Rasht is also the capital of the Gilan Province, known throughout Iran for many delicious types of rice and silver fish and the famous Lahijan tea. Iranians are big tea drinkers, and the tea from the town of Lahijan, which has a strong aroma and an even stronger taste, is a national favorite. There is nothing particularly remarkable about Rasht itself, with the exception of the huge Parke Shahr (City Park), but I loved it regardless and have many wonderful memories of growing up there. My school, Hefdahe Shahrivar or Foroogh High School, was one of the most reputable girls’ high schools in the city; year after year it achieved the highest university acceptance rate—something the school was understandably proud of.
Our family home stands right in the heart of Rasht near the food markets. When I lived there it had two big bedrooms, one belonging to my parents, where Sasan also slept, and the second shared by myself and Sina and Salar. The house had a large kitchen and a sitting room that doubled as a guest room. We knew the rules about the sitting room: do not mess it up under any circumstances, as back then people typically did not call before they visited, and my mother did not want to be embarrassed by our clutter. Over time, my father renovated our house, transforming it into three two-bedroom apartments, one of which was their modest home. My mother still took great pride in decorating. In years past, Iranian homes were furnished with Persian rugs and carpets, because people sat on the floor, but that was before my time. We did have a Persian rug in the middle of our sitting room, but that was just for decoration—we and everyone else I knew sat on a couch.
Like all the houses on our street, we had a big backyard. When we were children, my mother had been an enthusiastic gardener and our backyard was bursting with flowerpots holding geraniums, roses, and pansies. They were my mother’s pride and joy. Even now I can hear her fretful warning: “Stop running; you are going to break them!” Later, too old and tired to be gardening, she insisted on lots of artificial flowers, which did not require any attention and were strewn lovingly throughout the apartment.
My siblings and I had often asked my dad if we could move a bit farther out of town, where it was quieter and less busy, but he had inherited our house from his mother and the street held far too many memories for him to just up and leave. Despite being seventy-seven now, my father is healthy and fit. A night owl, he was always reading, and I took after him in that regard. Many people have said that I look like my dad. We have similar-shaped faces and eyes and, like me, my dad is small in stature.
Rasht is close to the Masouleh Mountains, home of the famous Masouleh step village, so called because the land is so steep that one house’s front yard is another house’s roof. Beyond that village you come to the most beautiful waterfalls. The narrow roads leading up the mountains are lined with village women dressed in traditional and colorful Gilaki tunics and scarves. Women in Iran are not allowed to show their hair and are expected to wear loose clothing in public. These women sell traditional homemade bread sweetened with honey, saffron, and vanilla and served hot. The scent is so inviting that no matter how hard I tried, I was never able to walk past the women without buying some sweet bread.
Only half an hour from Rasht lies the Caspian Sea. It stretches all along the north part of the Gilan Province and shares a border with Russia. Iranian summers are very hot, and in the summer months people flock to the beaches to cool down in the water or just sit on the sand and feel the sea breeze brush their skin.
Above all, the people of Rasht are renowned for their hospitality and love of entertaining, and my mother certainly fit this mold. Whenever we had someone come to visit, she would busy herself in the kitchen for hours, making colorful dishes that would give off the most delicious aromas.
The only thing I did not like about Rasht was the climate. It rains almost all year round and is dreadfully humid. I’m not the only person I know who sometimes took three or even four cool showers a day, as the heat and humidity make you sweat so much.
The humid climate of Rasht is particularly uncomfortable for women. Although males can wear short sleeves, by law young girls from the age of nine have to cover themselves up with long-sleeved tunics, shalwar (trousers), and roosari (scarves). When I was a child, I had constantly complained to my mother about this as I trudged around in heavy garments while my brothers ran around cool and carefree in their T-shirts.
“That is the law, Sami,” she always replied, the dutiful Shia Muslim, forever trying to raise her daughter properly.
Upon being told about this law in school I consumed myself with the injustice of it. Why should boys have the freedom to wear what they want and girls have to endure uncomfortable, heavy clothes in the hot, humid summers?
But of course there was an answer to that question. We were taught that if men see a woman’s flesh, it would make them stare and could cause “excitement.” At the time, I did not understand this “excitement.” I only knew that it was very dangerous and to be avoided at all costs.
This law about women’s clothing was one of many enforced by the Revolutionary Guards who patrolled the streets in Iranian cities. I cannot remember a time when I had not been aware of the Revolutionary Guards, even as a child. Those men and women in uniform came in after the Iranian Revolution of 1979 and still today are the military elite whose role is to protect the regime, by force if necessary. The revolution certainly brought changes, but not the kinds of changes the people I knew so desperately wanted. The wealthy took the opportunity to leave Iran, but most people did not have the money to escape and had to stay and anxiously await what the future would bring. No matter what people may have thought of the police under the regime of the shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the Revolutionary Guards proved far more hostile and power-hungry. They did not tolerate resistance, and protesting against the new regime could, and often did, result in death.
The Shia clergy (Islamic priests educated in Islamic theology and law) were granted far more authority than they had ever had before, resulting in stricter rules being imposed on society. This included the way people dress, how they act, and whom they are seen with.
When I was growing up, alcohol was strictly forbidden, as was casual mingling of the sexes in public. Attending or hosting a party with both women and men and where music, dancing, and alcohol were present was considered a serious crime. If the Revolutionary Guards were not paid money to stay away—a cash payment could make a corrupt guard turn a blind eye to almost anything—they could show up unannounced and arrest people on the spot. Everyone was afraid of the Revolutionary Guards. Unless you had money or political connections, getting arrested—even for something minor such as listening to music in public—could result in a long prison stay. Sometimes women who were arrested and did not have money were given the option of having sex with a corrupt guard to avoid prison and a criminal record. A prison record almost guaranteed no chance of securing legitimate employment later on, so for many women allowing the guards to do what they wished with them was a price they paid reluctantly. Of course not all guards behaved this way, but the problem was you never knew what sort of guard was going to arrest you.
My brothers and I had little interaction with the Revolutionary Guards when we were children, as we were always with my parents, who were very careful to abide by the government’s rules and not draw attention to themselves. This changed when we became teenagers and were free to roam the city.
The Revolutionary Guards patrolled the cities in white Toyota Jeeps with a green band around it emblazoned with Ghast E Ershad, which means “Police of Islamic Guidance.” That always struck me as odd, because the Revolutionary Guards did not guide anyone—they enforced rules, and often very harshly. Even now I can recall the sheer terror that would rise in me when one of their Jeeps approached. Whoever spotted it first would call out “Gasht, Gasht!” as loudly as they could without being noticeable. Everyone would instinctively look to the ground, averting their gaze and desperately willing them to pass by without stopping to interrogate. Although the guards mostly traveled around the cities in their Jeeps, they also