Once I grew older, with my parents support, I began standing up for myself and voicing my opinions on the Iranian Revolution. My friends and I marched down the streets of Tehran chanting alongside the other protestors. I felt empowered, like I finally had a voice in this world.
However, it didn’t last long. The protest was interrupted by dozens of bearded men, guardians of the revolution, penetrating the crowd. Chanting turned to screaming and I began to see young women, like myself, being pushed to the ground. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I rushed to the nearest alleyway, hoping to hide amongst the garbage cans until the crowd dispersed.
You are all good for nothing women! Cover up!
Ahhhhh! Help me!
But I was too slow. A bearded man emerged from the alley and dragged my struggling body back with him. He, and a few other men I didn’t recognize, spat on me and called me a “Communist whore.” I begged them to just arrest me and bring me to the jail so my parents could pay my bail, but they refused.
Please... I beg of you...
My parents never saw me again. The only trace left of me was the dowry of 500 tumans tossed on their doorstep.