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Absence
Returning to Iran after 12 years in exile
by Laleh Khalili
      

     One day, I wake up after a long period of prosperity and blissful denial to find that, in that visceral compartment where one stores memories of birth and childhood, I have developed a persistently aching wound. I know the cause. Perhaps I even know the cure. But I skirt around the remedy in extravagant circles. I realign my life such that a fundamental part of my vocation becomes hearing and reading about Iran. Labor of love, I guess. But that labor, though greatly satisfying, does not address the bruised wound beneath my sorrow.
     Finally, I gather enough guts and dollars to buy a ticket from an Internet travel agent I have found in my electronic search for anything that smells of spicy, warm Jahrom nights. I pack my clothes and the 60-plus obligatory made-in-America souvenirs I have bought for near and distant family members, hoping the cadeau will match the person, and despite or maybe because of all the dire warnings of my expatriate father – whose suffering justifies his paranoia – I fly home.  . . .

. . .

     I find the women of Iran all, collectively, beautiful. It could be the makeup. They must have learned to apply their makeup from the latest fashion magazines. And most Iranian women color their hair. All shades of wine, mahogany, wheat and coffee peek insolently from their colorful scarves, which are tied strategically to reveal their bangs. Their coats, meant to cover all curves, are certainly not as simple as mine. They are light in color or striped or bedecked with large ornamental buttons and clasps. Coats with “bat wings” similar to the Arab abaye are the latest rage in Tehran. And when I compare my comfortable, practical footwear with their sexy, fashionably chunky shoes and delicate open-toed sandals, I definitely feel frumpy. My relatives insist on taking me to Vali-e-Asr to buy new shoes, and I buy a gorgeous pair that makes me feel like an Italian starlet at a cost of 9,000 tomans (the black market equivalent of $19).
     I also learn that an Islamic version of feminism thrives in Iran, that a group of ferocious and learned women are using the Holy Qor’an and the Hadith – the Prophet’s sayings – to battle a patriarchal system reinforced by the laws of the land. These women have spoken out from the theater and television screens, written for women’s magazines and been elected to the Majles (parliament). They’ve fought their silent and nearly invisible war with a grace and courage I find at once admirable and infuriating. I want them to raise their voices, to be more impudent and assertive. But I am also painfully aware that by choosing to live abroad I have subtracted my voice from theirs, and that my opinion is issued from the safety of distance.   . . .

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