Free Persian Girls: A Memoir by Nahid Rachlin

more or less western. The same conflicting attitudes and values dominated most families, rich or poor.
    Pari and I were keenly aware of how different we were, not just from Manijeh but also from most of the girls in the school, who accepted their prescribed roles. Many of the girls were already engaged to be married as soon as they reached legal age, which had been raised to sixteen.
    The engaged girls formed a clique of their own. All their fiancés were much older. This was due partly to the fact that ideally husbands had to be “established” to be able to support a family. If you married someone who was not established you would be forced to live at the groom’s parents’ or siblings’ homes until they saved enough money to have their own places.
    Jaleh Yazdan, with her olive skin and curly dark brown hair, was engaged to a colonel twice her age. Minou Tajar and Shahla Sadeghpour, cousins, were engaged to brothers, both doctors, both twice as old as their brides. Girls referred to their fiancés by their titles, colonel, doctor, engineer. They whispered to each other as they stood under trees or in other shady spots. In public they were polite, proper. They addressed people with taarof, self-deprecating remarks combined with flattery. “I’m not worth your trouble.” “It’s the beauty of your eyes that cast the glow.” “Please forgive me, I’m less than a particle of dust.” Taarof, which Pari and I criticized between ourselves, was a traditional code of behavior that played a double function. It showed good manners and politeness and at the same time put you at a distance, so that you could guard your privacy in a culture full of taboos.
    Girls didn’t ever run, laugh out loud, or look at boys standing in doorways or against walls. Boys were waiting for them to pass by, to put letters in their hands inviting them to secret meetings. The engaged girls moved in a slow way, spoke softly; any raised voice, any swift or jerky movement was considered unfeminine and not in good taste. They had to be careful not to do anything inappropriate for fear that they would drive the men away. Those who didn’t have anyone yet had to do their best to attract suitable men. To that end the wealthier girls underwent plastic surgery to make their noses smaller or to take the hook out of them. Some even had their breasts enlarged.
    Rumor had it that if anyone “slipped” and lost her virginity, she would have her hymen sewed up by a special surgeon so she wouldn’t be discovered on the wedding night.
    “Modern” girls, too, were afraid of the power men had, no less so than Maryam and other women in her ancient neighborhood. “Men are murky, inscrutable,” one girl said. “You never know what they may do to you. For one thing, they flatter you and then once they get their way they abandon you.”
    I was now at an age when my breasts were budding and I had an awareness of men.
    “When you have your periods, can you become pregnant if you let a man . . . ?” I started to ask Pari once, as we walked back from school.
    “Go all the way,” Pari said. “Yes, you can get pregnant.”
    Two boys began to follow us, coming close and brushing against our arms, whispering endearing words. They were only two among many lati s, lechers, who followed girls on the streets. When we entered crowded Pahlavi Avenue the boys melted away and disappeared among the people on the street.
    “There’s only one man I like,” Pari whispered.
    “Who?”
    “Majid. He’s nice, not one of the lati s. And he’s different from most men, not tyrannical. I met him when I auditioned for a play they’re putting on at school. He came a few times to discuss the play with Miss Partovi. I’m filled with desire at his mere sight. It’s like being inflamed.”
    I thought of Maryam talking with other women about sex as something a woman performed only for the sake of her husband. It was a sin for a woman to enjoy sex or to feel desire. The model for