any group that can single-handedly dismantle racism in their native country, it is Iranians. If we want to end racism against our own community, we must begin by ending the Iranian-American community’s own culture of internalized racism against minority and ethnic groups deemed inferior by non-Persians.Easiersaid than done, but the best place to start is always at the beginning (insightful, I know!) If all Irani an-American youth began speaking up when their relatives made an insensitive comment about Arabs, or Black people, or Asians, then that would already be progress, progress that would undoubtedly lead us in a direction that I take great pride in: a direction towards growth, humility, and com passion, three traits I know all Iranians value and hope to encompass. And we can get there, if and only if, we devote ourselves to dismantling racism within our communities, and being part of a movement not only against racism, but anti-racism.

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Iran has a long history with the hijab. Initial ly worn as part of the standard clothing ensemble for women in medieval Persia, for both religious and prac tical reasons, its use declined somewhat with the arrival of the Turkic nomadic tribes to the area, whose women did not cover their hair. After the Safavid centraliza tion in the 16th century, though, the headscarf became standard dress for women, and it was considered al most non-Iranian to not cover one’s hair. This stan dard persisted until 1936, when the first Pahlavi King, Reza Shah, issued a decree known as kashf-e hejāb, in an attempt to westernize the country. It banned all veiling of hair for women, as well as a lot of traditional Iranian clothing for both women and men. This decree, and the subsequent backlash, is a main reason why the hijab has become such a large issue in Iranian politics. After the Iranian Revolution of 1979 and the formulation of Iran as a Islamic Republic, the hijab became a mandatory article of clothing for women in all public and social settings. This rule is still enforced today. Both the Shah and the Islamic Republic have had political aims leading to the laws that they’ve enforced, and therefore their clothing regulations on women (and in general) reinforce an image that is benefi cial to their political aims. The Shah enforced the decree that banned hijabs for women in his goal of westernizing the country, in an effort to keep up and compete with progressive Western nations. The mandatory veiling law enforced by the Islamic Republic of Iran likewise reflects the government’s ideology: it promotes the strong Islamic values that the government wants to follow, and so the Islamic Republic enacts it and laws like it to uplift Islam, condemn Western ideologies, and set an image of power and superiority over their own country. In both these time periods, Iranian women and their clothing have been used as a tool by the Iranian governments in achieving Iran’s political goals and maintaining an image of power for others to perceive. In response, the Iranian women have protested regulations involving the hijab to condemn the governments for prioritizing the country’s (and their own) image instead of the concerns of the Iranian people.

Shirin Khanoom

In 1936, Reza Shah passed kashf-e hejāb in his attempt to westernize and modernize the country to align with European ideals, even though this goal of his clashed with the majority female Muslim population that wore their hijabs to follow their faith and religious values, or even those who wore them as normal dress. Before the imposition of this decree, many feminists and women’s rights activists campaigned in favor of banning the hijab. However, others also opposed the reform because they believed that the Iranian women should have the right to choose their clothing based on their own ideologies. Reza Shah’s attempt to enforce this decree was aimed at fur thering his goal of westernizing Iran, though the people of Iran retain many different ideologies, cultural ideals, and cultural expressions because of the multitude of deeply-rooted cultural identities in the country. Despite the Shah’s decree, many places refused to serve or employ unveiled women, since the ingrained cultural and religious mores disapproved of that so-called lack of modesty. However, the police were ordered to forcibly remove any hijab that a woman was wearing in public and those who refused were beaten and searched. Many women were thus faced with a dilemma: wear a veil and get beaten, or not wear a veil and lose many job prospects and opportunities. The Shah failed to consider the socio-religious impact of this order on the populace, an impact that contributed to a backlash in the form of

AS I WALKED DOWN Tehran’s bustling Vali’asr street, I found myself navigating crowds of colorful hijabs: yellow with purple flowers, blue with stripes, green with sparkles, and the classic sleek black. With my own navy blue hijab loosely fitted on my head, I trekked through the sea of bright headwear to search for my aunt, who had stopped to grab some barbari bread from a local bakery. As I peered into the lively shops, I happened to make eye contact with a stern-looking policeman. Without a thought, I reached up to grab the ends of my loose hijab and pull it down to fit tight ly around my hairline, clutching it to make sure it did not budge. Today, I think back to that moment and ask myself: Why did I do that? Why was that action of mine so instinctive? Though the policeman never actually spoke to me about my veil, I felt an unspoken commu nication between us, similar to that between a student and a teacher. I hadn’t necessarily wanted to tighten my headscarf at that moment; I did it, though, because the law had taught me to.

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Unveiling the Duality of the Hijab

Almost half a century later, the Islamic Revo lution of 1979 led Iran to officially become an Islamic Republic, and, with it, to enforce regulations that prac ticed Islamic teachings. Even before instating a hijab mandate, the revolutionary leader Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini began to condemn women who failed to dress modestly. He claimed that Islam heavily discouraged or even forbade women from expressing themselves by wearing makeup and clothes that exposed their necks, hair, legs and arms, as this would provide a distraction to society; and, after a few years, in 1985, it became offi cially mandatory for all women who lived and entered Iran to wear a hijab in public. The ruling power fell into the hands of religious leaders, and they began to estab lish a conservative social order that reflected Islamic teachings, mandating that women observe these teach ings by dressing modestly. Once again, almost fifty years later, the Iranian women were, and still continue to be, used as tools to promote an Islamic culture and image that condemns influence from Western countries.

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A multitude of movements arose in response to the hijab requirements after the establishment of the Islamic Republic. For instance, after the Stadium ban that prevented women from attending soccer match es, the “White Scarves’’ movement emerged, a protest in which Iranian women used their hijabs as a means of resistance. After the revolution, the government of Iran imposed an “unwritten law” that prevented wom en from attending soccer matches; among leaders, it was perceived as inappropriate for women to witness such “male nudity”, and many believed that viewing such sports would breed “vulgarity”. When the Iranian government declared that it was illegal to protest with banners and posters, Iranian feminists used their head scarves as canvases to write their protests and express defiance. Here, women in the movement found a loop hole to fight back against these regulations by utilizing their hijab an emblem of their gender to fight against Iran’s largely male-dominated government, that had imposed this clothing requirement. The originally gendered apparatus, the headscarf, was used as a tool in and of itself to fight the culture of gender inequality. While the government sought to restrict access to protesting by banning posters and banners in front of stadiums, they were paralyzed when their own gen der-branding technique was used to protest the gender inequity that they had instituted. The hijab could not be touched, as it was the mechanism the government itself used to label and treat women differently. In late May of 2017, another large movement in protest of the hijab requirement emerged, the socalled “White Wednesdays”, founded by the activist Mason Alinejad, where women who unwillingly wore hijabs contested its imposition by posting pictures of themselves unveiled, while waving around a white shawl, with the hashtag “White Wednesdays”. Following suit, women who willingly wore the veil also con tested the imposition of the hijab, by posting pictures of themselves wearing white headscarves in joint pro test. Using a platform like social media, which allowed them to gather support in a way the Islamic Republic could not physically stop, Iranian women found a new avenue of protesting that garnered advocacy from individuals all over the religious and ideological spec trum, who believed in the freedom for Iranian women to dictate their own clothing choices. The govern ment is attempting to justify the clothing restrictions on women with religion as the basis of these rulings, though this movement has shown that many women who practice the Muslim religion are not in support of the hijab mandate, revealing perhaps different motives as to why the clothing restrictions are being enforced. By implementing a dress code onto women, in the attempt to implement Islamic tradition and exercise their power, the male-dominated government is bran dishing women as members of the non-dominant gen der group, causing them to be treated as second-class citizens; thus the government is forgoing the interests of those it supposedly protects, for power and in the pursuit of political Throughoutaims.thepast century, the hijab has been utilized as a tool to carry out the Iranian gov ernment’s intended political goals and reinforce its public image, during both the reign of Reza Shah and the rule of the Islamic Republic. This has prompted backlash from the individuals wearing this article of clothing— Iranian women. Recognizing that the hijab has become an instrument to fuel the Iranian govern ment’s political motives, Iranian women have defiantly protested the government’s impositions of power that attempt to control their dress and daily lives.

the Islamic Revolution. The hijab, then, became a tool used to carry out Reza Shah’s agenda, and reinforce a power dynamic between men and women that uplift ed men and disadvantaged women. The inability of women to choose their clothing based on their personal ideologies shows how the Shah’s government attempted to control women’s lives in his goal of westernizing Iran.

Left:

Mountains surround Tehran and are a defining image of the city. Up north in the ski resort town of Shemshak, one can take in the sights of Tehran from a bird’s eye view and marvel at the city. The city from above looks modern and bustling; Tehran is exactly that. People coming and going, travelling for work, making ends meet.

The beauty and intricacy of it all can be seen from Shemshak. The drive from Shemshak is one particularly long and winding road. There are, of course, highways across Tehran and Iran, but in the large Zagros Mountains, roads paved into the sides of mountains are the best you’re going to get.

PHOTOCOLLAGESHAADIAHMADZADEH

The drive from Shemshak is one of marvel, noticing things I didn’t see on the way up. One such occurrence is the way the light hits the snow, illuminating it so the snow turns a warm pale yellow, a stark contrast to the chilly days at the mountain. This contrasting dynamic is also seen through the thick, heavy layer of smog, so visible that an iPhone camera captures the toxins and pol lutants Tehran’s populace breathes everyday. Oh, the struggling paradox between natural beauty and industrialization.

Below: PARK-E-MELLAT, Tehran, Iran

The sun sets a fiery red, complements of the city’s pollution. Tehran, with an incredibly high population density, is easily accessible through public transit and rideshares, an important part of city life. There are over 800 parks, with many gardens and playgrounds dotting residential neighborhoods. In a megac ity, it is easy to get lost in the mechanics of life. The parks provide a place for relaxation, connection, and mingling. These parks are homes to many squirrels and stray cats, a place of exercise for many, and the start of many loves for Iran’s youth. — April 2019 Left: I have forgotten the name of this place, but it was an old palace that has since become a museum of traditional Iranian arts. It is close to the center of the city, where the population density is incredibly high; here is a nice reprieve from the hustle and bustle of modern life. It’s a place to connect the old with the new, to blend the monarchical past of Iran with the theocratic present. At the entrance to the museum grounds are a few armed members of the Revolu tionary Guard. — April 2019

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SHEMSHAK, Iran

— January 2020

A bookstore and marketplace, Shahr-e-ketab is truly an urban marvel. The name of the center, “Book City”, is more than just books: there’s worldly foods, international books, and a cinema to watch movies from all over. On the exterior of the building are hanging and terraced gardens, a stark contrast to the towering buildings a few kilometers away. For me, endless books and stationery offer an escape; in times like these, when escapism is necessary, Shahr-e-ketab provides both a mental and physical escape from reality. — April 2019

The novel coronavirus brought a significant upheaval to Iranian life. As incredibly social people, we struggled with mandatory distance and the particularly strong toll the virus had, and continues to have, on Iran. As vaccine distribution starts to gain traction, the beautiful, rhythmic chaos of the bazaar begins again. In Sanandaj, a small, Kurdish township only sixty years ago, the bazaar hums with sounds of Persian and Kurdish, travel ers from nearby provinces, and merchants selling everything from traditional Kurdish attire, to cellphones, to personal protective equipment. Kurds have a resilience and fighting spirit that has sur vived statelessness for hundreds of hundreds of years. If there is anything we know how to do, it’s how to preserve our culture through anything and everything. — July 2021

Hustle and bustle Within the cars People from all over town Crowding all around.

Right: SANANDAJ, Iran

Left: SHAHR-E-KETAB, Tehran, Iran

Right: TAJRISH, Tehran, Iran

PotsChickensandpans Saffron ConvertingIt’sTamponstooexpensivetoUSD Inflation Has decimated this nation

DesignerFabric brands IJewelsFoodwander the curbs Wondering what it was like Fifty years ago I wander, I go Fresh produce Tea Souvenirsbags Knock-off veneers Walking, walking So many sights and sounds Places like the bazaar Are nowhere to be found April 2019 2021

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FROM ANTIQUITY TO PRESENT Niki Borghei

The aforementioned article is only one example of how Herodotus’ ancient Greek supremacy narrative has bled into mod ern perspectives, but there are more sinister examples of antago nizing the Persians. More recently, the former president, Donald Trump, threatened to destroy cultural sites in Iran during one of his Twitter tirades. While the most dangerous aspect of this threat is that it would result in the slaughter of innocent civilians, it is also significant that he specifically chose to threaten cultural sites that connect ancient Persia to modern Iran. Trump, desperate to be seen as a hero of the West, sought to create a modern parallel to battling the ancient barbarians that threatened Western civilization. This, however, could not be further from the truth. It can be argued that the Persians have contributed to West ern civilization as much as the Greeks and Romans have. In fact, much of the contemporary world would be unrecognizable today without the Persian contributions of agriculture, astronomy, and medicine. Even the concept of human rights, which is attributed to the Cyrus Cylinder, the world’s first universal charter of human rights, comes from ancient Persia. Maintaining Herodotus’ narra tive that the Persians somehow threatened cultural development is not only wrong, it is a threat to historical integrity. Because we have not yet dismantled dominant narratives that are presented as the truth, the association of barbarism with Persia remains. Characterizing an entire civilization as barbaric is ironic considering that violence was ubiquitous even in the Gre co-Roman world, and neglecting to acknowledge the contributions of ancient Persia as evidence of its rich culture is an obvious indi cator of Western bias in the study of history. Even more alarming, however, is that this perspective influences contemporary world views and foreign policy. This dehumanizes Eastern peoples and justifies atrocities committed against them at the hands of Western forces. For the sake of the present, it is crucial that we leave the notion of barbarism in the past.

BEING THE BARBARIAN:

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THE OXFORD LEARNER’S DICTIONARY de fines the word “barbarian” as the following: (in ancient times) a member of a people who did not belong to one of the great civilizations (Greek, Roman, Christian), who were considered to be violent and without culture Etymologically, we can attribute this word to the ancient Greeks, who used the word βάρβαρος (“barbaros”) to describe any foreigner, but most often the Persians. In fact, some Ancient Greek textbooks will use “Persians” as a direct translation of this word. As many classicists know, one of the challenges of studying antiquity is obtaining an objective understanding of the ancient world because most of our sources come from the writings of upper-class men. Many of these men had little to no regard for unbiased accounts of history. In the West, there is a fixation with the Greeks and Romans as the protagonists of ancient times. This can be traced back to the story we are told — the Greeks and Romans had achieved the pinnacle of culture and excellence, whereas the Persians, Carthaginians, and Egyptians were violent, ignorant, and brutish. It is not surprising that the Greeks would want to linguistically assert that their military rival, the Persians, were somehow “lesser” than them in culture, and that any military prowess of theirs was a result of an “uncivilized” lust for violence. If this sounds familiar, that’s because it is. This is the language of white supremacy. The ancient perception of the Persians transcends to this day. It is common for Western media to weaponize language to antagonize the Middle East. Arguably, the notion of the “barbaric” East being a threat to white and/or Western values began even before the devel opment of the modern concept of race; it began with the dichotomy of the Hellenic West versus the Persian East that the Greek historian Herodotus presented in The Histories. Western academics credit Herodotus with being the “Father of History,” meaning that the divorce between East and West would forever shape the way historians record and analyze history and current events. Unfortunately, this has not only tarnished the Persians’ reputation in academia, but it has influenced the media and shaped foreign policy. In 2005, journalist Jonathan Jones wrote an article titled “The Evil Empire” in reference to the Persian Empire. He wrote that the Persians were “as notorious in their way as Darth Vader, the Sheriff of Nottingham, General Custer, or any other embodiment of evil empire you care to mention. They are history’s original villains.” His justification for this depiction of the Persians is that they were tyrannical by na ture. He introduced this concept by invoking how Herodotus, “‘the father of history’, takes as his epic theme the struggle of it as a war of liberation. The idea of democracy was born in the fight against Persian despotism: that is how Herodotus tells it.”

What he does not mention is that the “democracy” we cele brate so much in the contemporary West would have been appalling to the average Greek in antiquity. Under Athenian democracy, only free men were allowed to vote, and women were not even consid ered citizens. This is in addition to the fact that a significant portion of the population was dehumanized by slavery. There is little differ ence between aristocracy and a system that calls itself “democracy” if only a select few members of a society are allowed to participate. Even so, democracy was not always a popular concept among the Greeks. At one point in history, there were thirty tyrants ruling over Athens led by anti-democracy aristocrats. However, because of Herodotus’ historical legacy, his narrative of the ancient world remains the dominant perspective.

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THE TOPIC OF ABORTION is a very controversial one in an Islamic country. Getting abortions is not only frowned upon, it is mainly illegal (due to religious reasons) and only acceptable in certain cases. While there is very rarely public discourse about the topic, there are still ways people bring attention to it, one of which being through literature. In the book Bamdade Khomar by Fattaneh Haj Seyed Javadi, readers follow the story of an Iranian wom an who wrestles with the problem of reproductive rights. The protagonist encounters an unwanted pregnancy and is forced to find a solution for her problem; unfortunately, the solution she ends up selecting doesn’t fall within the acceptable boundaries of Iran’s social or legal climate, so she has to face the consequences of her actions. Unwant ed pregnancies, in a country where getting abortions is illegal, cause women to turn to unsafe alternatives; when a country doesn’t cater to the needs of its citizens, people take matters into their own hands. We should realize that a ban on abortions doesn’t mean that women can stop getting them, it means that women might be forced to put themselves in danger in order to get what they want or need. This point is emphasized in Bamdade Khomar, where, for the protagonist, the result of an unsafe abortion is infertility.Inthe novel, Mahboobeh, the daughter of a wellknown rich family, falls in love with a young carpenter, Rahim, and decides to marry him. What immediately cap tures the attention of the reader is the vast class difference between the two individuals — considering how, in a country like Iran, class difference is of great importance, Mahboobeh’s parents do not approve of this love interest. Traditionally, the husband takes on the financial burden of the entire family and has to provide for them; thus, were Mahboobeh to marry Rahim, her parents knew that her luxury lifestyle would fade away. Aside from financial comfort, social status is also important to Iranian families. Climbing up the social ladder is always the goal, and to go down a few steps by marrying someone in the social class below is considered shameful, not only for the individual, but for the entire family. In spite of the class difference between her and Rahim, Mahboobeh insists on marrying the love of her life. The 15-year-old is so persistent that her parents are left with no other choice than to allow her to do what she desires. As a result of Mahboobeh’s choice, her father declares that if the marriage goes through, she will no longer be allowed to see her parents. Though the threat of estrangement from her parents is terrible, Mahboobeh believes in her love and agrees to the terms, not knowing what the dark seven years lying ahead of her hold. Once her life with Rahim starts, she begins to understand what her parents were talking about. The class difference is no longer a matter of family shame, it’s a matter of mental stability. Not only does Rahim treat her poorly and force her to partake in petty work, like cleaning up after him, but even her mother-in-law treats her like

ABORTIONSPRICEY avyssa torabi a personal assistant. Shortly after her marriage, Mah boobeh gets pregnant with a son, which she reluc tantly brings to term. After she gets pregnant with a second child, though, she begins to look for a way out. Since abortion is illegal in Iran, Mahboobeh has to secretly find a woman who performs “operations” in her house. That is the extent to which she feels like she needs to get out, and as a result of that operation Mahboobeh is not only beaten up by both her husband and mother-in-law, but she becomes unable to have children for the rest of her life. A story this painful is not written for the sole purpose of entertainment, but to indirectly address the issue of abortion rights in Iran. Javadi writes a detailed 400-page book about a tragic love affair, but one with a big complication: one where the woman gets torn down into pieces and has to build herself back and shine like a mirrorball, one where even the not-so-happy ending comes at the high price of infertility.Mahboobeh’s story isn’t just one for the books: tragic fiction read by one is another’s everyday reality. Javadi highlights the matter of want versus need in her novel: did Mahboobeh want an abortion? Maybe, maybe not. Did she need to get an abortion? After reading the book it becomes clear that in order to salvage her life, she needed an abortion more than she actually wanted one. Domestic violence and an unsta ble household are among many reasons why a person would seek abortion; in Mahboobeh’s case, there were many factors that led to her decision, one of which being lack of family support. Mahboobeh’s family were absent from her life for the seven years she was married to Rahim. Her father’s deep investment in their family reputation led to her abandonment and isolation. Had her family been supportive and present in her life, they might have been able to remove her from the toxic marriage she was trapped in a lot earlier, maybe even before she got pregnant the second time. So what is the takeaway from Mahboobeh’s story? The need for safe and legal abortions is greater than any opposing argument related to religion. The laws of a country are established to protect and ensure a high quality of life for the citizens, not to make their life choices harder. The truth is, people will inevitably get abortions, legal or not. What would logically follow, and what Javadi wanted to highlight in her novel, is that abortion should be legal. In a country like Iran where abortion is only legal under certain extremely rare conditions, the implementation and protection of women’s rights is necessary. If abortion were legal in Iran, even if her family didn’t support her through her marriage, perhaps Mahboobeh would have felt protect ed and supported by the law to get a safe abortion, and would have ended up in a much, much better place than she actually did.

CITIES, huge metropolises often come to mind as symbols of progress. Rather than remaining stagnant, these cities are evolving and changing. The question, then, is what is the modernity they are striving for? This curiosity led me to consider Tehran and its quest for modernization. My infrequent family visits provided some direction, with each return being as if I came to a changed city. Rather than the population changing, it was more so that the city lay out altered so much over even just a year’s time. For instance, more streets came to be populated by newer luxury apart ments, in striking contrast with older apartments only a few streets down. The phase of urban housing modernization that largely led to the Tehran of today could be described as the flag under which Westernization not only pervaded the struc tural makeup of the city but also contributed to the present cultural and socio-economic gentrification of communities. At the core, Semi-Modernist architecture effective ly promoted more Western-style housing to begin with. Semi-Modernism, also known as indigenous modernism, is the architectural style that incorporates preexisting archi tectural elements and trends into new, imported styles. Be fore Semi-Modernism became widespread in Tehran in the 1960s, Westernization equated to modernity, a mentality that dominated urban planning and, in practice, clashed with the established Iranian image of a city. Housing in particular reflected this contrast as various Western-style commercial buildings and complexes had no analog in Iran at that point. According to Jafarbegloo (2018), there were three crucial elements that Western- style dwellings lacked: access-restricted zones, the hashti, and the hayāt. Tra ditional Persian homes are designed to generate a hospitable space with public and guest zones more accessible to entrants versus private zones tucked deeper in. One important feature of the public zone is the guest waiting room, typically right after the main entrance, called the hashti. The bridge between these zones was often a court yard with gardens known as the hayāt. Iranian architects eventually recognized the importance of such elements and so adopted a hybrid or semi-modern approach. The use of levels to uphold zone separation and larger hallways for the hashti were major changes to the European and American home layouts. Apartments also included large green spaces and roof gardens to satisfy the need for the hayat. The designs coupled foreign elements with native elements to ease the transition, and as a result, these semi-modern housing options rose in popularity. At the same time, the dominating semi-modern architecture sped up the seg regation of old, traditional housing and newer housing options. The resulting effect was that population redis tribution within Tehran occurred based on two inde pendent factors that became increasingly correlated: socio-economic class and adaptability to Western in fluences. Semi-modern style housing such as high-rise apartments were often only affordable to wealthy upper classes, who were increasingly interested in living a West ern lifestyle. Indeed, the ease with which residents adapt ed to these new styles made more high-earning Tehranis covet and live in semi-modern housing. At the other end of the income spectrum, worker classes not only could not afford the more expensive housing but also had a harder cultural shift to the semi-modern homes and so higher dissatisfaction.

HOUSING IN TEHRAN

NikiWEbrahimnejadHENWETHINKOFMODERN

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A REFLECTION OF URBAN MODERNIZATION

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In a comparison study by Massoud et. al (2019), it was shown that across two censuses (2006-2011, 2011-2016), Atabak Abad had a higher rate of gentrification, mea sured by the fact that approximately 64% of local resi dents from the first censuses were gone, correlating to a higher percent change in increases of construction per mits and land price. By contrast, Khani-Abad had only approximately 22% of local residents gone and the lower percent changes in increase of construction permits and land price. The original need for urban renewal came from the unequal housing and urban opportunity across income brackets, and so this disparity is perpetuated. The marketed positivity of urban renewal cannot compensate for the negative social cost. Additionally, it speeds up the rate at which working class neighborhoods are labeled for urban revival due to overcrowding and under sourced facilities straining the neighborhood’s capacity, continuing the cycle. The push for more middle-income and high-in come style neighborhoods and the destruction of older, more affordable neighborhoods polarize the socio-eco nomic populations even further, and displace low-income long-time residents of Tehran.

In sum, what occurred in Tehran was a segregation of the two extremes of the socio-economic spectrum based on the ability to afford semi-modern housing and, in a larger ref erence frame, the “modern” lifestyle that came with living within such neighborhoods.

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Collectively, the differences in physical housing help continue the cultural and socio-economic divisions Teh ran sees today by contributing to urban gentrification. It is important to first note that the wealth divide is reflected in the housing distribution along existing and new geographic lines as Tehran expanded outward as early as the 1960s. Presently, the working class are concentrated south of the inner city while upper and middle classes are up north further from the city. Going deeper, southern neighborhoods Naazi-Abad and Kuy-e Nohom-e Aban have very few apartments compared to northern Abbasabad (high income) and northeastern Tehran Pars (middle income). Yet these relations are not permanent fixtures: old neigh borhoods can and do undergo urban revival projects when investors want to reshape the area to bring higher economic activity and payers packaged together. One solution to any similar venture is to build appropriate housing matched to the target market group, which are the middle and high income brackets. This phenomenon can more generally be described as gentrification, the process of “middle- and upper-class households moving into distressed working-class neighborhoods, upgrading the derelict housing stock, and eventually displacing the working-class residents, thereby changing the social character of the neighborhood ” (Sa drabad et al. 2013) Superficially, such projects, labeled as “urban revival projects,” seem necessary, but in fact they propagate the same issue without addressing the unafford ability of high-end housing and lifestyles for working classes who are continuously pushed out to the next affordable neighborhood. One prime example of gentrification is the urban development in Atabak Abad and Khani-Abad, two low-income neighborhoods.

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In the name of modernization, Tehran has steadily adopted the look of a Western city along with the problems of gentrification not only at a socio-economic level but also at a cultural level. As the trendsetter for the nation, Tehran acts as a model for other cities and their neighborhoods, which will inevitably hit the same issues if the mentality around modernization is not changed. More than ever, modernization is not as straightforward as it used to appear: the consequences of building continuously and profitably have physically and socially separated peo ple and maintained that division. In this divide, the work ing class bears the brunt with the changing city landscape and their consequent displacement. For cities like Tehran, the new modernity to strive for is less only about physi cal change and more social change to address the wealth divide resulting from urban modernization. This outcome was observed in the Naazi-Abad, Kuy-e Kan, and Chaharsad-Dastgah neighborhoods when the government tried to build low-income semi-modern housing; in Chaharsad-Dastgah’s case, housing ulti mately ended up being catered to middle class residents. Furthermore, a social norm evolved to associate living in semi-modern housing (especially high-rise residential apartments) with becoming a part of the cosmopolitan elite as described by Valizadeh (2021). This elite group was characteristically distinguished by being some of the highest earners in the city, in line with the trend of the wealthy ech elon living in the most expensive areas. Consequently, the economic returns of semi-modern housing prioritized such dwellings over traditional-style homes. These traditional homes are becoming increasingly only available in older neighborhoods and in the historical inner core of Tehran.

THE WOMAN WHO WANTED TO BE QUEEN

Despite the title of secularism that existed during the Shah’s reign, the approach to women’s rights in Iran were not as disconnected from those of the current Islamic Regime’s as one would assume. NZK

THE LEGACY OF THE PAHLAVI DYNASTY is marred by its controversial inception and its catastrophic demise. Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi led the royal family, begrudgingly at times, as The Man Forced to Be Shah, or so he was nicknamed. It is unlikely his reign would have lasted as long as it did without the two women who flanked him: his wife Farah and his twin sister Ashraf. When we speak about the Pahlavi era, we must begin to draw our conversations to wards the real masterminds of this political period: the Woman Born to Be Queen and the Woman Born to Be Shah. On paper, Iran prided itself as a devoted member of the fight for women’s rights; however, in reality, the underlying expectation was for Iranian women to amend their feminism to fit within the free dom the men in power wished to give them. Even 1936’s kashf-e hijab, the royal decree enacted by Reza Shah to outlaw all Islamic veils, was at best pseudo-feminism in the name of the Westerniza tion of Iran and at worst a strategic political mo ment that transitioned Iranian women from one form of dictatorial rule to another. Forcing Muslim women to remove their veils is not the same as offering Iranian women autonomy in their self-ex pression. In Pahlavi Iran, women were born to be ornaments—they existed to serve and provide for men. Whether they be mothers who carried the burden of home-making and cultural education for generations to come, or figureheads for the artificial feminism spearheaded by their male coun terparts, Iranian women were exploited more than they were celebrated. Two women erupted from this era as victims of this misogyny: Farah Diba and Ashraf FarahPahlavi.Diba, lovingly known by the people of Iran as Shahbanu, was the sweetheart of Iran during her husband’s reign. Strategic in her pub lic-facing image, Farah never misstepped in her role as Queen. Beloved by international and do mestic crowds alike, Farah played into the orna mental, ceremonial role so commonly demanded from women in positions of political leadership. She was treated as a political and cultural tool, and nothing more. Her founding of the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art in 1977 was first and foremost a ploy orchestrated by her husband and his advisors to catalyze Iranian modernization through the arts. The Iranian media, run by the Pahlavi government, glamorized her acquaintance with famous artists Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol to showcase how Iran could mold itself into that which the Western world desired it to become. Even her pregnancies were a service to the coun

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Farah Diba Pahlavi (Empress of Iran), Andy Warhol, 1977

& THE WOMAN WHO WANTED TO BE SHAH

To be a woman in Iran is to be a member of a collective. The actions of an Iranian woman always reflect on her gender. Farah and Ashraf Pahlavi were two sides of the same coin: both Iranian women, both members of the Pahlavi royal family, and both exploited as political weapons without any real credit for their contributions to Iran and their years of ser vice to their country and to their family. One wom an chose to remain in the aesthetic and behavioral confines of Iranian gender norms and was rewarded for it, while one woman was unable to do so and was punished. The interchangeability of Farah and Ashraf Pahlavi is all circumstantial. Iranian women are either lucky enough to fit into the standards set by the Ira nian patriarchy, or they are doomed from their birth.

Farah Ashraf Pahlavi (Princess of Iran), Andy Warhol, 1978

try by providing the Shah with male heirs — and two extra daughters. Whether it was to provide or to serve, Farah Pahlavi was the perfect Iranian woman, and nothing was more detrimental in her time as Queen than her willingness to play into this role. Farah Pahlavi provided the men in power of Iran with an example of the ideal Iranian wom an, and proved that this unrealistic standard could be met. But at what cost? When Iranian women altered themselves into the ornament that Iranian society desired them to be, they were undoubtedly rewarded with praise and artificial appreciation. The Iranian media, run by the Pahlavi government, glamorized her acquaintance with famous artists Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol to showcase how Iran could mold itself into that which the Western world de sired it to become. In contrast, when they refused to conform, or rather, were unable to conform, they were harshly punished, ostracized from the Iranian community, and shamed for their very being. Ashraf Pahlavi was never meant to fit into the box that existed for Iranian women, nor was she a stellar beacon of feminism. She was a flawed and complex individual, something that an Iranian woman should be allowed to be remembered as without being villainized. Ashraf was at best a political weapon and at worst an addict, smuggler, and corruptInroyal.order to truly understand the depth of Iranian society’s, and even the international media’s, internalized hatred of women in positions of political power, one can observe the monumental difference with which Ashraf and her brother are treated by his tory for their role in the 1953 coup, which overthrew the widely popular prime minister, Mossadegh. While the Shah is deemed a naïve, unassuming figure who begged for Mossadegh to be spared from execution, Ashraf is labeled a sexual deviant who seduced her way through Europe in order to get Operation AJAX rolling. Ashraf was a political tool in the same manner that Farah was, though her inability to assume the role of the perfect Iranian woman is what ultimately led to the destruction of her reputation. While Farah Pahlavi is still known today as the “Smiling Queen,” Ashraf Pahlavi is remembered as the “Shah’s Evil Twin Sister.”

THERE ARE MOMENTS IN LIFE WHEN we begin to question everything we have come to know about ourselves. For me, that moment came one night after a long day of work which was followed by a long day at school. The only thought on my mind was getting home as soon as I could. I was stopped at a red light, preparing to merge over to the next lane as soon as the light turned green. Next to me, there was a black Dodge Ram, the car of a person who refuses to back down. I, on the other hand, was in a black four-door Honda Accord with a determination to get home as soon as possible. When the light turned green, I sped up to pass the man next to me as he did the same thing with the same thought on his mind. When the dust settled I had emerged victorious with an insignificant victory that wouldn’t matter to most people. The White middle aged man in the Dodge Ram that was now behind me did not take this loss lightly. He proceeded to follow me home, which I did not realize until I pulled up to my gated community. Before I could enter the code to get in, the man had already pulled up at an angle so that I couldn’t get past him. He then rolled down his window to yell at me. I expected him to yell at me (after all, I did just recklessly speed past him), but what he said shocked me. I thought he was going to say something like “watch it” or “slow down”, but no, he instead yelled at me aggressively, “GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY.” I sat there in a moment of disbelief, asking myself “What? Huh? Why would this random person say this to me? I was born in the United States at the Tarzana hospital in California on July 21st, 1993 at 8:04 pm.”.So I retorted quietly, but still loud enough so that he could hear me. “I was born here.” He replied with an arrogant smirk as if he knew everything about me. “Yeah right. Just look at the way you look, and look at the way you speak,” he said. I sat there in disbelief, because it was at that mo ment I realized that this stranger in a Dodge Ram, took one look at me and saw what he wanted to see: a dirty immigrant who came to “his” country — a White man’s America. After the man said those painful words, I just stopped speaking. At that moment I did not know what to say or how to react. This only infuriated him more; he kept yelling but all I could hear was inau dible white noise. I was completely frozen and felt as though I had left my body. The only thing on my mind was, “Please can this just be over”. Suddenly, he opened his car door, and the fear that I felt forced me to return to my body as if it was some natural hidden defense mechanism. I was preparing for him to approach me. However, at that moment I caught a glimpse of someone in the passenger seat sig naling him to close his door before he could leave the car. He then backed up and drove away as if this was a regular occurrence for him. I could do nothing more than try to get home faster than before, so I punched in the code to the gate and quickly drove to my house. When I walked through the door my dad told him what hap pened, and his reaction shocked me even more than what the stranger had told me. He said, “Why did you speed past him?” It was as if the stranger had a valid reason to do everything he had just done. Bewildered, I asked, “What? …what do you mean, ‘why did I speed past him?’ Why does that matter?”

game.Lakersingwatchcouchtheonsittingcasuallywas-aI

THE MOMENT REALIZEDI Zach Roknipour 35 PERSPECTIVE MAGAZINE

biracial.anythinghadmentuntilthough,ForAmerica.inme,upthatmoinmylife,Ineverexperiencedlikethat.IamMymomisWhite,

and my dad is Iranian. Growing up, I was a white-passing biracial kid who grew up in White suburbia, which was far removed from my Iranian heritage. These factors had given me a false sense that I blended into this stranger’s version of White America. I have had the privilege of going through my day-to-day routines without experiencing the racism that affects minority communities— at least that’s what I thought. After the incident, I began to reflect on my interactions with strangers and friends, and all of the microaggressions that had been made towards me start ed to flood my brain. Strangers would often ask me three different variations of the same question. The least offensive was, “What is your ethnicity?” A harmless enough question, although I will say that you don’t need to ask this in order to find out.That’s the beauty of making friends, after all; you find out little details about them, like who they are and what they like and dislike. The second variation is, “Where are you from?” which is just a nicer way to say what the stranger in the Dodge Ram was yelling at me: “based on your appearance, I’m just going to assume you weren’t born in America.” The third and final variation of this question is “What are you?” as if I were some different species from a distant planet in a galaxy far far away. Then there were the things that the people who knew me would say. These were things like making jokes that referred to me or my dad’s side of the family as ter rorists with ties to Al-Qaeda. Or how I would somehow have access to Saudi oil money because I’m half Iranian, even though Iran and Saudi Arabia are two totally different countries. Some of them even had the gall to ask me if I had ever been called a sand n-word (with a hard R), a word that I never knew existed up until then. Over the years I have continued to think back to this moment as one of the defining moments in my life. It serves as a reminder that no matter how much I think that I blend into White America, they can always tell that I am not en tirely one of them. I think of that moment in juxtaposition with what my father told me about how “I shouldn’t have sped past” this stranger in a Dodge Ram. His words, which made me so angry in that moment, only make me sad for him today. That is because they serve as a reminder of what he has had to endure in America ever since immigrating here from Iran during the revolution; and how he had to change parts of himself to “fit in” to White America. Hav ing to always turn the other cheek and just let other people say and think what they want, because if he doesn’t then he will just be another one of those “evil” brown people who are destroying America. He walks a thin line, just as all nonWhite minorities do, between acceptable and criminal, all because they don’t fit the mold of what White America says they should be. But the truth is they never will fit, and since they aren’t and will never be White, just like how I can and will never be just White.

His reply was something that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. He said, “If you didn’t speed past him then he wouldn’t have followed you home and yelled at you “GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY.” In the moment I was furious with his response. How could he say this, wspecially after some random man put me in a traumatic and possibly life-threatening situation? Over the next couple of days I reflected on what my dad said and my anger turned into sym pathy, because I realized why he said what he had said. It was because this was how he and all other mi norities and im migrants must act in order to survive

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Chehabi, Houchang E. Elahe, and bi-iran#. One Million Signature Campaign in Iran.” 2013. Amnestymena.org. 2013. http://amnestymena.org/en/Magazine/Issue20/ “Women’sTheOneMillionSignatureCampaigninIran.aspx?media=print.RightsGathering,Tehran,12June2006.”2021.OpenDemocracy. 2021. https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/19189/.

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