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.

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.

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.