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 13^th 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

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.)

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.

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

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.