Kooshyar Karimi - Leilas Secret

Holding my chador together with my hands, I push through the crowd on the footpath. The wind blows the black fabric about like a flag. It annoys me, this garment. Whenever I put it on or take it off, I wonder if the world would really end if I left the house without it. But I know the answer to this already, and you know the answer too, Doctor Karimi, with all your understanding of what women endure in our country. The world would end, at least for me. If I left the house not wearing my chador my father and brothers would swoop upon me like vultures and tear me limb by limb. On such trivialities people in Iran construct monstrous conceits that can, and do, end in state-sanctioned murder.

I have been folding myself into this dark fabric since the age of seven, yet I still have moments when I long to tear the cloth from my head, from my body, to breathe freely. But I dare not speak such thoughts aloud. My fear of the consequences remains more powerful than my desire to be rid of the chador. I lie awake at night in dread, wondering if a time will come when I cant control this urge any longer. I say to myself, Leila, have some sense.

Aunt Sediqa fans these flames, without realising it. Whenever she visits us I treasure the time she dedicates to being alone with me. The two of us talk fearlessly of things I would never utter aloud to anyone else. And it has saved me, so often, being able to have these moments; however few and far apart they are, at least I know that I am not alone in this desire for freedom, in thinking dangerous thoughts. But while Aunt Sediqa is a beacon in my life, there are times when my thoughts make me feel like a monster, or if not a monster, one of those people in circus shows who attract the horrified attention of an audience because they are so different to everyone else. In such shows (I have never attended one because they only visit Tehran) I have heard that a woman will display a long beard on her face, or a man will cross his legs behind his head; another man will reveal that he has six fingers on each hand. Freak is the word I am looking for. I am a freak. Something in my mind craves to think in a way that makes me stand out, like a freak.

Here is an example: I think women should fly aeroplanes. And another: I think women should be allowed to walk freely on the streets at any hour of the day or night. And visit a library to choose any book she wishes, and read it under a tree in the park. There are many other examples. I should be horrified to find my imagination harbouring such appetites. And I am horrified, sometimes. You see, this is the problem. I have too much imagination for my own good, too strong a desire for learning and freedom. I am the bearded lady. There are times when I wish I could change my brain for one that would cause me less anxiety.

And it is Aunt Sediqa who infected me with my love of books. She describes to me the wonderful volumes of literature she has in her home, stacked up to the roof, as she says (an exaggeration). When I was younger she would sneak a novel or history book to me and I would greedily eat up every word on every page. Now, as I have grown older, my sister Samira and I are sometimes granted an hour out of the house, away from our chores, to visit the local library. But you see how it is? I did not ask for the mind I have, and Aunt Sediqa did not ask for hers. And both of us must deal with the thoughts that come our way.

I continue to press through the dense throng of people, draping my chador back over my head when it slips. I try to pretend that I am not in the small town of Quchan with its cracked roads, but walking the streets of a modern Iranian city instead, with tall, shiny buildings. I envisage myself dressed as the fashionable women are, in a beautiful long beige coat with golden buttons, my hair pinned behind a colourful scarf that frames my face. I picture the pretty pink leather gloves I have seen in an advertisement, and imagine how they would feel on my hands. I can see myself in white boots, carrying a stylish purse, and proudly wearing a pair of sunglasses that give me an air of mystery. I can almost smell the imaginary perfume, night flower and ocean breeze, floating in the air around me. And just as quickly as the fantasy comes it is gone, with a shove from a passing stranger in the crowded street.

Perhaps if this vision had even the slightest possibility of becoming reality, I would yearn for it with even greater longing. But of what use are such desires? I may never in my life leave this decaying town. I may never in my life know the freedom of coats and coloured scarves. I may never see the sparkling buildings of the city kissing the skies. I cannot yearn for what cannot ever be.

I hear Samira calling my name distantly. I have been so lost in my daydreams that Ive drifted away from her to the other side of the road. She quickly crosses over, avoiding the speeding cars and bikes that kick up storms of dust.