"A few weeks ago, when the cultural advisor of the police asked for my opinion, I told him that I think they should just let go of this whole mandatory hijab issue. It makes no sense. Those who are not devout Muslims shouldn't wear it, because they only end up tarnishing the meaning of the hijab. What’s the point of forcing it on people who resent it without understanding its significance? The hijab is a symbol of (spiritual) purity, and if someone doesn’t believe in that, there’s no point in them wearing it."
"And what did he say to that?" I asked, surprised.
"He said he agrees with me but can’t do anything about it because, in the Islamic Republic, it's mandated by law."
I was heading to the Tajrish Bazaar when a policewoman, her face wrapped up to her forehead but strikingly beautiful, stepped in front of me.
"Good day. May I see your documents? I have to fine you for improperly wearing your hijab."
Feeling a bit uneasy, I handed her my papers.
"Oh, you're a foreigner? My apologies. Have a great day!" – and just like that, I was free to go.
"Here, take this hat. It’ll be more comfortable for hiking than a hijab."
"Thanks, but isn't that against the rules?"
"Barbara, look around. Do you see anyone wearing a hijab here? We’re in the South—nobody cares. Just toss a scarf in your bag for when we hit a village, but even then, only if necessary."
A bit taken aback, I went along with my friend’s advice. I mean, who wants to be the odd one out? Sometimes you need it, sometimes you don’t... Who can keep up with this hijab dance!
I was listening to music when I noticed the driver waving at me in the mirror. I took out my earphones to hear what he wanted.
"Ma'am, I’m sorry to ask, but could you please adjust your hijab?"
"Of course, I’m sorry! It must have slipped—I didn’t even notice."
"Thank you. Honestly, I don’t agree with this whole thing either, but I got fined last time because a passenger wasn’t wearing one. It even happened to a friend of mine—the passenger refused to cooperate, so he had to kick her out. She filed a complaint with Snapp (Iran's version of Uber/Bolt), and they suspended him. I felt so bad for the guy. A fine like that wipes out half our daily earnings, but what else can we do?"
We arrived in the city of Qom, at the shrine of Fatemeh Masoumeh, the sister of the eighth Imam (Imam Reza). This makes it the second holiest site in the country after Mashhad (where Imam Reza’s shrine is), and the spiritual center of Shia Islam. The trip was organized by the university, and our program coordinator came along with us.
“Ladies, for visiting the prayer site, a hijab alone won’t cut it. You’ll need to wear a chador (a full-body covering). If you brought one, go ahead and put it on. If not, you can borrow one at the entrance.”
"Barbara, you’re going to laugh, but you look amazing in that chador!" our mutual friend Ali said.
"Oh, come on! Seriously? Why?"
"It’s mysterious. I can’t see what’s underneath. It’s like a pearl inside a shell—it intrigues a guy. As a man, it’s super exciting."
This guy is nuts, I thought to myself.
Fatima just chuckled beside me. When I shot her a grumpy look, she smiled and said, "Maybe now you understand why I chose to wear a chador."
"Somaya, why did you decide to wear a chador? Your mother doesn’t wear one, so I’ve been curious."
"You see, Barbara, in this country—just like anywhere else—you have to prove your loyalty to the political leadership. To climb the career ladder, wearing this is almost an unwritten rule. That’s also why you’ll see me wearing a hijab abroad too. Imagine if someone took a photo of me without it. Back home, it would ruin my career."
"Olga, where did you get your official university photo taken?"
"Come on, I’ll take you."
We grabbed a shared taxi at the university gate—one of those that follow a set route with a fixed fare, seating up to four people, and you can hop off wherever you need—and zipped over to Enghelab (Revolution) Square. At the time, my Persian was barely enough to get by, so I was pretty much inseparable from my Russian classmate, Olga. She lived in a dorm that was far from luxurious: basement bathrooms, four people crammed into a room with a humming fridge, and the occasional cockroach to evict. Naturally, I offered her a spot at my place whenever she needed a break, which she really appreciated. Before long, we were navigating Tehran together, like two clueless adventurers but with newfound confidence.
That’s how we ended up at a tiny photo studio. A narrow spiral staircase took me to an even tinier, dimly lit room packed with props and all the gear you'd expect in a professional studio. It was late summer, and I had a light floral scarf loosely draped over my head as my hijab. I was already seated, staring into the camera, when the photographer, a no-nonsense woman, came in. She asked Olga what the photo was for, and when she heard it was for official documents, she shook her head.
"Oh no, this won’t work at all," she muttered.
Without missing a beat, she snatched Olga’s dark brown hijab off her head and expertly arranged it on mine, ensuring it met all the proper Islamic standards.
That’s when I realized—what’s perfectly acceptable to wear on the streets is a total no-go in official documents. The same goes for men, who aren’t even allowed to wear neckties in ID photos.
These little stories are snapshots of how much meaning and weight a simple piece of clothing can carry in certain situations. In reality, it’s one of the local political system’s most effective weapons—and a convenient distraction for people to endlessly chew on.
Many around the world simplify the hijab to being a symbol of women’s oppression. This narrative, often fueled by Iranian "activists" living abroad, has been adopted by many Iranian women over the years, though their arguments often boil down to repeating the same old demagogic lines. But the truth, as the stories above suggest, is far more nuanced and complex. So, I’ll leave it to you, the reader, to form your own opinion.
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