Free Censoring an Iranian Love Story by Shahriar Mandanipour Page B

Moharram Ali Khan?
    That’s strange! You are familiar with the likes of Damocles and his sword; King Arthur’s master swordsman Sir Lancelot; Josef Ignace Guillotin; Josef Mengele, the doctor at Auschwitz who with his scalpel conducted medical experiments on the prisoners; and even with murderers such as the one in The Silence of the Lambs who skinned people and sewed their skin into clothes, but you don’t know who Moharram Ali Khan is?
    In the 1930s, Moharram Ali Khan was responsible for censoring newspapers published in Tehran. Armed with his weapon of choice, meaning a pair of scissors that resembled the jaws of a Nag serpent, he would show up every morning and every evening before the newspapers went to press. He would carefully study the columns prepared for layout, and wherever he found a sentence or sentences that were contrary to the interests of the king, the government, the governor, or even small government departments, he would with great dexterity surgically remove them …

CENSORED TESTICLES
    T he sky above Tehran is filled with smoke from the factories in the outskirts of town and from the purple fires of alchemists in the tales of One Thousand and One Nights. Motorcycles that double as express taxis intricately weave their lone passenger through deadlocked traffic. On the sidewalk the scent of Clinique Happy lingers in the air in the wake of a beautiful woman clad in a coverall and headscarf… Sara and Dara, in the shadow of a postmodern high-rise, approach a street peddler. The man’s clothes are a blend of traditional Arab, Afghani, and Turkish garb … The government of the Islamic Republic has coined this year the Year of Progress and Blossoming. Therefore, this year, we Iranians have a five-month-long spring. Consequently, Sara and Dara have ample time to carry on with their romance in this season. Seeing a handsome couple, in a voice that seems to come from the pit of a magic lantern, the street peddler says:
    “A talisman for bliss … A spell for love and compassion …”
    Sara and Dara sit in front of his box and riffle through the small dark bottles, colorful powders, locks, plaques, and rusted metal talismans with strange designs etched on them.
    Sara asks:
    “Do you have a talisman for hate?”
    Dara says:
    “A talisman to free the mind, so that someone is not in your thoughts night and day …”
    The spellbinding gleam in the old man’s eyes darkens. His eyes fill with sorrow, the sorrow of an aged lover remembering a love Gone with the Wind … He digs into his deep pockets and pulls out a roll of thin yellow paper. He tears off a piece. From his breast pocket he produces a Parker fountain pen and starts to draw strange signs. The ink spreads on the paper and makes the signs look even more ominous … Sara takes the magic paper.
    “After the spell works, I ask that you tell your friends that the potions, talismans, and spells of medicine man Jafar ibn-Jafri are more potent than those of all other medicine men …”
    Sara asks:
    “How much should I pay you?”
    “If I take money from you the magic of the spell will be undone.”
    The magic seller turns to Dara. He stares into his eyes. Then, with the anguish of a father taking his son to the sacrifice altar, he says:
    “Master! You have ninety-five tumans in your pocket. Offer it to me as a gift.”
    Dara reaches into his pocket and takes out a few crumpled bills and a coin. He counts them and stares at the old man in amazement. The old man kisses the bills as he would a holy object, he touches them to his forehead, and closes his eyes … A few steps away, Dara tells Sara:
    “Actually, I am the one who needs that spell. Let me have it so that I can be free of the agony of thinking of you day and night.”
    Sara, with a mysterious smile on her lips, says:
    “Why are you so sure that I am not the same way and that now that I have seen you I won’t get even worse … I have dropped most of my university credits this term