If she gets on a bus, the seating is segregated. She must enter through the rear door and sit in the back seats, allocated to women.
Why are they both touching me?
Yet in taxis, which accept as many as five passengers, men and women are squeezed together like sardines, as the saying goes, and the same goes with minibuses, where so many of my students complain of being harassed by bearded and God-fearing men.
Most probably, she tries to distance her mind as much as possible from her surroundings. Does she compare her own situation with her mother’s when she was the same age?
I can't believe that women of my mother’s generation could walk the streets freely, enjoy the company of the opposite sex, pursue whatever career they want, live under laws that protected women.
I hate the new laws. After the revolution, the age of marriage was lowered from eighteen to nine. As a result, stoning became once more the punishment for adultery and prostitution.
These girls, my girls, had both a real history and a fabricated one. Although they came from very different backgrounds, the regime that ruled them had tried to make their personal identities and histories irrelevant. They were never free of the regime’s definition of them as Muslim women.
I could end out like those young women who disobey the rules are hurled into patrol cars, taken to jail, flogged, fined, forced to wash the toilets and humiliated, just by one wrong stray gesture.
It's odd how the Revolutionary Guards have patrolled the streets of Tehran for over 18 years, and and have seen women, walking, talking, showing a strand of hair just to remind the guards that they have not converted.