Iran: The Young and the Restless

My dad can’t go too long without ) ) his tea. Like most Iranians, he drinks his first cup of ) ) chai with breakfast, his last before retiring and several ) ) in between. And so, after a chilly morning exploring the ) ) snow-covered, central Iranian city of Esfahan, it was time ) ) for my dad’s next round.

I consulted my guidebook, which directed us to ) ) an “idyllic” teahouse on the 340-year-old Chubi ) ) Bridge—one of several historic bridges that straddle ) ) the gleaming Zayandeh River. “Anyone can stop in at ) ) the cosy teahouse,” the guidebook said, “which ) ) some consider the best in the city.”

My guidebook had it wrong: not just anyone can stop ) ) in.

As we approached the entrance, a teenage employee working ) ) outside looked at me then addressed my father. “Families ) ) not allowed,” he said.

Families? My dad, who speaks Farsi fluently, asked ) ) for clarification. Again, the young man looked at me. “Families ) ) not allowed.”

What he really meant was “women not allowed.”

This was the sixth day of my first trip to Iran—my ) ) parents’ birthplace—and thus far I hadn’t ) ) butted up against any major gender restrictions. Sure, ) ) I was required to observe Islamic dress, but I hadn’t ) ) chosen the head-to-toe covering known as the chador, ) ) as some Iranian women do. My version consisted of a formless ) ) black trench coat over jeans and sweater, and a scarf ) ) over my hair. Next to the hordes of fashionable women wearing ) ) spiky heels and jeans rolled above their ankles, I ) ) looked frumpy.

Our standoff at the teahouse was another matter. Angry ) ) and slightly disbelieving that I was being barred from a ) ) business because I was female, I nevertheless had few options.

It was time to leave.

I was tempted to give in to the stereotype I had so ) ) long resisted—that of Iran as a repressive, male-dominated ) ) society. But as my father and I approached the next ) ) span on the Zayandeh—the exquisitely tiled Khaju ) ) Bridge—the ) ) stereotype dissolved. We were walking into a case study ) ) of modern-day Iran’s contrasts and complexities.

The Khaju teemed with people, young and old, male and ) ) female. One seemingly ordinary scene amazed my father: a ) ) young man and woman in their late teens walking hand in hand ) ) along the pathway beside the bridge.

This was an audacious act because the couple wasn’t ) ) married. Iranian men and women are prohibited from ) ) public displays of affection unless they are spouses ) ) or close relatives. Such a transgression can lead to fines, ) ) jail time or beatings at the hands of the Basij, a ) ) religious militia that views itself as defender of the Islamic ) ) revolution and enforcer of moral values. During his last ) ) visit to Iran 13 years ago, my father told me, he never once ) ) saw a couple—married ) ) or otherwise—holding hands in public. Doing so surely ) ) would have caught the eye of a zealous Basiji, who ) ) would have questioned the couple and possibly hauled ) ) them off for punishment.

Twice in the same Tehran restaurant, a Basiji told ) ) my aunt to hide wisps of hair that had fallen from ) ) underneath her scarf. Another time, Basij faithful ) ) stood at the side of the road wearing fluorescent traffic ) ) vests, waving down cars to search for “suspicious” cargo. ) ) But on this day, the Basijis were nowhere to be seen. ) ) This was a vast improvement over the past, our family ) ) and friends explained: not only were Basijis less prevalent, ) ) their punishments were less severe as well.

What I observed in Iran was fast and furious social ) ) change, fueled by the spread of technology and the potent ) ) force of youth. Young men and women make up an increasingly ) ) influential segment of the Iranian population. Two-thirds ) ) of the country’s 70 million people are under the age ) ) of 30.

Three of my cousins are telling, but typical, examples. ) ) Shiva, a glamorous 22-year-old, always had one hand ) ) on her cell phone, arranging get-togethers with her male ) ) and female friends by text-messaging them in “Pinglish” (Persian ) ) words written with English letters). Pedram, 23, after ) ) visiting ) ) the local “coffeenet” for cyberspace dates, watched ) ) risqué Enrique Iglesias videos beamed into his home ) ) via satellite. Farrokh, 21, served as deejay at a party ) ) where dancers grooved to thumping techno beats.

Across the country, young Iranians are fashioning creative ) ) ways to skirt the restrictions placed on them. The ) ) most obvious example is dating. Though it’s officially ) ) banned, the practice is rampant in portions of northern Tehran, ) ) where well-to-do teens flock to trendy malls that serve pizza ) ) alongside ) ) kabobs. There, I met 21-year-old Pooya, who stared ) ) at a woman sitting across the Jaam-e-Jam food court for an ) ) hour, “working ) ) on her” with his eyes. Every so often, to complement ) ) his stare, he cocked his head suggestively to the side.

Though the woman was sitting with a man, Pooya was ) ) convinced she was returning the signals. When she ) ) got up to leave, he jumped up and casually walked past ) ) her, hoping she would give him her phone number—or ) ) ask for his.

It wasn’t meant to be.

“Sometimes you give out 20 numbers, and maybe no one ) ) will call,” said Pooya, whose neck smarted from the ) ) hour-long exercise. “There are so many young people ) ) who don’t have a place to go. Our only remedy is to ) ) come sit here and pick each other up.”

The level of flirtation escalates outside the food ) ) court, where cruising SUVs and Peugeots jam the tree-lined ) ) Valiasr Avenue. Cars full of women wearing nail polish ) ) and furs, cell phones plastered to their ears, creep ) ) past cars full of men blasting Persian pop music recorded ) ) in the United States. Phone numbers are tossed on pieces ) ) of paper from one car to another.

All around us, as they did that day on the Khaju Bridge, ) ) Iranians were gleefully breaking rules. Amid the din of laughter ) ) and flirtation, the Chubi Bridge teahouse seemed distant ) ) and peculiar.

Another revolution may be under way.

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EMILY BAZAR, '96, is a reporter for ) ) the Sacramento Bee.