Saturday 31 December 2011

An interview with Peta Hatton

Peta Hatton is an Australian Londoner, sometime photographer’s assistant, spreadsheet aficionado and pilates devotee. She doesn't tweet but she does sometimes flick, so you can see her pictures here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/petahatton.

Peta, what did you get up to in 2011?
Lots of list writing and checking things off. The setting of goals and achieving most of them. A lot of time spent on the phone to estate agents and solicitors regarding our flat sale which didn’t go through.

What was your Most Useful Thought of the year?
You really can change the world, even if it’s only influencing the little bit around you. That little bit has a wider reach than you realise.

What’s on your ‘to do’ list for 2012?
A lot. Moving house, starting a new job, renovating, hopefully volunteering at the London Olympics, another trip back to OZ as well as making effort to visit friends and do more London things.

Which villain really yanked your chain in 2011?
No one specific, just anyone who uselessly wastes time and doesn’t appreciate what they have. I can’t bear people whinging about things and then not doing anything about them. Oh, and the idiot who spent six months trying to buy our flat and then pulled out on exchange day.

...and who was your hero?
My amazing girlfriends who are all in different places in the world and different places in their lives. They are dealing with their own challenges every day and do it in such an inspiring way. From step-children and babies to travelling and amazing careers, and the combination thereof, they all make me aspire to achieve as much as I can and make the most of my life.

What book/s did you read this year that we might like?
I’m really not very down with the kids and am only just halfway through the brilliant Caitlan Moran’s How To Be a Woman. My new commute will be considerable longer than my current one so any suggestions very welcome.

What did you discover in 2011 the rest of us should know about?
Boots Sleepeaze is fantastic for flying. I managed nine hours sleep on a Hong Kong to London flight and arrived feeling quite normal.

Will you be secreting a slow or dirty vendetta across the threshold of 2012?
A very chilled evening with lovely friends, good wine and some board games. By the 31st I’m so shattered from all the mid-week drinking that I’m really looking forward to a nice night in!

What could you do without in 2012?
Anything or anyone that isn’t full of energy and enthusiasm. I need to be on fire this year.

Monday 19 December 2011

An interview with...you

An interview with...
The list of celebs who hassle us for interviews on Not The Style Pages is getting longer by the day - Johnny Depp, Jamie Oliver, Sir Simon Cowell, David Cameron’s cat...the list goes on. The only way we can legitimately turn these people down is by telling them to rack-off. But it also helps if we’re busy publishing interviews of actual interest. So save yourselves from a pre-Christmas stupor and take part in the Inaugural Annual Once a Year Annual Not The Style Pages Christmas and New Year Interview.
Katherine & Gabrielle
Send your interviews to notthestylepages@gmail.com with a short bio and a photos if you like.

An interview with <your name goes here>
What did you get up to in 2011?
What was your Most Useful Thought of the year?
What’s on your ‘to do’ list for 2012?
Which villain really yanked your chain in 2011?
...and who was your hero?
What book/s did you read this year that we might like?
What did you discover in 2011 the rest of us should know about?
Will you be secreting a slow or dirty vendetta across the threshold of 2012?
What could you do without in 2012?



Friday 16 December 2011

Sorry men, you can't call yourselves feminists

By Sarah Farraway.

Thanks to Tony for raising a great issue and for his passionate views.

I personally don't believe men can call themselves feminists. To quote
my new hero Caitlin Moran - a feminist is someone "with a vagina who
wants to be charge of it". So, sorry Tony, but I think this is a
penis-free label. And it's not like this is without precedent - would
you consider a white guy a civil rights activist in the same way as
Martin Luther King was?

But, having said that' I totally agree with Tony this is an issue
for men as much as it is women. Just like the civil rights movement,
society can never change until the majority changes. We need men for
feminism to succeed and that's absolutely why it hasn't been as
successful as it should have.

Australia's Sex Discrimination Commissioner is only now starting to
get traction on increasing women's participation on boards because she
has enlisted the help of the (male) CEO's of all of Australia's top
companies. They are now talking loud and proud about the problem and it's great.

So bring that stuff on fellas....but just don't call yourself a feminist!

Sarah Farraway lives in Sydney. She has recently decided to stop
calling her step-daughters 'cute' and 'gorgeous' in favour of calling them 'clever' and 'kind'.

Wednesday 14 December 2011

I’ll have a tampon with that kebab, thanks




As Gabrielle Jackson struggles with a Mooncup in the Middle East, she asks why she can't buy a tampon as readily as a kebab?

As I travel through kebab country there’s one non-food item I’ve become obsessed with. It’s small, made of cotton, and could be of service to around half world’s population. I’m talking, of course, about the tampon. In the Middle East and Asia tampons are almost impossible to buy, which is why I recently found myself experimenting with its futuristic cousin, the Mooncup (more on those later). As I roamed the streets of Georgia looking for someone who would sell me tampons I realised this masterful invention is every bit as important as Brent crude, and like global oil supply, tampons turn out to be every bit as political.

Before I get writing here’s a warning: I’m going to write about MENSTRUATION. It happens to 50 per cent of the population every single month and it’s essential to the human race. If I can listen to incessant chatter about jizz, then men, you can learn a little bit about menstruation.

First of all, it doesn’t go on holiday when you go on holiday. Every month there’s BLOOD. There’s blood, and lots of it. It oozes from my body and causes all sorts of bad side-effects. It’s unpleasant, uncomfortable and unavoidable. But there’s a human invention that makes it a little more bearable. It’s a piece of genius called a tampon. A tampon absorbs the blood before it leaves the body and prevents embarrassing leakages, odours and the necessity of wearing an adult nappy. To me, the tampon is one of the most important inventions of human-kind. Even when I’m travelling, it enables me go freely about my daily life.

They aren’t a new invention. Women have always known what works best for their bodies and, according to Nancy Friedman in her book Everything You Must Know About Tampons, there is evidence Egyptian women were using self-made tampons as early as the 15th century B.C. They weren’t the only ancient culture to use tampons either:
Roman women used wool tampons. Women in ancient Japan fashioned tampons out of paper, held them in place with a bandage, and changed them 10 to 12 times a day. Traditional Hawaiian women used the furry part of a native fern called hapu'u; and grasses, mosses and other plants are still used by women in parts of Asia and Africa.

Knowing this you’d think the tampon would by now be used throughout the world and easily available to all. But today, it’s estimated that only 100 million of the world’s 1.7 billion menstruating women wear tampons (Karen Houppert in The Curse: Confronting the Last Unmentionable Taboo: Menstruation). It wasn’t until recently tampons went underground. So what’s happened? Well, that’s what’s angering me as I travel through the Middle East. Tampons are not available in this part of the world mostly because it’s believed their use ‘takes a woman’s virginity’.

Now let’s be clear: there is only one way for a woman to lose her virginity and that’s through sexual intercourse. Does a man lose his virginity by wanking, or shoving his cock into a warm apple pie? No, he loses it when he has sex for the first time. The same goes for women, no matter how many tampons she’s used. What people here mean, when they say tampons can claim a woman’s virginity, is that tampons have the potential to break a woman’s hymen which deprives men of the PROOF their newlywed was a virgin. The fact that a broken hymen is not even a reliable determinate of virginity - as they all break in different ways, and sometimes never at all – is an inconvenient truth. The tampon is the patriarchy’s Virgin Enemy Number One.

I started using tampons when I was 13 or 14 and yes, it was uncomfortable and scary to try it for the first time. I can tell you though, it bore no resemblance in feeling or emotion to losing my virginity, which was also uncomfortable and scary. But would I take back either experience? Hell no! I would not, for anything, go back to walking around wearing a massive pad between my legs in 40 degree heat (or any temperature), going to the bathroom every 10 minutes to check for the tell-tale sign of leakages on my clothes, being paranoid about the smell, ruining copious amounts of nice knickers, having to have special loose fitting and dark coloured clothing just for ‘that time of the month’, having to get out of bed five times a night to check the sheets or missing out on swimming lessons, beach trips and pool parties.

Likewise, I would not go back to being a virgin. Not at 34. And I’m glad I didn’t marry anyone just for the privilege of being able to wear a tampon, which seems like it would have been just as good a reason as any right now.

I have never forgotten the day my super-absorbent pad failed to absorb the amount of blood my body was dispensing. I had to walk around for the rest of the day with a jumper tied around my waist to hide the huge red stain on my school uniform. This was a severe abuse of school rules but the look on my face when a teacher told me to take it off (for the third time) was enough for her to know she shouldn’t insist. I was so mortified that, 20 years later, I still sweat thinking about it. And I went to a girls’ school! The humiliation was so intense it gave me the courage required to try that tampon.

In Georgia, where I’ve just been, I had to go to four shops before I could find a box of tampons for sale. I eventually found them inside a glass cabinet in a pharmacy. In Georgia, women are not allowed to wear tampons before they’re married. In Georgia, women are supposed to be virgins on their wedding night. But their word is not enough. The sheets have to be checked after consummation for the bloody proof that their hymen has broken. The same is true in Armenia and many other countries. But at least in those countries, married women can wear tampons. In much of the Middle East and the rest of Asia, South American and Africa, no women are allowed to wear tampons, married or otherwise.

I knew buying tampons was likely to be a problem while travelling so I bought a Mooncup in case I ran out. A Mooncup is the environmentalist’s answer to tampons. It’s a reusable menstrual cup made of medical grade silicone that catches the blood. Every four to eight hours, you take it out, empty it, rinse and repeat. I was a bit scared to use it for the first time but I carried my instructions to the bathroom with me and the process went surprisingly smoothly. It wasn’t quite as simple, or small, to insert as a tampon, but such is my commitment to the environment (and avoiding pads) I knew I’d get used to it – just like I got used to using tampons and having sex.

What an invention! For three hours I was incredibly impressed with how it all seemed to be working – just like a tampon. Unfortunately, I didn’t take my instructions with me when it came to taking it out. I panicked – I couldn’t get it to budge! The Mooncup works by suctioning itself to the vaginal wall and in order to release it, you need to squeeze the base of the cup or slide a finger along side it to release the suction. If you don’t release the suction, no amount of tugging is going to get it to budge. Unfortunately, I didn’t know this at the time for, even though I’d been carrying those Mooncup instructions around for months - I’d even once inadvertently dumped it on the table with my world map to the surprise of two men in Iran – I’d never actually read it.

I squatted in the bathroom tugging away at the stem, which I may have trimmed too short. I was sweating and shaking and doing all the wrong things to remove it. Shivers, I thought, I’m going to have to go to a Georgian hospital to get it taken out. They don’t even really know what a tampon is, let alone a Mooncup! And I’m not even married! Finally, I relaxed, and got it out.

As always, travelling raises your awareness of comforts, issues and culture you ordinarily take for granted. Tampons are, by far, the most comfortable and hygienic way to manage menstruation. The fact that so many women are denied this basic human right so that men think they have proof of their wives’ virginity is another example of the flagrant disregard for women’s health and wellbeing. Women all over South America, Asia, Africa and even parts of Europe are being misinformed. Too many men believe they have a right to control women’s bodies, if not by law then by misinformation and manufactured shame.

I say it’s my body and my blood, so I get to choose how to stem the flow. Not my husband and not the government. Me. And I choose to wear a tampon. Or a Mooncup, if all else fails (including my commitment to the environment). So I just want to warn the world now: Next time I get my period I don’t care where I am, I want to be able to buy a tampon goddammit. AND YOU HAD BETTER HAVE THEM FOR SALE!

With special thanks to Katherine Burgdorf

Thursday 8 December 2011

For giving birth and hoovering, I want equal pay and a driver's licence

by Ellen Francis 

R.E.S.P.E.C.T, find out what it means to me...

I want men to be men and women to be women. I want a man to give up his seat for me on the Tube, open the door for me, and take out the bins. I'll wipe his brow when he's had a hard day's work, give birth to the babies, and do the hoovering. So far, so unfeminist one might think. But I also want equal pay for equal work, not to be told I'm "asking for it" if I wear a short skirt, and the right to drive
without my father's permission. Hmmm, that's more like it.

I think that actually all these things are compatible because they are about asking for mutual respect; they are about give and take; they are about recognising our differences and supporting rather than
exploiting them. I want women to be respected, and if that makes me a "feminist" so be it. And I want men to be respected, but I'm not sure what label you'd stick on that.

I'm afraid if a man calls himself a "feminist" I'll assume he's being a man, using it as a lever to get into my pants; or that what he really means is, urrrrgh, "I love women" (but I couldn't eat a whole
one?); or that he means what many women might assume it means ie a demand for more rights for women, and I don't really like that as it sounds like it's to the detriment of the rights of men.

But if what he really means is "I believe in respect for you because you're another human being and your gender is irrelevant to that respect", then yes he's as much a "feminist" as I am.

Ellen is a Londoner. She prefers buses to the Tube. You can't follow her on Twitter, but you can offer to take out the recycling box.

Stay-at-home-dads - a casual, everyday kind of feminism

By Naomi Tarszisz

There is a phenomenon I had heard of but not believed existed - fathers, who choose to stay home and look after their children.
 
The decision on whether or not to go back to work is one that women have been arguing about (and will continue to argue about) for a while now. It's a minefield - do I assert my right to work or do I assert that I am the best person to raise my children or that childcare is so expensive as to negate the effort of work? Do I work because I want to? Or to support a lifestyle that I believe is essential? 

I've gone off topic, haven't I? Sorry, breastfeeding (or my baby ate my brain). Where was I? Oh yes, men can be feminists. Or at least equal opportunists. Everyday I see dads who, because they either earn less or work weird hours, or because they (gasp) want, or choose to, look after their babies. It might be because childcare is so extortionate, but maybe it's because whilst sitting down to discuss things they decided that was what was best for their family. It’s a casual, quiet, everyday kind of feminism that is dependent on a different outlook on life than say, Kyle Sandilands.

Naomi Tarszisz is a mother, digital consultant and yoga buff. She lives in Sydney, Australia. You can follow her on Twitter @naomitarz

Wednesday 7 December 2011

Feminism = fairness, but money trumps everything

by Katherine Burgdorf

I have 567 different thoughts on this subject which is why I’ve taken so long to get Speedblogging. Here are 2 of them;

1) Feminism needs no second description other than fairness. Are you a man? Are you an advocate of fairness for men and women? Then bonjour, you’re a feminist.

2) The fewer children women have, the more valuable an asset both women and children become. What do we do with valuable assets? We keep them safe, and we invest in them.

Unless men start bearing children there will always be differences in the way men and women experience things like work, career paths, the tax system and the pension system. This is why the concept of fairness, not equality, should be the starting point for feminism.

But here is a word of warning. Our world is knitted of money. Money, clear of any other advantage that may be bestowed on a person, is how we participate in society. Relying on someone else’s over the long term is a high risk strategy. And is it fair?

Tuesday 29 November 2011

I'm not a feminist but....I'm annoying


By Wendy Saunt

“I’m not a feminist but…” has to be one of the most annoying sentences a woman can utter.
I’ll spare the rant for another time but I’d imagine it’s something along the lines of: “Fine. If you just want to hand back the right to vote, have an education, have a job, legalised abortion, maternity pay, to own property, to not be considered property of your husband, to have custody rights to your children, and to have rape, with varying degrees of success, treated as a crime and your pay, with varying degrees of success, legislated to be equal … then you are free to fuck off back to the 13th century.”

So, within that context, “I'm not a feminist because I’m a man” is a significantly less annoying sentence. But, let’s face it, it’s still a bit annoying… namely because it bundles up all the above as wimmin’s issues, rather than anything to do with universal rights or wrongs….

… Like civil rights or gay issues. Obviously, there are no handy labels there but I’d feel a bit crass for distancing myself from them – even if it was just semantically – because I’m white and straight.
It comes down to this: these are universal things, they affect us all (even if it’s not directly), and it’s nice to stand up for what’s important. So, say it loud and say it proud: I’m a man and a feminist.

Wendy Saunt is a interior designer, writer and art consultant. She lives in London. You can follow her on Twitter @Wendy__Saunt

Men who are feminists exist, and I like them


By Gabrielle Jackson

In my final year of high school I got the award for ‘BEST BRA-BURNING FEMINIST’. My major drama project was a monologue about female inequality. The last line was: ‘We’ve all been duped and we don’t even know it.’
While I was proud to get that award, it had never occurred to me that I was a feminist. I thought that labels didn’t matter, but as time wore on and people stopped talking about feminism, I realised that without a label – without a word to call the cause – people forgot about the cause.
For a long time I thought women denied being feminists because they thought men found it unattractive. Feminism has never been about bra burning or man hating but it serves the interests of the patriarchy for people to believe it.
For change to occur, it needs men and women to believe in it. I was pleased, therefore, that when Sky Sports’ presenters Andy Gray and Richard Keys were sacked following their derogatory comments about women, some of the loudest voices condemning their behaviour were male.
I don’t care if they call themselves male feminists, feminists or Trekker feminists, men who are feminists exist, and I like them. 
Gabrielle Jackson is a feminist writer and publisher of this blog. She is travelling around eating kebabs. You can follow her on Twitter @gabriellecj

Saturday 26 November 2011

Speedblog 2 - There's no such thing as a male feminist

It's speedblog time people...200 words or less on a topic we're pondering. Write for fun, or for glory.
Tony Yoo recently approached Not The Style Pages to write a piece on why he resents being called a "male feminist". To Tony, there are only feminists (men or women) and those who don't believe women and men are equal. It got us thinking. What does it mean to be a feminist? Who is and isn't one? And does it matter if you're a man or a woman? Can men really be feminists?

Send your 200 words to notthestylepages@gmail.com
(Please include a one line bio and a link if you want one. Images welcome if you own the copyright.)

Wednesday 23 November 2011

It's my visa and I'll cry if I want to: How I got kicked out of Iran

Let's hope these girls are allowed to cry and become judges

It was not a good day to have a bout of pre-menstrual tears.

This is a lesson in how little decisions and seemingly small gestures turn into big events.

I set off from the Parasto Hotel in Tehran in search of an imaginary ‘Foreign Aliens Office’ (dreamt up by the Lonely Planet) with a heavy heart. My friend from London, Katherine, had left Iran and our trip was over. I wouldn’t be going back to London anytime soon. I felt sad and when I hit the streets in the rain I knew the tears were mounting in the dam behind my eyelids.

With my map in hand I easily found the street that the shamefully outdated, incorrect and dangerously misleading Lonely Planet guide to Iran directed me to. I knew as soon as I turned on to it that there was no visa office on this industrial thoroughfare. But I blindly followed its instructions anyway and paid an incorrect fee of 550,000IR to Bank Melli.

I walked up and down the street four times in my attractive purple raincoat, with people helping me cross the road in the treacherous traffic and asking the occasional passer-by if they knew where the so-called Foreign Aliens Office was. Nobody did because it doesn’t exist but I didn’t know that then. After about an hour I decided to give up, go back to the hotel, and follow the advice of the locals not to try to extend my visa in Tehran.

Just before jumping in a taxi, I gave it one last shot and asked a male shopkeeper if he spoke English. He didn’t, but he asked a woman passing if she did. She stopped and asked me if she could help. I told her I was looking for the Foreign Aliens Office, she didn’t understand, so I showed her my notepad with the address, which also had other notes on which metro to catch and which branch of the bank to pay the visa fee to. Unfortunately she misread my scribbled notes and understood that I needed to go to the bank at the metro stop I had written down. But I didn’t know that then. She said she knew where it was. She meant the metro stop. I thought she meant the Foreign Aliens Office.

A nurse made me cry
But this lady was so nice and even after I suspected she had misunderstood, I couldn’t leave her or convince her to leave me. I discovered that she was from Syria, but had moved to Iran with her family because they were Shi’ites. I discovered she was a nurse, like my mum. I discovered her mother was very sick and her father died four months ago. I discovered she was a beautiful, beautiful person. And I cried. And once I started I couldn’t stop. Once I started, for more and more reasons, I had to keep crying.

I cried because women on the bus were nice to me, offered for me to stay at their homes, told me they loved me and then gave me tissues to wipe up the tears they induced. I cried because a poor nurse refused to let me pay my own bus fare. I cried because a busy bank manager took time out of his day to accompany me to a visa office because I was a guest in his country and I had the wrong address in my notepad. I cried because he was genuinely concerned at the bad impression the west has of Iran and Iranians. I cried because it was one of those days when I just needed to let the tears go. I cried for London and for friends I was leaving behind and I cried because the generosity of the human spirit was on display in lurid detail in a country that people told me was dangerous.

When we got to Bank Melli near the metro stop I had written down, I felt so bad about taking this woman so far out of her way, especially knowing we were clearly on the wrong track, that I thought it more polite to just carry on until somebody gave us the right address. This looked like Bank Melli’s head office. Surely they would know where the visa office was. I thought somebody would tell us the address and I could just leave and go back to the hotel, well and truly over the visa situation, as I was. But no, somebody called the manager, who was so distressed at my tears, he went off to find the correct address of the visa office and then personally accompanied me and the nurse in a taxi, for which he paid.

While we were waiting for him, I was given water, chocolates, a chair, a heater and tissues to dry myself with - both my tears and my coat of the rain.

Unfortunately, I could not communicate to anybody that I wasn’t crying because I was scared or lost. Apparently Iranians don’t cry when people are nice to them. Unfortunately, the tourist police don’t like it when two locals bring in a foreign woman who’s been crying, is wet, alone and has an incorrect address in her notepad.

Nobody listens to a cry baby
They were very nice to me, but demanded to know where I was staying and how I got the visa to Iran. I explained that I had been on a tour, but it had ended. They rang Reza – my divine, composed and urbane tour director – but they called me Catherine, my middle name. They had not asked me my name, just read it from my passport incorrectly. I tried to interfere.

‘My name is Gabrielle,’ I insisted, first talking directly to the police officer, then to the bank manager and finally to the nurse. Nobody listened. I knew Reza would be confused because Katherine, who was also on the tour, had left the night before. I said it over and over, and even though I was no longer crying, nobody was listening to a word I said.

I don’t speak Farsi, but I didn’t need to in order to understand that the policeman was angry and Reza was copping it. Eventually he put me on the phone to Reza and I was able to explain that it was Gabrielle and that I was trying to extend my visa in Tehran, against his better judgement. His calm and confident manner almost made me cry again, but not quite. By this time I suspected I might be in trouble, and I don’t cry when I’m scared.

In his own inimitable way, Reza told me not to worry, assured me everything was fine, that he would send somebody over from the hotel who would ‘act as my host’ in Tehran. And then they would give me my visa.

All seemed fine. The bank manager and nurse left and as I was waving goodbye Mustafa arrived. Mustafa worked for Reza and we had met in Yazd. I was so pleased to see him that I even forgave him for the stories he’d told me about tormenting donkeys and throwing a kitten off a roof when he was a kid (although I still might not trust him with my pets).

He asked me why I was crying when nothing was wrong. I told him I was crying because Iranian people are so nice. He looked at me strangely but carried on to the office of the head honcho tourist police dude.

Hand over your licence, buddy!
Mustafa has a face that could melt an ice queen and you know before you talk to him that he has been bewitching women since birth. But in a day of unforunates, unfortunately, his cheeky charm did not impress the tourist police. Pretty soon after Mustafa entered the office, he’d had both his tour license and driver’s license confiscated. Angry policeman kicked us both out of his office with no advice on what to do next.

Mustafa was scolded for leaving me alone and giving me the wrong address and for letting me walk the streets of Tehran alone in the rain. When he explained that I got the address from the Lonely Planet, that the tour had ended and that, as an Australian, I was free to roam the country alone, the policeman lost it. Apparently, he did not like to be told he was wrong.

In the course of the six hours he kept us sitting in the visa office, long after it was closed and everybody else had gone home, it emerged that he was cross because I had been found alone and surrounded by Afghan men under a wooden bridge. Which was why I was crying. And it’s there I was saved by the nurse.

It was no use trying to explain that this story was mad and completely and utterly untrue. I was crying; there had to be a reason, and to this very angry man, that seemed like a reasonable explanation.

Neither Mustafa nor I could fathom from where this story had come, but we decided it was counter-productive to keep insisting I was crying because people were nice to me and my friend had left for London the night before.

It’s for her own protection
‘What if something should happen to her?’ angry policeman asked Mustafa. ‘It would reflect badly on Iran. The western media would blow it all out of proportion.’

'She has been to much more dangerous cities than Tehran', Mustafa said. But every time Mustafa spoke, no matter how calmly, this man saw red. His anger was palpable and we could tell, by this stage, he felt he had something to prove.

Although Mustafa had befriended other officers there and had calls put through from his tourist police friends in Shiraz, our dude was the ranking officer on duty and he had a grudge.

Eventually, he decided I couldn’t stay if I wasn’t on a tour: an arbitrary and unlawful decision, but one that I was, frankly, ready to accept by then. I had terrible guilt about getting Mustafa’s livelihood confiscated and hijacking his whole day.

You may now go home to your mother
The police officer said he would give me my passport back, along with Mustafa’s various licenses, if I got a flight back to Australia. It was for my own protection, he insisted. I said I wasn’t going to Australia, I would go to Turkey or Georgia. He said, ‘Why can’t you just go back to your home country?’

‘Because I don’t want to and it’s none of your business actually,’ I didn’t say. I just stared at him in disbelief. He shook his head and walked off. He didn’t like it.

We waited.

Eventually, after our hours in purgatory, head honcho angry dude said that if another tour guide could come and vouch for Mustafa, and they bought me a flight for the next day, they would let us all go. Oh, and by the way, Bank Melli had paid my visa fee to the wrong account and the visa office couldn’t accept it, so I had to go back to the same branch (by now far away) and get my money back and pay it again to a different account. But the bank closes for a couple of days in, like, 20 minutes. Sorry we didn’t mention it six hours ago when you gave us the receipt. Only joking, they didn’t apologise.

Mohammed, another of Reza’s contacts swept in to save the day. We were able to go to another bank, pay the visa fee again (300,000IR this time, without a refund on the other 550,000IR I’d already paid) and Mustafa and Mohammed kindly bought me a flight to Istanbul. It took about an hour for the ticket to arrive and then we were all set free. Me with my passport, Mustafa and Mohammed with their licenses.

I’ll cry if I want to
It felt like a relief, but only for a little while. I left the visa office feeling embarrassed and ashamed. I was so sorry to have got Mustafa and Reza in trouble and mortified about wasting Mustafa’s whole day. All because I cried.

I had spent two weeks in Iran speculating that women there were much more free than I had thought. Sure, they have to wear the hejab, but they wear it in such a way that expresses their protest every day. Everybody talks about the hejab and how they hate it and women work and date and go out at night. And then, there in that visa office, it became clear how much further they’ve got to go.

For while my country also has a long way to go till we reach equality, I am allowed to choose to travel alone; go anywhere alone, in fact. That’s how I’ve lived in Sydney, New York and London and even spent a little stint in Barcelona. It’s how I’ve already travelled through Greece and Turkey by myself. I’ve been out alone and travelled around these very dangerous places all by myself and nobody has ever stopped me or kicked me out for crying. And believe me, I’ve cried a lot on the streets of these cities. I remember, back in 2007, crying on the 38 bus at least once a week late at night, all alone, for many different reasons. I never got kicked out of London, although nobody ever offered me a tissue either.

This piece was originally entitled ‘The day I let all Iranian women down.’ I thought I’d let them down by proving the male belief that women are emotional and irrational: the very reason women are not allowed to become judges in Iran. I thought I’d proven them right. But I hadn’t. I cried that day, yes. Let me get this straight, though, because it’s important: at no point did I sob or break down or make, like, crying noises. I just had tears coming out of my eyes. I was laughing about it most of the time. I never lost my reason.

On the other hand, that police officer lost his. His anger was just as raw – if not more so – than mine. He made totally unreasonable demands and statements. He made up scenarios to support his position.

The day the tourist police let Iran down
When I think about how the tourist police officer behaved and I behaved, I am sure, on balance, he was acting more irrationally that day than I was. But it’s OK to lose it with anger, because that’s a male thing, is the underlying belief structure. There is no doubt in my mind that anger and ego corrupt reason more than a few tears. And that is what Iranian society, and western society I suppose, must somehow face.

I’m not ashamed anymore, nor am I embarrassed. If I want to cry on a bus because women are nice to me, I am going to bloody well going to cry on the bus because women are nice to me. I didn’t let those women down that day. It was the day, rather, that one man in the tourist police let Iran down. If it weren’t for him, you see, I’d leave Iran with only fond memories.

Sunday 13 November 2011

Who are you calling a male feminist? asks Tony Yoo

This week Tony Yoo writes about breaking through the feminist label debate and why it's important men are feminists.
Years ago, in my early twenties, I made a decision to stop using the word “girl” to describe a woman over 18. A grown man resents being called a “boy” so I wondered why it was (and still is) acceptable for adult women to be constantly referred to as juveniles. It made no sense to me. I thought the practice was condescending to women.
This led to a curious chain of events. While most people did not notice my new habit, those that did looked at me like as if I was from outer space. I could see they wanted to utter the dreaded phrase “political correctness gone mad”.
Surprisingly many of those who were cynical about my decision were women. There was a degree of suspicion as to why I would do such a thing. Responses ranged from “What’s all that about?” to “Is he doing it to get women into bed?”
That reaction was incredibly offensive to me. If I didn’t know it already it affirmed that feminism had unfortunately died in Generation Y and certainly most of Generation X. How did treating 51% of the population as people become a passing fad?
When I expressed this disappointment to people the reaction was even more harsh, especially among my more “blokey” circles. Among the printable barbs were “militant lesbian” and “nominally heterosexual”. That was fine, it’s just harmless teasing (if not shamelessly homophobic) – my friends were already well used to my “radical” ideas.
However the reactions that truly puzzled me were the serious ones calling me a “male feminist”. What does that mean? Why am I not just a feminist? Don’t I believe in the same principles as a “female feminist”?
I understand that in the contemporary history of feminism there has been a long debate about what to call men who support women’s rights. Some feminist groups use the term pro-feminist and some prefer male supporters take on the feminist moniker themselves. That is an argument about labelling, and this is not what I wish to discuss here. The concept of a male feminist is what I’m interested in.
Over the years I’ve had many strong female role models who’ve inspired me. Their actions shaped the way I view the world and carried myself. They did not all necessarily declare themselves feminists nor are they household names, but certainly shaped my views on women and feminism.
What follows is a very small sample of the women I admire.
My mother had seven sisters  and one brother younger than all of them. My Catholic grandparents wanted a boy and ended up with nine children in their quest despite the household struggle with poverty. One can only imagine how the girls felt growing up in this situation.
When my mother was a child all she wanted to do was read books, attend university, and see the world. However with the family in such poor financial shape those hopes remained unfulfilled – all five of her older sisters left school after primary in order to work on the farm for the family’s survival. Even at a very young age my mother was determined to overcome this predicament, but she was totally reliant on “marrying well” to improve her life.
She did indeed break the cycle. My mother finished tertiary education, travelled the world, and taught her young son French (all of which I have embarrassingly forgotten). Her full story would be  worth a blog on its own.
Dame Anita Roddick was the founder of The Body Shop cosmetics chain and a political activist. Her achievements are numerous – promotion of Fair Trade with developing nations, co-operative human rights campaigns with Amnesty International, work with underprivileged children in Eastern Europe and Asia [link to http://www.childrenontheedge.org/], and the famous Ruby advertisements, illustrated below, are just some examples. By chance I heard Roddick speak in 2001 and she lit a fire in me.  I had just begun my career out of university but she reminded me that earning a living should be no excuse to stop fighting for social justice. Within a couple of years I was running elections and making speeches at rallies.

Former Australian Senators Lyn Allison and Natasha Stott-Despoja both had distinguished parliamentary careers, but I’d like to mention them here specifically in the context of their hard work in having the medical abortion drug RU486 legalised down under. Despite almost every other developed nation allowing the use of this safe and less invasive alternative to surgical abortion, Australia was left behind by conservative forces. Both senators spent over ten years building support to remove ministerial veto. Finally in 2006 RU486 was legalised, and the occasion was the first time in Australian history that women across the political spectrum sponsored a bill originating in the Senate that would pass both houses of parliament to become law. A sad footnote was that less than 50% of the men in the Senate voted in support of the bill (in contrast to 90% of the vote from women).
Finally, Katherine and Gabrielle, the creators of this blog, are my latest heroes for starting Not The Style Pages. Its declaration “no fashion or celebrities” immediately prompts the reaction “It’s about time!” Intelligent discussion should be on the record for all to enjoy, not just contained to inner city dinner parties. I certainly hope that their contribution to the zeitgeist will attain a decent audience in the coming months – I have great faith in the philosophy of this particular blog.
The point about all these women is that without a vibrant feminist movement brilliant women will be lost or wasted though inequality and gender bias. Intelligent people who may inspire our daughters and sons alike may never reach their potential, through failures in a patriarchal system. What if my mother was never educated? What if Dame Anita Roddick thought becoming an entrepreneur was a dream out of reach for a mother of two young children? What if Senators Allison and Stott-Despoja were discouraged from politics as a career option because it’s too masculine? What if Katherine and Gabrielle did not start this blog because they missed being raised in an environment conducive for girls to think critically and seriously?
Worrying about the world our daughters will grow up in is a universal concern. It should make no difference whether you’re a woman or a man.
Girls (and boys) are greatly affected and shaped by the messages that society conveys to them in their formative years. By the disrespectful treatment of women we are in effect sacrificing the potential of half of the population. Even the most ardent conservative could surely see the harm in wasting half the available (economic) resources!
I recently visited Iran and while it may not surprise you to learn that the Iranian government has not ratified (or signed) the United Nations Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, it might surprise you that the USA hasn't either. Even in the “developed” world there is a long road ahead for the equal treatment of girls and women.
Feminism demands your attention and energy – regardless of your gender. Gestures that may seem small are still worthy, especially if it catches people’s attention....like never using the word “girl” to describe a woman.

By Tony Yoo

Two fields - What Remembrance Day says about the Occupy London protests, by Tom Harwood

I was in two very different fields this week. On Thursday, it was the opening of the Royal British Legion ‘Field of Remembrance’ at Westminster Abbey. It was a low key, poignant and very British affair. I also spent a lunchtime last week around the ‘field’ of Finsbury Square in the company of the Occupy London protestors. My feelings for the two sites could not have been more different.

The Field of Remembrance is nestled in and around the north side of Westminster Abbey. It is a roughly triangular plot where the Royal British Legion lay out thousands of small wooden crosses in order to represent the fallen and the services and their regiments, ships and squadrons. It is structured, ordered, disciplined and respectful. The opening is attended by representatives of all those who served and I was lucky enough to be involved with the Gloucestershire Regiment contingent. It is a fine display of military pageantry with a garish range of headdress of the various regiments bobbing around, medals galore and the telling of tales of heroic deeds.

There are scars aplenty and whispers of respect as various military legends take their place in line. Old retired senior officers acknowledge each other from afar with a deft touch or a modest raise of their tattered bowler hats (the headgear of choice of the retired). The traffic is held up in Parliament Square as the Duke of Edinburgh arrives to mark the opening. Suddenly from behind me there is a commotion as a veteran stumbles. John, 80 years old, in his Somerset Light Infantry blazer is down but is quickly assisted by the St John’s ambulance and is wheeled off for a cup of tea. To my left is Lt Col Nick Kitson, the epitome of a young courageous officer. He is back from a torrid tour in Afghanistan where his 1400-strong battle group lost 30 soldiers and had over 100 seriously injured - a casualty rate not seen since the Korean War. In front of him is the mother and girlfriend of the late Lt Daniel Clack, killed 12 weeks ago. The rawness of their distress is too visible. Finally there is Sam Mercer, ramrod straight, one artificial leg, a glass eye, captured at the battle of the Imjin River in 1951 and spent two years in a Chinese POW camp but every bit the proud soldier and a hugely inspirational figure. One can only wonder at what days like today mean for all of them. The address is short and respectful and the Duke takes a tour of the assembled ranks post the two minutes silence. At 90, and a veteran himself, he is still charming and fully engaged with the people. He finishes his tour and we are done.

While we are all waiting to depart there is lots of talk of the city and what is happening in the world and how crazy the news seems at the minute with leaders of countries falling at a rate of one a day and street protests and student demonstrations. I have to say I struggle to give a credible answer for the protests and actions; in fact I can only offer that history will no doubt record this period as a time of total political ineptitude with no clear leadership. No one seems happy with the answer and the old and bold do seem bewildered by the current unrest. They lived a life of simplicity, of rules and service and dedication and, on occasion, of protracted periods of extreme violence and carnage. They have seen it all. They have a shell that can withstand hardship, nothing will knock them off their stride. What is there really to complain about? They also have a common cause. These people are here to pay their respects to lost family and friends, to remember monumental events in their lives. They are here to reflect and pay tribute to days long gone. And I know they do not forget them for the other 364 days of the year. How could they? The trauma is too great but undaunted and accepting they go about their lives in quiet contemplation.

 Suddenly, John, the old soldier who had fallen, is behind me, looking much better for his tea break.

‘I’m sorry to have missed the Duke but I just wanted to let you know that I was alright,’ he says.

There is a chorus of replies from his former comrades, who pat him on the back.
‘Thanks John, have a safe journey back’
‘Look after him Gwen.’
‘See you on Sunday at the march.’

I am surprised by his return, its sole purpose to make sure we were OK and not worried by his absence. He is still watching out for his buddies.

I loved this event not for the sentimentality but for the simple dedication and sacrifice that all these people have made. They have put themselves out in every conceivable way to achieve a simple aim or order. They have courage beyond words and individual deeds that will scar them for life but will also give them immense pride and a better understanding of who they are. The loyalty is tangible and the collective strength fills your chest and heart.

Back at work I felt as though I had been caught off guard by the questions on the protests. It was like I had the enemy at the gates but I did not know what it was all about. A stroll five minutes round the corner brought me to my second field.

The Finsbury Square protest has been running for about three weeks and sprung up at the same time as the St Pauls Cathedral protest. It looks like a festival site with myriad brightly coloured tents crammed together on any available patch. There is a big communal marquee, a media tent, a tarpaulin shelter and a yurt. Over the weeks, as the Indian summer turned to dank winter, wooden pallets have been dragged out to provide a raised walkway. Banners are strung from trees and tent poles.

The thing that surprises me how few people there are around. I have walked past it at all times of day and it seems empty. At one stage newspapers took thermal images which suggested that many of the tents are unoccupied. The posters say people are holding down jobs while living at the site. All I know is there are more tents than people. There is no atmosphere, no buzz, no impact.

The other thing that strikes me is that it is not entirely clear what the issue is. There seem to be so many issues being represented that almost everything wrong in the world is being aired by the protesters including taxes, bankers’ bonuses, anarchy, climate change, corruption, pollution, torture, waste, inequality, racism, nuclear arms, healthcare and public sector cuts. It is quite a cocktail. I think back to Parliament Square and Brian Haw who lived for 10 years on the roadside campaigning for peace . It was clear what he wanted and what he was prepared to do to deliver it. In this field there seems to be a few people trying to affect too much change. To achieve it all would be social utopia but it’s unrealistic.

I am all for protest. If you feel wronged you should have the right to try and do something about it, but in this case the message is lost. The action is ineffective and there seems to be an air of pity about the place. The student protestors tried hard to charge up Moorgate to link up with the camp but they were thwarted by the police who were keen to make up for being asleep at the wheel in the summer riots. Even if they had been successful, what on earth would they do if they got there? There was no rallying cry, there seems to be no credible goal, and no sense of what success might look like.

My point is this. What has this second field achieved? What plight has been highlighted if nobody takes any notice? When do they pack up and disappear? Even those around them seem a touch embarrassed.

I am a banker and, of course, it’s now fashionable to give bankers a hard time. My industry hasn’t covered itself in glory but I do think in this country it is an industry with the potential to lead the economy out of its current crisis. Financial services are something we are good at and have a geographic advantage in. To put pressure on the industry and to overly constrain it is in no one’s interest. The regulator and leaders of these businesses need to take the necessary steps to get things back on track but it’s too simplistic and naïve to blame all that is wrong with the world on the UK banking system. To punish it further would kill a great national asset.

I wanted to come away from this second field clearer on the protest, crisper in my answers to those who ask me about it, and with a better understanding of the other side of the coin. But the protest was a bit vague, too thin and seemingly toothless.

In the space of 24 hours I felt I had seen the best of people, united in a common cause, clear in what they were doing and setting an example to all of selfless demonstration. I also saw a more modern cause, but it was unstructured, complex, vague and ineffectual. The human spirit is a remarkable thing and when united it is a powerful force but without that strength and desire it can become difficult to see.

Both fields will be there for the next couple of weeks, so take a look and see what you think.

By Tom Harwood

Sunday 6 November 2011

A very Tehran experience, Part 2. In which we hitch a ride with the Backstreet Boys.

  

Having recovered from our nightmare taxi journey with a fake beer and a cheeseburger (ref 'A very Tehran experience, part 1') we made our way to Cafe Parsa upstairs for a nightcap. We'd met the young barista the night before and wanted to make good our promise to drop by his establishment at the next opportunity. In Iran, the coffee shop is raised to the status of a cocktail bar and it's the place where Iranians, particularly younger, liberal Iranians, meet up with friends. Some cafes specialise in an atmosphere of political 'entre nous'. Through others wafts the fragrance of zeitgeist liberal internationalism. Others make no pretense and simply vibrate with flirtation.

Cafe Parsa sits astride the second and third state. It's dark chocolate coloured walls and sexy lighting could confuse the most conservative mullah into ordering a double round of Grey Goose. This place took hot chocolate to new heights we wanted to climb. There was white hot chocolate, there was dark hot chocolate, and there was milk hot chocolate. There was plain chocolate, coffee chocolate and Turkish chocolate. A box of chocolate was slashed open in our honour and the discs shoved in our mouths and down our throats like frois gras ducks. The viscosity of our drinks resembled double cream.

As the place got rowdier it became clear calls had been made that four Australian women were there drinking hot chocolate and young men from all over Tehran started to turn up to watch us. Red pandas riding unicycles wouldn't have garnered such interest. Moses from the Caspian Sea joined Hossein the shop owner. Mohammed and Mehti joined others unnamed who came and left and came back again. We spoke Farsi, we spoke English, we spoke French and Spanish. We ate and drank more chocolate. We took photos. More people came and went.

Somewhere in our cocoa-ambrosia haze we realised it was half ten and I was in danger of missing my flight to London. Yelps, apologies, and requests for the bill flew around the cafe. We dutifully engaged in our standard confusion over whether the figure was in Rials or Toman, got it wrong, sorted it out and made rash promises about mobiles, Facebook and meeting up in Burma next year. But how to get home? Nervous of another dud taxi we asked Cafe Parsa to call a taxi and translate our hotel directions. No need, no need, assured the bunch of them....Hossein has his car...he would take us himself!

Now, the sensible response to this was obviously to insist on a (registered) taxi and so of course we cheered Hossein, shouted our farewells and clattered downstairs to squeeze our chocolate bloated selves into his car which I can only surmised Peugeot built for dwarves.

On the downside it was possible Hossein was a cafe owner and serial killer on the side. On the upside his car had seatbelts. Seatbelts are of limited supply in Iran where the favoured motor safety device is the toddler. If you're lucky enough to have a toddler (or even two) you shout 'Shotgun' and wedge the toddler between yourself and the windscreen, confident the small beasty will take the main hit in a likely accident. Hossein had seatbelts and we made good use of them.

As we screeched away down Gandi Avenue we suddenly entered the third phase of our Very Tehran Experience....the Car Party. Before we knew what was going on Hossein cranked up the stereo and there they were the Backstreet Boys singing 'Backstreet's Back, Alright!' Well, I can only tell you it was heaven. I don't think that album has been played in Britain in a decade but on that wonderful trip, with Hossein as our DJ, we boomed, we screeched, we shouted, we car-danced (difficult in the cramped condition) and cheered. We detoured for petrol which simply doubles as a meeting spot and Hossein's cousins, brothers and friends gathered to wave through the windows, wonder at our beauty and generally enjoy a day at the tourist zoo. We moved on to some Shakira, then a song which was apparently about Hossein and then another burst of Backstreet's finest. Our fears of kidnap were soothed as we sped down streets we recognised and even started making helpful shortcut suggestions...many of which seemed to end in left hand turns from right hand lanes.

This is a Tehran night out. Admittedly, we were a little on the old side, but when you can't hang out at home, or you can't pick up boys and girls in bars, you cruise the streets, stereos on, swapping numbers on paper through windows and promising bootleg whisky and a good time. Just as we were about to leave this fabulous country, we felt like we'd finally arrived.

End, Part 2.

A very Tehran experience, Part 1. In which we go in search of Gandi but find Africa instead

To celebrate our final night in Iran together Gabs and I decided to head back to the oh-so-fash north of the city for a final dinner and coffee with two of our travel buddies Kim and Kirree. We were headed to the well-known Market cafe on Gandi Street where the menu was kebab-free.

Gabs and I ordered a taxi at 5.30pm, keen a do a little window shopping before dinner. Kim and Kirree were to join us at the cafe at half seven. Bang on time our taxi driver bounded into reception, raring to go. With some Iranian jazz on the stereo we pulled away with flair into the jaws of peak hour Tehran traffic. So far, so good.

Now, we'd done this journey at 8.30pm the night before and it had taken around 20 minutes. I figured it might well take an hour in peak traffic, maybe even a little more. Tehran traffic is notorious and we had to travel on a couple of major roads and motorways to get where we wanted to go. No matter. We were relaxed, we had time, we had water.

For the first hour of the journey we were so thoroughly engaged in conversation about our trip we didn't notice the time. The traffic was appalling but we were moving along. At the end of the hour I began to think we'd used a few more motorways than I had remembered...but our driver seemed confident he was headed to our desired location.

Somewhere in the second hour of the journey we voiced our private fears our driver was lost. Nothing looked familiar, except that we had passed Africa Boulevard about four times from six different directions. We passed three hospitals, a football stadium and a very large mosque. In reaction to our enquiry...'Gandi?' the good man denied all knowledge of English but offered us a consoling cigarette and a shrug in relation to the traffic. Worryingly though, he began to stop other cars for directions to Gandi. None of them bore us fruitful progress.

A little over 15 minutes into our third hour, when our water had run out and the wailing started, we understood we had entered Taxi Pergatory, where one is damned forever to drive on the highways and byways of northern Tehran. Leaping to our death on the motorway looked to be the only sensible option. But which motorway? And where were we? We could not understand how we had fallen into this unfortunate state of damnation. All we could moan from our back seat was 'Reza Shah...where art thou, travel leader?' But The Prince of Persia had flown home to Shiraz to recover from the 16-day social, historial and political turorial of ancient and modern Persia and repetitive questions regarding the meeting time for dinner. We were on our own.

At the two hour thirty mark, as we began to wave down police from the back seat, we suddenly pulled into Gandi Avenue - our desired destination - and motored gracefully to the front door of Market, where our friends calmly waited for us. They had left one and half hours after us but arrived 15 minutes before us.

I don't wish to sound dramatic but as I stumbled out of the taxi I thought I knew how that young Israeli boy Gilad Shalit felt being released after years with his Palestinian hosts. Out of the confusion surged a grateful euphoria mingled with fear that we might not recognise the world we were stepping back into...so long was our time in captivity.
The end - Part 1.

Sunday 30 October 2011

On the road - The landscape in central Iran

At the end of the dry season, Central Iran is dusty. The mountains
seem to wear their own gauzy veil, only making themselves visible to
us close up. They are jagged, like rows of uneven monster teeth,
though the highest is only around 4000m (and formerly called Penis
Mountain in Farsi). When I asked the Nomads what sort of rock the
ranges are made of, they laughed, and said 'just rock'. The valleys
are flat and broad, with dry river beds snaking through some of them
in the dry.
The colour of the ground and the maintains is a faint beige, and the
sky is a constant pale blue. Like Australia, the vegetation, at least
at this time of year, is sparse and scrubby though small, ground-level
purple flowers can be found dotted around some of the sites we visit.
They are related to the saffron plant.
The dust irritates our throat and eyes, and we sneeze as we step into
it. The veil is at least useful as a filter when we're out walking,
but it must be unbearably hot to wear in Summer when temperatures in
Iran can reach 40-55 degrees celsius. Now, in autumn, it's a
comfortable temperature - perhaps mid to high twenties at the height
of the day, and chilly, but not freezing, at night. If we travelled
here in April it would be a very different landscape as the snow
thawed and re-filled the rivers.

Saturday 29 October 2011

Travelling in Iran as a woman

This trip was always going to be about challenging preconceptions. Half way through my holiday I can write that one of the greatest surprises about Iran has been what a pleasure it is to travel here as a woman. Not only have I felt absolutely safe wandering the streets of large and small towns, but we have been able to speak to both Iranian women and men - something our male travelling companions haven't really been able to do.

Regardless of gender, Iran is one of the friendliest nations on Earth. I've never felt more welcome in a country. In cities, towns and villages we have been welcomed by locals on the street, in cafes, shops and mosques. It's usually the older men - those over 40 - who initiate conversation, answering our 'Salaams' with 'Which country are you from?' We have learnt to pronounce Australia 'Or-stray-lia' (Gabrielle is particularly good at this) and, surprisingly, it was in Tehran where we have most surprised the locals with our excellent grasp of English.

But the women are also keen to talk. While the men openly greet us from their shops, the women tend to circle us shyly first, waiting some time before approaching us to speak. In Tehran, two young women giggled nervously near our group before trying to take a photo of us without our noticing and then shouting 'thank you for coming to our country!' At the same place, just outside the main Bazaar, a woman in her thirties approached our guide Reza to ask where we were from. Hearing his answer she then spoke to us in excellent English, explaining she was an English teacher and that her mother, who was next to her, made her learn English. She too wanted to know how we spoke such good English in Australia.

But probably our most touching experience was sitting in the women's section of the mosque in Shiraz. In one of the Shrines, two nomadic women and their three children came and plonked themselves down right opposite us to stare, smile and film us on their mobile phone. I think one of them was saying they were going to sleep there that night - the Shrine is open 24 hours a day - but we don't speak Farsi and they didn't speak English so our communal understanding was limited. I could show them a photo of Simon and the boys, but other than that we probably just spent 20 minutes smiling and nodding at each other companionably.

At the same shrine, an older woman came and asked Gabrielle to pray for her. She showed Gabrielle some bad hospital test results. Joanne had also been asked to pray for someone. I think it made us all feel uncomfortable but I know that for me, it wasn't just that I don't believe in God, I think a lot of it was just discomfort about being asked to be personally involved in the lives of strangers. But that sums up Iran I think.

In another Shrine at the same mosque we met a young nurse who worked in the burns unit at Shiraz's main hospital and volunteered at the Shrine because 'this is where my heart is'. She told us, with limited English, that the Shrine is a place where people come to pray, to relax, to chat to friends (in person or on mobiles, which we saw a lot of) or who even came for 5, 10, 20 days to read and recite the Koran. It was a place about as different from a Christian church as it's possible to be.

We asked our male travellers whether men approached them at the Shrine but they said not. But the men were undeniably hospitable as both Gabrielle and I managed to wander into the men's Shrine by mistake. While I was politely re-directed early on, poor Gabs managed to get to the third and final room before realising she was the only woman. She came scuttling out pretty quicky to the generous laughs of the men (though not before spotting a man inside holding a sign which seemed to indicate an ongoing competition to 'win a luxury car' which seemed out of place).

More than a few times men are keen to emphasise their opposition to the Government, and in particular to the veil. A typical conversation might go like this...

'Salaam, which country you from?'

'Salaam, we're from Australia.'

'Australia! Do you like Iran?'

'Yes! Man inja ro dust darim' (I love being here)

'But not our president. Ahmadinejad is very bad. The veil, no good!' And this statement is usually accompanied by a dusting off of the hands.

We have had this conversation many times with men. They are always the older men and it's the first thing they are keen for us to understand. One taxi driver asked our guide to emphasise to Gabrielle that the Muslims didn't build Shiraz University. We haven't had this conversation with women, except for one young woman who joked that men may have to do national service for two years but women have to wear the veil for life. She jokingly went to take off her veil for a photo we took. Almost, but not quite.

At Hafez's tomb in Shiraz we met a beautiful group of schoolgirls on excursion - I guess they were around 8-10 years old. Their uniform was a hot pink trouser suit with a white veil. In Iran, the law says girls should start to wear the veil at 9 years, and it will also be part of their uniform. But depending on how conservative the family is many girls might not start wearing it full time until they are older...say around 12. This little group shouted 'hello, how are you!' and when they heard we were from Australia their eyes bulged with excitment. Their astonishment is something I will remember forever. We may as well have been from Outer Space.

In Abaku we had a band of teenage men follow us through the entire two-hour walk of the town, through the lanes, to the shrine of Martyrs and up a steep mountain to the Tower of Silence where the Zoroastrians used to lay out their dead. When we came to the Mosque we spoke to the old women of the town, joking and laughing that both Kim and Gabs were single if they had sons. Our band of men dispersed the corners of the courtyard....unwilling to continue cavorting under the watchful eye of their female, elder townsfolk. The old ladies were delighted to talk to us through our guide. We had a good laugh about the fact that Gabs's mum was looking for a husband for her...they suggested we wait to meet their sons who would soon be at the mosque for prayers. It was the highlight of our stay in that town. Abaku is interesting in that it is religously very conservative but politically reformist. Our guide said that Ahmadinejad visited the town to speak at the local soccer stadium and not one single person went to listen to him. That combination of conservatism and reformism is common, and vice versa. It's an incredibly difficult country for foreigners to get their head around.

We have only had two negative 'people' experiences in the group while being here. One was that same group in Abaku - one of those boys pulled on the backpack of one of the girls in our group - I think more to get her attention than anything else - and more seriously today, one of the young girls had a man follow her through the back lanes of Yazd who forcibly tried to kiss her. He backed off when she threatened to call the police, but continued to follow her as she made her way back to the hotel. A horrible experience in any country, but particularly in a strange place. But this experience has been a one off so far and I'm absolutely certain Iran is as safe, if not safer, for women than Australia or Britain. The town we are in today, Yazd (central Iran), is much more religously conservative than any of the cities we have been in before. All women we have seen wear the full chador (long black cape and veil, but the face is not covered). It has also been the least outwardly friendly town (by this I mean we haven't been stopped for a chat by many people at all) but last night an Imam urged us to come closer to watch the Friday prayers and today we have been welcomed into coffee houses and kebab joints for rest and resuscitation, even with our less than conservative flip flops.

Regardless of gender, it is amazing what can be communicated with very few words.

Iran: Dispelling the myths

Iran: Dispelling the myths

Every day in Iran, another one of my pre-conceived ideas about the country is shot down. Obviously my research is not scientific. I’ve spoken only to people who choose to approach me, and those people probably seek out a western view assuming it’s sympathetic to their own. I know I’m speaking to a liberal elite, but the Iranian middle class is big and growing. I came to Iran with an open mind and even I am shocked at what I’ve found. I want to dispel some myths. I know I can’t change international diplomacy or claim to have more insight than the whole western media. But I know this: I am one western woman who believed something about Iran and I have met one Iranian man whose experience tells me otherwise. Here is what I’ve learnt.

Myth 1: Iranians are a deeply religious people

Sure, there are some religious people in Iran – like there are in any country – and it’s probably safe to say those blokes running the country are fairly devout (the Ayatollah and Guardian Council at least. Ahmadinejad’s pious credentials are unclear). But the majority of Iranians consider themselves secular. It’s a bit like saying Britain is a Christian country and knowing that about 10 per cent of people attend church services. The statistics are roughly the same here.

Myth 2: You don’t have to worry about your hair, because it’s covered

In Iran, hair is big. I mean this both literally and figuratively. Women care about their hair. They show as much of it off in public as it is possible to show while strictly speaking wearing a headscarf. Many people dye their hair and the fringe is all-important, if only because it means more hair is therefore on show. Beehives are big. In Iran, the backcomb serves a decorative and structural role. In order to show all this hair and keep the headscarf secure, one must pile one’s hair as high as possible on top of the head, make it into as big a bun as possible so that the veil can rest of the back of the head without falling off. Not many people have enough hair to create such a structure, so to compensate every woman must own giant scrunchie-type hair pieces. This bizarre device comes in many forms. It can be a clip that you use to fix a French roll, or it can be a more traditional scrunchie that secures a bun. What is certain is that it will be piles of satin, or some other synthetic material, with feathers and/or other decorative agents poking out the sides and/or top. It serves to make the veil stay on and to create a rather fetching profile as the veil drapes over the gigantic structure at the back of the head. For days I thought Iranian women must have such lovely thick hair to create such a look. I wanted to see all of it (need I say more?).

Myth 3: You have to be careful when talking about politics

Everybody wants to talk about politics and politics are openly discussed. In one taxi, our guide was pointing out the dormitories of Shiraz’s universities – of which they have many, including the best medical schools in the Middle East – and the taxi driver said, ‘Make sure you tell them they were built in the Shah’s time. We don’t want them thinking they were built by Muslims.’ Men talk to us everywhere we go and immediately they want to tell us they hate the government and the hejab. In our first three days, two different men had approached me to tell me they hated the hejab and to apologise for the government of Iran. Women make their statements about the headscarf every day in the way they wear it.

Myth 4: Covering up prevents vanity

Iran doesn’t have the highest rate of plastic surgery in the world per capita for nothing. When all you can see is the face, the face becomes an obsession. In 24 hours I’d seen five different people on the streets wearing the post-rhinoplasty bandages. Everybody has a nose job, so there’s no need to hide it. It used to be a status symbol, but now that it’s so common, it’s just a fact of life. Both men and women are into it and in fact, I came across a male mannequin in Tehran wearing nose job bandages. One Iranian man told me his aunt was on her fifth nose. You change it with the fashion, you see. Lips are big too. (You now know what I mean when I say, ‘big’.)

Myth 5: All Iranians wear the chador (or cover up fully in long black cloaks)

The rule is basically that you have to cover your neck, shoulders, to your elbow on your arms and below the ankles on the legs. You can wear sandals and flip flops. The result is that most young women will wear a manteau – which is basically a shirt dress – over jeans. It has to cover your bum. While the idea is to hide the shape of your figure, in reality this is being pushed to the limits and skinny jeans have a whole other meaning in Iran. Sure, many Iranian women wear a chador. And as you go from the rich to the poor parts of cities and the country, you see more women in more conservative clothes. But on the streets of Tehran and Shiraz, women are as fashion-conscious as women anywhere. As my Turkish friend said, ‘This is not free’, and it isn’t, but I think it’s fair to say that young, modern Iranian woman would be just as shocked, offended and outraged at the burka as French parliamentarians.

Myth 6: The call to prayer wakes everyone up

It was my eighth day when I was first awoken by the call to prayer. Not all mosques in Iran broadcast it over loudspeakers, and in fact, few do. In Shia Islam, there are only three prayers a day, as opposed to the five calls to prayer you hear in Turkey or other countries with a Sunni majority. Apparently Shiites are more relaxed about prayer and while nobody is upset at people running 10 minutes late to the mosque for prayer, it would not be seen in some neighbouring Arab countries. Our guide told us this as we sat in a mosque’s courtyard in Yazd (a fairly religious city by Iranian standards) watching the service and a Mullah yelled out and gestured for us to get closer for a better view.

Myth 7: You can’t look men in the eye

Men yell out ‘hello’ to us wherever we go and it is perfectly acceptable to smile and yell hello back. In every city we’ve been to, men have approached us (mainly middle-aged men, so far, unfortunately) to talk to us. It is more than acceptable for us to look at them and talk back. I even bat a few eyelids to my cute young taxi driver in Shiraz. In the gardens – and the Iranians do good garden – you see young couples holding hands and sitting quietly in shady areas quite close to each other. I haven’t witnessed any kissing or overt PDAs, but men and women do talk, and flirt even, in public. An Australian guy I’m with was approached by an Iranian girl who gave him her phone number. This all took place in public and nobody called the Revolutionary Police. In Eghlid and Yazd, where people are more religious and fewer speak English, it’s true that we haven’t got into the exact same conversations with men, but we’ve still been greeted, welcomed and stared at warmly. In fact, one response I got in Eghlid from a 19-year-old boy was in contrast to all the others so far. The conversation went something like this:

HIM: ‘Do you like this [the veil]?’
ME: ‘No. Do you?’
HIM: ‘Yes.’
ME: ‘Why?’
HIM: ‘Because Khomeini said it.’
ME: ‘Why don’t you wear it then?’
HIM: ‘Sorry, I don’t speak English.’
Everywhere, all sorts.

Myth 8: Iranians want a revolution

The Iranian people have had two revolutions in the past 100 years. They don’t necessarily want another one. They have first-hand memories of how unpredictable revolutions can be. How destabilising. How they can be hijacked. How you never can tell what you might get in the end. On the streets of the cities, we’ve met so many people who tell us how embarrassing Ahmadinejad is (‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘We had John Howard for 13 years.’). Not many middle class people like him, or voted for him, and we saw this outrage in the protests of 2009. But the fact is, he’s done a lot for the poor provincial people and he’s very popular as a result outside the cities, no matter how much sophisticated urbanites hate the thought. And getting rid of him is only a start, people say. They still only get to vote for candidates approved by the Guardian Council. The Council is made up of six mullahs and six lawyers appointed by parliament. They get to approve people who will run for election and so the choice is small, and some feel unfair and unrepresentative. This is the organisation that must be reformed to bring about the freedom middle class Iranians crave. But, as I said, many people believe that this reform can happen without a revolution. Instead, they want to trust elected parliamentarians to pass reformist legislation so that gradual and lasting change happens over time in a stable manner.

Myth 9: Iranians hate Jews

There has been a vibrant Jewish minority in Tehran and Shiraz since the Persians themselves settled. There still is today and they have a representative in parliament. Jews are allowed to practice their faith all over Iran and they are able to travel freely between Israel and Iran – something other Iranians are not able to do. (In fact, Christians and other religions are also allowed to practice their faiths all over Iran on the condition that they do not promote or proselytise.) Most Iranians don’t understand the ant-Israeli rhetoric (or anti-US rhetoric for that matter). As one Iranian put it to me when I asked, ‘We don’t see Israel or America as our enemy. We are more worried about Pakistan.’ I’m not denying Ahmadinejad has a problem with Israel, and we’ve heard him say enough things to know how he feels without me repeating them here. I’m not saying there aren’t Iranians who might agree with him. I am saying that many Iranians are more threatened by the expansion intentions of their Arab neighbours than the state of Israel. I am also saying that there are Jewish people with national representation in parliament living happy lives in Iran without fear of persecution.

Myth 10: Iran is a dry country

Well, let’s be clear about this: there is a massive distinction between public and private life in Iran. People drink alcohol inside their homes every day without fear of prosecution. Shiraz grapes are still grown in Shiraz for people to make their fine home brew. People (and I met at least one) buy dozens of kilos of raisins to make their own brand of vodka. Dealing in alcohol is a severe offense, as is drinking it in public, but drinking at home is not illegal.

NuffnangX