Iran is a risky place to be different. People are often victimized for their beliefs. As I learned the hard way from the end of a whip, the attitude toward freedom of expression is very ruthless. It’s nearly impossible to feel free, and that is a suffocating sensation. The limitations can be found in almost every aspect of daily life, and they are the main reason people flee the country. It’s sad and quite a tragedy to know that people don’t want to leave their home but are compelled to because they feel powerless from the restrictions and are in need of the economic, academic, professional, and personal security that other countries can provide. The thing is that everywhere Iranians go, they seem to succeed. They are capable of succeeding because they are given opportunities that they don’t have in their own motherland.
Iran has the world’s highest rate of “brain drain”—meaning that highly educated people frequently leave Iran to pursue other educational and professional opportunities. Iran is losing its academic elite, which is costing its economy billions of dollars.
Just like many other Iranians who leave the country for better opportunities, my parents believed that Aria and I needed to forge a new beginning, and they hoped for a change of lifestyle for us. They could sense that I was craving more and more freedom every day. But more importantly, they wanted me to have a brighter future. They wanted me to pursue a law degree, get married, and have children—you know, every Iranian parent’s dream. But it surely wasn’t mine. I didn’t want a fresh start, even after facing extreme brutality firsthand. I loved my life in Tehran, and my experience with the government didn’t change my views of the picturesque country, its extraordinary people, and its cultural treasures. I didn’t want to abandon my magical Iran, and I had no idea if I was ever going to return. But my parents had already made up their minds.
After months of arguing and ignoring my family members for their acts of “human cruelty,” I had no choice but to take the tickets my parents had bought for Maman and me to embark on a journey, via Dubai, to the United States and into the unknown. Baba would stay in Tehran. He had too much pride to move, and his status in the Iranian milieu was way too important to him. Even if there wasn’t much of a status left.
Before I left Tehran, Omid and I broke up, which made me despise my parents even more. I was convinced that they were the reason I couldn’t marry my soul mate and live happily ever after in Iran. Just so you know, now I thank Maman every single day for making that decision for me. I can’t imagine what my life would be like today if I had stayed and married Omid.
I had just graduated high school and was off to Dubai to start my new, wonderful, glamorous life (or so my parents wanted me to believe). That’s why people move to Dubai anyway, right? Going there would be an opportunity they felt compelled for me to explore. My extended family had business there, and Aria had just moved there for school and work.
The city of Dubai sprang up from a desert in a mere twenty years. Today it’s a sparkly new city that was built to have the best of everything—the tallest buildings, the most lavish hotels, the most modern technology, the most glamorous fashion—the list is endless. The sun is even hotter there. The largest indoor ski resort in the world lies smack in the middle of the Mall of the Emirates. The city’s affluence is confirmed by its fleet of police cars—which includes a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and a $2.5 million Bugatti Veyron. If that doesn’t scream luxury, I don’t know what does. Everywhere you look, there are more wonders to be discovered in this ultramodern, cosmopolitan city. It’s become a symbol of prosperity that you either love or hate (or love to hate). Regardless of your opinion, it’s undeniably impressive. It feels like living in a futuristic era.
Fashion means business in Dubai. The city has become so involved in the international fashion circuit that it created Dubai Fashion Week in record speed, and it’s sneaking up behind Paris, New York, and Milan. Dubai sought a slice of the multibillion-dollar industry. It’s the city that wants it all, and it gets what it wants.
Every year, millions of people visit Dubai’s enormous malls, designers, and local boutiques to shop. Fashion is much more daring in Dubai, and that’s part of the city’s culture. The boldness makes sense, given that it’s a melting pot of countless cultures. Unlike Iran and some other Muslim countries, there are no extreme restrictions on women’s clothing in the United Arab Emirates. Finally, I got to see for myself what it was like to be among women who had choices. It was liberating for me.
When I woke up in the morning and considered what I wanted to wear, I realized that I didn’t have to think about rules, restrictions, judgments, or punishments. I wasn’t forced into pretending to be more religious than I really was, and I could finally use my clothes to create an identity for myself the way I wanted to. As I stared at my clothes, I saw a future in which I would be judged less for my appearance and valued more for who I was as a person, regardless of whether I chose to cover myself or wear a miniskirt. Freedom is not about the amount of clothing you put on or take off, but about having the choice to do so.
As I explored this new city, I saw women who wore hijabs, covered from head to toe, walking on the same beaches as women who frolicked around in their European-cut bikinis. Their freedom of expression empowered me. I found a new respect for women who covered by choice for religious reasons they strongly believed in. They didn’t have to fear government punishment for not wearing the veil. I also respected those who wore bikinis in a conservative country. There is something very powerful about standing up for your beliefs, even if you’re in the minority. I knew I needed to find a way to celebrate that peaceful coexistence. It all suddenly clicked for me: fashion was a form of freedom.
But I didn’t have a chance to fully discover what I was looking for in this city of grandiose buildings and man-made islands, because Dubai was only a layover for me on my way to America. Maman wanted me to move to Washington, DC, so that I could enroll in college. Once again I was on a plane, this time to “the capital of the free world.” Leaving for someplace new that second time was even harder than the first transition had been. Dubai was temporary; America was for keeps. Even worse, Aria was staying in Dubai, and I was flying farther away from home and the Middle East, which made my outlook gloomier. I was sick of having no choice in my own future.
Though Maman was only an arm’s length away, I ignored her the entire flight. I was devastated and didn’t try to hide it. I bawled as if I were traveling into the bowels of hell. I cried more on that plane ride than I did leaving prison. In my mind, I was being hauled away in handcuffs to Guantanamo. It was ungrateful and selfish of me to only think about my future when the woman sitting next to me had sacrificed hers to provide me with better opportunities. She had left her husband and son behind, a beautiful house, friends, family—everything she treasured—for me. I didn’t recognize her sacrifice then, but I sure as hell do now.
People around the globe go to great lengths to gain access to the United States of America—the land of opportunity. Your entire life can change if you get your hands on that golden ticket—the green card. You are free to become whoever you want. This is the country that made Kim Kardashian more famous than most world leaders, the country that allows you to purchase a gun and say things like, “Fuck you, president.” If you are smart and motivated enough, this country gives you the opportunity to be on the cover of Forbes magazine. And last but not least, this country allows you to wear a miniskirt in public without any fear of punishment. It may not sound like much, but it was—and still is—vital to me.
July 5, 2000: Arriving in the terminal at Dulles International Airport in Virginia, my first thought was: fashion disaster. Everywhere I looked I saw dirty tennis shoes, very short shorts, way too many flip-flops on non-manicured toes, and eighties haircuts with neon scrunchies. I compared everything I saw in America to Iran, trying to justify in my head why things were so much better back home. Not because they actually were better back home, but simply because I was red with anger from missing my life there so much. Stepping onto American soil made it all real. I put my guard up as soon as I got off the plane, and I didn’t want to see positives in anything. Admitting that there was a place better than home would have made me feel remorseful; I thought I’d be letting down everyone I left behind by finding something greater.
I spent the next few weeks at my aunt’s house barricaded inside “my” bedroom and crying. I didn’t feel like speaking to or seeing anyone other than my friends in Tehran, whom I spoke with every day. (Thank you, AOL Instant Messenger.) At least they could provide me with some sort of comic relief. I don’t know if it made things better or worse hearing them share all the fun times I was missing out on. I wanted to go back to the life I knew.
A part of me was so fascinated to be here, but at the same time I was overwhelmed by all the freedom and opportunities I now had. Another part of me felt guilty, as if I were cheating on Iran by enjoying America. Was I giving up my memories of the Rose Garden, Aria, and the wonderful friends and family I left behind? I was in a love-hate relationship with my new home. I felt inadequate, so I ostracized myself until I was ready to confront my fears. And my limited English vocabulary surely wasn’t helping me adjust to the United States.
Starting ESL (English as a second language) courses was the first step in acclimating myself to this dream country. I had studied English in high school in Tehran and taken private English classes with Aria and Payam, at my parents’ request, but they didn’t actually help me learn English. My tutor in Tehran was a crazy British lady named Miss Megly. Her husband worked at the British embassy, which is what brought her to Iran. Our teacher-student relationship was a bumpy one. It was hard to view her as an authority figure when she always had bed hair and a toothbrush in hand. Conveniently, I was stricken with “food poisoning” every other class.
I was basically learning English against my will and resisted it with all my might. Maman wanted me to be culturally well rounded, so she enrolled me in every activity possible—from tennis lessons to cooking classes. Because of my reluctance to learn, I sadly didn’t benefit from most of these experiences. Aside from the intensity of learning a new language, the ESL courses were socially difficult for me too. Back in Tehran, I was the leader of my clique and one of the cool girls. Here, I sat like an invisible lump among foreigners of all ages and backgrounds who never gave a single glance in my direction. Going to class was like being in a United Colors of Benetton ad campaign, there were so many different cultures and backgrounds. My teacher was Chinese, the old guy to my right was Indian, and the girl next to me was from Bolivia. The campus itself was massive, and no one cared about my existence. Despite being surrounded by so many interesting people, being in an environment that was so different from what I was used to gave me a sharp shiver of fear every day.
In so little time my life had turned upside down. Each morning, I struggled to wake up, knowing that those dreaded courses awaited me. My mood was tense, and it only grew worse by the day. I was the Debbie Downer in the back of the classroom who didn’t utter a word to anyone. The only thing on my mind was what my friends were doing and which lucky girl would date Omid next. As it happened, he dated one of my best friends a mere three months after I moved. I guess my future ex-husband had moved on faster than I had.
I think my parents realized that their dream of me becoming a lawyer was pretty much dead by the time I stepped on U.S. soil. I had already planted the seed in their heads that law school wasn’t for me. My future profession was still a huge question mark. All I knew was that I wanted to empower women to celebrate their beauty, but I hadn’t figured out how I would do that just yet.
In the meantime, I needed a temporary job. I wanted to distance myself from my family, surround myself with people other than the “enemies” who had brought me to America. It would also help me learn English much faster. ESL class wasn’t working as quickly as I had hoped, and I was especially traumatized after a very good-looking guy made fun of my English at a party. It made me inch even closer to total exile. That’s when I decided that changes needed to be made. No guy would ever make fun of the way I spoke again. It’s ironic that now people think my accent is sexy. Who would’ve thought that I could ever embrace it?
Fariba, an Iranian boutique owner in Virginia, was the lucky target of my job search. I stumbled upon her boutique one day while I was shopping. She sold dreadful wedding dresses and evening gowns, and she was the physical embodiment of “going overboard.” Fariba looked a bit like Michael Jackson. She had more plastic surgery than the entire Beverly Hills community combined. Her face was perfectly pulled back, but her neck was ridden with wrinkles. On top of her overdone face, she caked on makeup an inch thick that was four shades lighter than her actual skin color. I wondered how long it took her to get ready every morning. She was tall, very skinny, and had fried blond hair doused with way too much hairspray.
But thank goodness I found a fellow Iranian! I don’t think I would’ve gotten the job otherwise, given my professional credentials (which were zero) and my extremely limited English vocabulary. I think she mostly felt sorry for me, but in a way she also felt close to me instantly, since we were both Iranian. Fariba hired me on the spot. We find comfort among those who understand us, and having a boss that spoke Farsi was, understandably, comforting.
The store was located in McLean, Virginia, a wealthy suburb of Washington, DC, and it was the perfect place for my new favorite pastime: people-watching. I stared out the front window for hours on end observing what the Virginia fashion scene had to offer. I wanted to change every single outfit. It especially bothered me that these women used their freedom of dress to wear flip-flops and gym sneakers. I missed Iranian underground fashion terribly. My people-watching days were short-lived, as I got bored of being the fashion police. I could only do so many imaginary makeovers.
The store’s clients were mainly bridal parties, but the ones who fascinated me the most were the girls shopping for their flashy prom dresses with their fathers’ credit cards. While these girls celebrated the beginning of their dating lives, Iranian girls were being punished for merely appearing in public with the opposite sex. Baba would’ve never paid for a dress meant to be worn on a night where many girls are known to lose their virginity, unless it was my wedding night. I didn’t care to go to prom, but I craved that type of freedom for my fellow Iranians.
From a young age, I knew that working for someone else wasn’t something I wanted to do, and being bossed around by Fariba for months on end reinforced that. But sometimes Fariba would leave me in the store alone for hours upon hours. It was daunting at times, because I mainly had to use sign language to talk to customers, since my English was still poor. But it also gave me a sense of authority. I was the boss, and that was an exceptional source of contentment for me. During my free time at the register, I would sketch the gowns that hung in the store and then tweak them into better versions. I sketched so much that I actually got good at it. I tried on every single dress at least twenty times to get the functionality in my sketches just right. In those quiet moments of creation, the idea of owning my own clothing line consumed my thoughts.
Before I knew what was happening, an American dream was forming in my head and with it, an acceptance of my new home and community. I started to really cherish my life here. I was slowly making friends and experimenting with different activities. I had gotten a driver’s license so I could go anywhere I wanted, and unlike when we were in Iran, Maman would get so excited whenever I went out and did things. She wouldn’t even ask me where I was going or when I was coming back.
“Wear some lipstick, for God’s sake!” she would say.
Navigating this dramatically different world instilled in me the desire to create more opportunities for myself. What was at first a hopeless place for me had become one filled with countless possibilities. I wished for the same freedom and opportunities for my friends and many others in Iran, who were just as capable, if not more so, than I was. The only difference between them and me was that I held a U.S. passport.
Accepting change is no easy feat—whether it’s jumping from one relationship to another, one profession to another, or one country to another. I feared change when I moved to the United States, but I learned to embrace it over time. Fear eventually morphed into nervous excitement. I am where I am today because I grew and learned every time something changed, I discovered fresh insights about every aspect of my being, and I transformed myself. Not all changes will lead you to fairy tales and glory, but overcoming the wickedest, most difficult changes in your life will direct you to what you truly desire. It’s about closing one chapter and opening another one. I closed the chapter of living in constant fear and took the pen in my hands to write my own fearless fairy tale. If caterpillars didn’t change, there would be no butterflies!