Should I run or should I surrender to the armed men?
I had no time to ponder the impact that question would have on the rest of my life. My adrenaline kicked in, and I made the split-second decision to bolt, with the armed men just seconds behind me. I ran with fear pulsing in my heart behind Neda, who was a few paces behind Maryam. We navigated our way around the traditional two-level house and dashed through the dark, grassy yard, past the covered pool and the neatly lined and stacked yard chairs, then made a break for it out the large white garage door that opened onto a side street.
We only managed to run half a block before Neda started banging on a neighbor’s door, crying and begging for help. Was this how my life was going to end? Even though I was petrified, I was prepared to make my escape. It was my do-or-die moment. I yelled to Neda at the top of my lungs, “Keep running!”
I was sprinting through the streets of Tehran in a miniskirt and high heels, which was, in 1998—and is still today—deemed a criminal act in Iran. It would be equivalent to running across Times Square screaming, “I have a bomb.” I had never been on the streets of Tehran in a miniskirt before. It was so liberating, despite the danger, to feel the crisp December air embrace my legs and arms. I felt invincible, empowered, and equal.
“Stop, or I will shoot!”
It was too late—they had caught up with us. That fleeting moment of empowerment vanished as quickly as a bolt of lightning when I saw the three men, dressed in khaki pants and long-sleeved, button-down shirts, standing only a few feet away with their long rifles aimed in our direction. We had no choice but to surrender. In that moment, I felt as though I had left my body and was watching this absurd scene from above, two girls standing in the street, with nothing to arm themselves but their high heels. It looked like a revolutionary battle scene—three armed men versus two female warriors, shining under the streetlight, fighting for gender equality. Except it wasn’t a fair fight. We already knew who the victors would be.
We raised the white flag. Neda and I slowly walked toward them in silence, our heads down, defeated. Our heels clicking down the street shattered the quiet of the neighborhood in the Alborz Mountains. My lungs and feet were throbbing from my attempted getaway, but I didn’t have the option of dwelling on the pain.
A large rifle was pointed at the back of my head. Had I been transported to the set of some action movie? My imagination ran wild with all the possible scenarios that could play out in the next few seconds. In a flash I saw the man shooting me point-blank in the head and had to shake away the mental images of me lying on the ground, bleeding to death, and my parents grieving over my dead body, their faces ashamed at the sight of my miniskirt. I tried to maintain my composure, but my whole body trembled in fear. I felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of me, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
The men stared at us in disgust and, muttering malicious words under their breath, directed Neda and me back to Maryam’s house. One of them screamed louder and louder in my face, “Don’t you have any shame? Walk faster.” Then, with the butt of his rifle, he struck me so hard in the middle of my back that the button of my skirt flew off. I was launched onto the stacked white metal chairs as a bowling ball splitting the pins, fierce and chaotic. He demanded that I stand up. I struggled to rise, like a newborn fawn with wobbly legs. As I made it onto my feet, I looked at Neda in a state of shock. She was shaking, and beads of sweat streamed down her terrified face.
He ordered us to follow him inside the house. I garnered enough strength to walk while holding onto my skirt, so it wouldn’t fall to my feet. I immediately spotted my brother, Aria, who was sitting in the living room that just moments before I had considered warm and cozy. I quietly sat down next to him. He sat stiffly, staring down at the ground, and didn’t utter a word. Looking around the room, I saw fifteen boys from the party seated on the antique-looking furniture and realized they had already separated the boys from the girls. Before we could say anything, the armed men shouted at Neda and me to move to the other room. I didn’t want to be separated from my brother. I wanted him to protect me!
Aria and I locked eyes. His didn’t reveal anything. I looked around at my other friends for comfort, but they all shot me the same exact helpless look. Aria nodded his head indicating that I should listen to the men. I had no choice but to obey. Slowly, I walked away from the living room, shaking in my heels, still holding tightly onto my skirt. The maniacal look in the eyes of the intimidating men frightened me. I quickly turned my gaze to the ground, not wanting to make eye contact with any of them.
In the other room, Maryam’s bedroom, it was piercingly silent. This was the same room I had been in just an hour earlier, where my girlfriends and I had happily chatted and taken off our hijabs (headscarves) and manteaus (long coats), revealing our party attire. But as I looked around the room at that moment, all of the girls were pale with fear. Most of them sat in groups on the cream-carpeted floor; a few others huddled on the bed.
The door of Maryam’s closet was wide open, and her clothes had been yanked off the hangers and scattered all over the floor. I noticed that the girls had already attempted to cover themselves with her clothing. Her Beverly Hills, 90210 posters had been torn off the walls and ripped into shreds. Pieces of Tori Spelling’s detached eyes stared up at me.
The only spot left in the room was next to the door. I knelt on my lower legs, with my feet under my buttocks. I pulled down my skirt as far as possible when I sat down, but it was too short. My thighs showed. The men stared at me as I awkwardly attempt to cover myself, and one shouted, “It’s too late to cover yourself! What kind of a woman dresses like this? You are a disgrace.” I was undeniably humiliated by his repugnance toward me. I wanted to hide my skin as much as I could.
I should’ve listened to Maman. Her motherly intuition knew that something wasn’t right, and she had pleaded with me earlier that day to stay home with the family. My parents had grounded me a few weeks earlier for drinking alcohol and attending a coed party. But this was my sixteenth birthday! I wanted to be with my friends. I hadn’t seen them since being grounded. After much insisting, I was granted permission to attend the party, but only if my brother accompanied me. I’d left my house eagerly that evening, donned all in black, wearing a miniskirt with a formfitting T-shirt and round-toed high heels—such a simple, unexceptional outfit.
How ironic that on our way to the party that night, my friends, brother, and I had joked about what we would do if the Komiteh, an armed Islamic Revolutionary group, raided the party. Neda said she would run away, to which her boyfriend replied, “In those heels, I don’t think you would get too far!”
She quickly replied, “I guess you will have to bribe them, because these heels are staying on.” Aria and I just sat there without a worry in the world and laughed at the couple poking fun at each other. We grew up seeing and hearing these kinds of stories all the time. But you never think bad things could happen to you. They’re just sad stories from other people’s lives, until they become your own devastating destiny.
Bribing government officials was a common occurrence in Iran; the Komiteh routinely busted parties and took payoffs from citizens who wanted to stay out of trouble. This was the norm. But the men who busted our party weren’t the Komiteh—they were the Basij. The Basij organization was created by Ayatollah Khomeini to fight in the Iran-Iraq War that followed the 1979 Revolution. It is a volunteer paramilitary force of young men and women who participate in exchange for governmental benefits, although the participation of many members is often forced.
After the Iran-Iraq War, the Basij began to take charge of internal security and the enforcement of the Islamic Republic’s newly established laws, which took away many of the Iranian people’s freedoms. The Basijis consider themselves defenders of Islam and believe they have been given permission by God to punish those who commit sins. But which God gave them this authorization? The God I believe in doesn’t punish the innocent. Most Iranians I know don’t even consider this group to be Iranian because of the cruel and inhumane acts they have been known to commit against their fellow countrymen and women.
The Basijis started searching Maryam’s house for alcohol, drugs, posters, musical instruments, and any other items that they deemed illegal. They didn’t find any drugs or alcohol. The only items they found were foreign VHS tapes, satellite TV, Mariah Carey and Ace of Base cassette tapes, and 90210 posters.
While the men searched the house like dogs on a hunt, they caught some of the girls trying to call their parents and confiscated everyone’s cell phones. Next they searched our bags. I carried my favorite little black leather purse that was made in my father’s factory. Opening the small zipper on the side, they found my pocket-size Quran. Maman always taught me to carry a Quran; she said it would keep me safe. The government official shoved it in my face and hissed, “Do you even know the meaning of the Quran, being dressed this way?” In his mind, it wasn’t possible for me to have faith if I “defiantly” wore a miniskirt. He poked me in the head with his pen and said, “You are a sinner, and you will go to hell for your sins.” In that moment, my fear grew. No one had ever looked at me with such repulsion before. How could a man be so disgusted by the sight of me? I felt so incredibly dirty and small.
After waiting in silence and uncertainty for at least twenty minutes, we heard our parents outside the window. Some were panicked, but others were calm. We heard them apologizing and reassuring the Basijis: “We are very sorry.” “This will never happen again.” “We will punish the children, don’t worry.” The usual things.
I exchanged a confident smile with Neda; our parents had arrived on this unexpected battlefield, and victory was surely ours. We were so thrilled to hear their voices, knowing that they were there to save us and we could finally go home. However, as we listened through the windows, we began to hear arguing back and forth. It slowly became more and more apparent that the Basijis were not going to compromise. Our parents tried to pay them off. But the religious police ordered us to exit the house and board two separate buses—one for the girls and the other for the boys.
Two guards stood like watchdogs in the doorway facing the corridor. I was reluctant to stand up, only to have them stare at my legs and judge me, so I quickly grabbed a pair of pants while they were distracted and pulled them on. I found my scarf and tugged it down over my eyebrows and up over my chin. I wanted to cover myself as much as possible. Other girls wore sports socks pulled up to their knees with high-heeled shoes or put on pants under their skirts. Looking disastrously mismatched, we exited the room. Despite my state of panic, a part of me realized how ludicrous the entire situation was.
A Basiji told me to put my hand next to Neda’s, and he slapped a pair of handcuffs on us. He tightened the metal teeth around my wrist, and they pinched my skin, but I was too scared to complain. Neda and I glanced at each other, alarmed and degraded, and quickly looked down as we made our way out of the house. I had never seen handcuffs in real life before, only in movies. It never crossed my mind that one day I was going to be wearing them.
Two government buses awaited us in the narrow alley outside Maryam’s house. They were white and army green—the colors of the religious police uniforms. Seeing my male friends loading into the bus wearing the same outfits they had attended the party in reminded me just how little freedom women had. By law, Iranian men were much less restricted than women in their dress code, but they still didn’t have free rein to wear whatever they pleased. Men were allowed to wear short-sleeved shirts, but not shorts, and name-brand T-shirts, but not ones with slogans on them. Ponytails and certain beard styles were also forbidden. The guys at the party were all dressed like any young, trendy European man—jeans, button-down shirts or sweaters, and nice shoes. Some of them had even illegally styled their hair and had funky beards. They definitely didn’t adhere to the official list of approved “non-Western” styles. But nevertheless, the Basijis were going easier on the boys. As humans, we weren’t being treated equally.
I passed by my parents as they continued to apologize and beg the officials to let us go. My friends and I were much calmer by this point than our families, so we quietly filed into the bus. I tried to catch my parents’ eyes, but they were busy arguing for our release. No matter how much they tried, the Basijis had already made up their minds. We would be taken away.
Through the bus window, I saw angry mothers being held back by the guards. In the distance, some of Maryam’s neighbors and their children stood outside their homes watching us, while others peeked through their windows to find out what the ruckus was about. As the buses pulled out of Maryam’s sheltered street, about seven other vehicles filled with our parents trailed us. It was comforting to know that they were only a car length away. It gave us a glimmer of hope and turned our fear to anger; in a way, we felt safe enough to get angry about what was happening to us.
Girls began speculating about how we would be punished. I tried to block out the horrific stories I’d heard about people who’d been taken away by the Basij and raped, lashed, and tortured. Hoda confidently reassured us that her parents would bribe the officials and we would all be released immediately. Leila disagreed and said that only those of us whose parents were present to bribe the officials would be freed. Either way, we all agreed that this would be over in no more than a couple of hours, and we were already thinking about how we would boast about our arrest at school the next day. So many of our friends had been busted and let go on the spot, or sometimes even arrested and taken to jail, and whenever a situation like that arose, they would become the center of attention. Now that we were experiencing it firsthand, we felt like we were in the trenches with the enemy.
The two Basijis sitting in the front of the bus kept a close eye on us the entire ride. They turned around and glared at us every so often, to make sure we knew who was in charge. They chatted amongst themselves, probably saying things about how we were disgraces to Iran. The bus ride was very noisy, and it almost felt like we were going on a normal school field trip. But our paranoia and fear of the unknown hovered thickly above us. I couldn’t help thinking that this was a field trip to hell.
The bus finally passed through a large army-green door and stopped near a relatively small brick building, about two levels tall. The sign said “Vozara Prison.” All noise in the bus came to a sudden halt. I couldn’t believe where we were.
They ordered us to get off the bus, stand in line next to the girl we were handcuffed to, and stay still. My teeth started to chatter, and I suddenly noticed how cold the rest of my body had become. I looked at Neda and said, “At least I know we are stuck together.” As uncomfortable as it was to be handcuffed, it was reassuring to have my best friend next to me. Neda grabbed my hand and squeezed it firmly. I squeezed hers back.
It was already past midnight. The dark yard was semi-lit by lights shining from outside the building. Throngs of people of all ages sat and stood everywhere in the vast open space, amongst the government buses and cars. I couldn’t hear myself think as a cacophony of sounds echoed around me—people cried, laughed, and argued. Some cursed the government and the supreme leader, shouting “Marg bar Khamenei” (“Death to Khamenei”), which was very common to hear among antigovernment protesters.
Peripherally, I could see Aria and some of the guys with their hands behind their heads, sitting along the side of the brick building. They looked more distraught than scared. Over the sounds of cars honking and zooming past the prison, I could hear some of the parents arguing with the guards. They were trying to access the building, but the door closed with a giant clank in their faces, and they were banned from entering.
The government officials ordered us to file into the building. Inside, the walls and floors were stark white. We walked through the glass doors, which slammed loudly behind us, leaving the ounce of hope I had left on the other side. Before we had time to process where we were headed, the guards told us to walk down a dimly lit white-spiraled staircase. The narrow staircase seemed endless—round and round we went. I don’t know how many floors we descended, but the facility was shockingly deep.
When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs, I looked around curiously. Only two wooden desks and a cluster of black plastic chairs filled the empty space. Photos of President Mohammad Khatami and some of his associates, whom I didn’t recognize, lined the wall. The men looked like carbon copies of the president. Arabic writing that must have been a surah (chapter) from the Holy Quran covered the vacant spaces of the walls.
We were told to get into groups of four, find a spot on the dank concrete floor, and sit down. I settled uneasily next to three of my closest friends. When you are with people you love, it makes you feel safe from the things that scare you the most. Now we were in the bowels of this infamous prison, at the bottom of a terrible pit, and I had never felt more removed from my family and the reality where I belonged.
Women dressed in black chadors, traditional cloaks that covered them from head to toe, handed us three-page stapled questionnaires to fill out. We were surprised that they wanted not only our full names, but our nicknames as well. We tried to explain to the officials that we didn’t have any nicknames. I guess they assumed we were prostitutes from the way we were dressed. They insisted that we write one down.
I came up with “Tala Bala.” Bala in Farsi refers to someone who is loud, funny, and flirty. My father used to call me that, but I quickly realized that it wasn’t the best exercise of judgment on my part to use it here. Irate-looking government officials stared down at me as I huddled on a cold prison floor in Tehran. This was serious. They viewed me as a sinner, a criminal, and an infidel.
Another section of the form required us to describe how we were dressed. I wrote down the way I was dressed now, after putting on Maryam’s clothing. The official didn’t accept my answer and demanded that I be truthful “…or else.” I knew from the severity of her voice that I had to comply.
They also asked us to write down the amount of makeup we were wearing and the color of our nail polish. Wearing makeup and nail polish in public are both forbidden, but despite this prohibition, I used to buy the most fabulous cosmetics in Tehran’s boutiques. This wasn’t the first time I’d worn makeup and nail polish, but it was the first time I was questioned for it.
After completing the form, we were told to take off our belts, shoelaces, and any pieces of jewelry or clothing that could potentially be used as a weapon in jail. We were being treated like terrorists caught plotting to overthrow the government. I was so angry, and I resented the female officials. I wanted to know what made them believe that they were more faithful than we were. I was taught to trust in the power of graciousness and kindness, not acts of force and oppression. A female official directed us to follow her through a small metal-barred door. When I walked in, I wasn’t scared, but I was shocked by my surroundings and taken aback by the vacant stares and ghastly silence of the women already inside. I had heard many stories of people who’d been arrested and sent to Vozara Prison. This was going to be my chance, however grim, to witness what happens in one of the most notorious prisons in Iran.
• • •
As I lay disillusioned on the soiled, bloodied bed, I questioned my faith in humanity. I had just been brutally punished by the Iranian religious police. Some say I deserved it; others say I should have been stoned to death. My crime? Attending a coed party wearing a miniskirt when I was sixteen years old.
My name is Tala Raassi; I am an Iranian American fashion designer, today living in the United States.
In a 2012 issue of Newsweek magazine, I was honored with the title of “One of the Most Fearless Women in the World,” alongside Oprah Winfrey, Hillary Clinton, Angelina Jolie, and many other influential women.
Many fashion designers pursue their careers because of their love for rich kaleidoscopes of textures, patterns, colors, and shapes. Others, like myself, are also inspired by an event or a specific purpose that brings meaning to their designs. I seek to spread a broader message—“Fashion is Freedom.” My clothing line represents much more than fashion. My provocative designs celebrate a woman’s choice to wear whatever she desires without the fear of being judged or punished.
This book will take you on my unforgettable journey, from my growing up in Iran—a nation infamous for using brutal methods to maintain strict Islamic values and for eliminating any opposition to its rule—to becoming a respected swimwear designer in America, the “land of the free.” I write candidly about how events in my childhood and the searing pain of failed businesses and relationships scarred me, and about what drives me now.
Some people go through life and learn to cope with difficult experiences they have faced, like acts of insensitivity and discrimination. I needed to comprehend and change them. I couldn’t continue to be complacent and watch my world crumble. I needed to transform my experiences into something positive.
One life-changing tragedy has propelled me to begin an internal revolution, one that allowed me to discover my independence, strengthen my faith, fight for gender equality, and ultimately follow my dreams. It kick-started my transformational and incredible expedition that continues to this day.
My life has been one hell of a ride, and I invite you to take a seat. I hope that when this roller coaster reaches its final destination, you will be left reevaluating your life goals.
This isn’t a story about my being punished for wearing a miniskirt. This is the story of all my friends and countrywomen who walked that dark path alongside me and beat it, and of every girl in the world who is victimized by senseless acts and restrictions. This is a story of finding a voice and standing up, of using that strength to build, grow, and thrive in living color.
This is a story of becoming fearless enough to follow your dreams.