It's Thursday afternoon, the last Thursday of September. My friend "M", texts me, "Negin,
I really do not feel like a bachelorette party
this weekend." I text her back and say, "I know it's hard, "but your friends have been
planning this since months ago,
you can't cancel on them." In the meanwhile,
I'm glued to the news. A 22-year-old girl in Iran, my home country, has been killed
by the morality police because of inappropriate hijab. People are protesting. More girls have been killed this past
week in the protest. It feels familiar,
but it's also different. I had been in the protests, back in 2009 in Iran, when the government cheated
in the presidential election. We were silently holding hands
and marching, asking for our votes
to be counted. This time around, women are at the front line, burning their hijab. The message is clear: we are all shocked, sad, angry. We don't know what to do. We're also proud of
this bravery, and hopeful that there is
going to be a global protest, in soli
darity
with the people in Iran. And we both
would be missing it because of
her bachelorette party. I'm remembering the day
I was arrested in Tehran. I was also 22 years old. I was going back from
the medical school library with my older sister. I'm very thirsty and sweaty from all those layers of clothes
that I had to wear: the manteau on top
of my t-shirt, the gray pants, the black scarf. And then, suddenly, this woman in black chador appears in front of me, and she grabs
my hand very hardly. S
he says my
hijab is not appropriate and I need to go with her. I'm very confused. Out of all days, that day,
I didn't have any makeup, I was wearing
the loosest clothes that I had because of the heat, and my hair was
feeling sweaty and gross at the end of the day, so I was
intentionally covering it more than usual with my scarf. The woman pulls me
and puts me in the van with the other girls. The van is guarded by
two soldiers with guns. My sister,
not being able to convince this woman to let me
go, starts negotiating with
a male officer. I'm afraid they
will arrest my sister, too. Her sleeves are folded up, she's holding...
she's showing more hair. I cannot believe it, somehow, she's convinced them
to reconsider. They tell me to
sign an affidavit, promising that I will have
better hijab. My sister gives them
a fake name, and signs a fake address, and they let me go. At home,
we casually mention it to Mom. We don't even
discuss it at length. Two months before, my mom and my other sister
had gone
through the exact same thing. Twelve years later, as I am watching the news, I think how
lucky I was that day to have my sister with me, and how strong
and brave she was. She's always been an
outspoken person, and that day,
she was my savior. My friend "M" and I continue
texting about the wedding. She's marrying a Jewish person, something that would have never
been allowed in Iran, given that she's a Muslim woman; and I'm taken
back in time again. I've known "M" for 18 years now. We we
nt to medical school
in Tehran together. We weren't always as close,
until, we found out
we both secretly smoke. (laughter) We used to exchange cigarettes and smoke in the darkness behind the mosque of
the hospital where we were studying at. (laughter) Ironically, we thought, nobody would think girls are
so shameless to be smoking there, so we would be safe. (laughter) This was, meanwhile,
our male classmates were freely smoking and
taking a break on the front porch of
the library; one of the ma
ny rebellious
things we did together. Little by little,
we found out how similar our underground lifestyle was, and we both had hopes
and ambitions for a life on Earth that we knew we cannot get in our home country: to choose what to wear, who to love, how to live. Once medical school finished, I said goodbyes to her and
other friends and family, and left home. I went to the Netherlands
to do my PhD, and she stayed behind, preparing to come to U.S. We didn't know if we would
ever see each other
again. After almost three years of losing touch,
in the summer of 2014, we both landed in the U.S.; she in New York City,
and I in Boston. It has now been almost a decade
of hard work, days and nights of loneliness, not seeing our families for
many of those years, because if we leave U.S., we might not get
a visa to come back in, and our families don't get
visas to come visit us. We've learned to not
only be each other's friends, but also be each other's
sisters, and each other's mothers. We've
now made
a life for ourselves, and we always say all those years of hardship
was worth it. But we also always ask; why should it have been
so difficult? The room of my door opens. My husband has arrived from the bachelor party
of "M's" fiancé. He notices my new
American passport on the couch. I've just became a U.S. Citizen. My second layer of security. (applause) He's excited. He asks me how I feel. But my mind these days
are only in Iran. On Friday night, I drive to Hudson, New York, that's wh
ere the party is. On the way, I'm listening to
this Iranian song called "Baraye." A song composed by the tweets of people
in Iran, saying for what reason
they are protesting. The singer of the song is also arrested, by the way. I have tears in my eyes, but I put on a festive face
for the party. It ends up being
a very nice weekend. We have brought a fusion
of pre-wedding activities. One of the traditions from
where I come from, south of Iran, is a henna party, and a friend
has secured some henna
. On the last night, while chilling on the couch, listening to some soft jazz, a friend notices the henna
and asks what to do with it? I explain, "Well, the tradition
is to draw something on the hands of the bride." "But what can we draw?" "M" and I look at each other
for a second, and I take the henna, and I write on her forearms: "Zan. Zendegi. Azadi." The same word as the women
are chanting in Iran: "Woman. Life. Freedom." (cheers and applause)
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