I worked up the courage to go into the bathroom and put on my chador and headscarf. The headscarf was lovely; the royal blue brought out the blue in my eyes and covered my greasy hair and overgrown fringe. But that's a bit like saying, 'Oh well, she died having fun.' Cold comfort.
I thought everyone would stare at me – the way I stare at women wearing headscarves in Turkey or burkhas in London. I thought they'd ask, as I do, what made you make that decision? Why do you think it necessary to cover your hair, the shape of your body? Do you believe it is sanctioned by God? How can you believe that when it seems to me merely an endorsement of the sins of man? (And I use 'man' here with intention.)
I was the only woman in the queue wearing the chador. Most of the women were my age or younger and they were wearing jeans and long jackets or tops just covering their bottoms. I felt slightly ridiculous, but I had also felt ridiculous in my hiking shoes and chinos, right, so wasn't it the same thing? No. Because this time what I was wearing stood for something (other than my inability to combine practicality and style). It stood for something I detest and the people in the queue detested it too and it showed. It's here I got the stares: hard, disapproving ones and I thought for a moment that I understood. But I don't, do I?
As if to drill home the message, in front of me in the queue was the most handsome man I'd seen in weeks. I didn't laugh as I thought how what I wanted to do to him could get me stoned to death. (In reality, I later realised, it probably wouldn't but I'm still not willing to test the system.)
I'll question again and again my reasons for visiting Iran and whether it was the right decision. I know some people think it's not. Some people think the gift of the tourist dollar is tacit support of the regime and its rules. But I don't believe that. I can't – because how can we ever hope to understand each other if we don't go where we fear?
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