The love story
We still haven’t done much work on the romantic story line. Yesterday was committed to research in the streets of Shiraz to get an impression of where and how young people meet. Jahan and driver Khasem took us up and down streets clogged with traffic. The two locals used the Readymade Westerners to increase their cultural capital – famous actors from Hollywood. – Khasem was convinced he’d seen us in several productions.
He was yelping ‘hello!’ out the window at veiled girls on the sidewalk, who didn’t seem approachable on distance (black tunic and veil seem to facilitate that impression). Neither up close – but most of them indulged in some sort of negotiation with Khasem, who, tracking them in the car at walking pace, went from randy barking to slightly longer raps.
According to the perceptions of the two men, half of all women in the city are prostitutes. All winking at us as we pass them -- signals lost on the Europeans – but purportedly picked up on the finely tuned antennas of Jahan and Khasem.
Their language on women was beyond disrespectful and wearisome at length. Later left to my own devices and my own pace, standing in the street, I got a taste of how the procedure is: Two young girls passed giggling by me. Ten meters past me, one of casually walks back in my direction and we exchange a few courtesies. -- One has a chance to reinvigorate one’s romantic proficiency as girls apparently have a poor ability to judge age (or they don’t care). My old sorry self was found talking to a girl not more than twenty years old. I am then expected to hand over my cell phone number so we can arrange a later meeting in a coffee house or restaurant. Anyway, I lost it halfway as I failed to give her my number and she strode off back to her friend up the street.
As I turn in the other direction I find a bit of commotion because a Basij – the vigilante corps of moral enforcers – had noticed me, a decadent Westerner wearing a necktie, talking to a girl. Apparently he was asking people around me, which hotel I was staying at. Not approaching me but instead getting into a loud discussion with some youths, he raced off on his motorbike. One of the group, Amin, told me not to worry – ‘He is nothing. He is little police. Nobody.’ Displaying a by now familiar disrespect for the members of the Basij. ‘You cannot talk to girls in the street. This is the Islamic Republic of Iran! And he did not like your tie,’ he said pointing to the sloppy knot that hung halfway down my chest under the unbuttoned collar. The European version of a sloppily worn chador.
He was yelping ‘hello!’ out the window at veiled girls on the sidewalk, who didn’t seem approachable on distance (black tunic and veil seem to facilitate that impression). Neither up close – but most of them indulged in some sort of negotiation with Khasem, who, tracking them in the car at walking pace, went from randy barking to slightly longer raps.
According to the perceptions of the two men, half of all women in the city are prostitutes. All winking at us as we pass them -- signals lost on the Europeans – but purportedly picked up on the finely tuned antennas of Jahan and Khasem.
Their language on women was beyond disrespectful and wearisome at length. Later left to my own devices and my own pace, standing in the street, I got a taste of how the procedure is: Two young girls passed giggling by me. Ten meters past me, one of casually walks back in my direction and we exchange a few courtesies. -- One has a chance to reinvigorate one’s romantic proficiency as girls apparently have a poor ability to judge age (or they don’t care). My old sorry self was found talking to a girl not more than twenty years old. I am then expected to hand over my cell phone number so we can arrange a later meeting in a coffee house or restaurant. Anyway, I lost it halfway as I failed to give her my number and she strode off back to her friend up the street.
As I turn in the other direction I find a bit of commotion because a Basij – the vigilante corps of moral enforcers – had noticed me, a decadent Westerner wearing a necktie, talking to a girl. Apparently he was asking people around me, which hotel I was staying at. Not approaching me but instead getting into a loud discussion with some youths, he raced off on his motorbike. One of the group, Amin, told me not to worry – ‘He is nothing. He is little police. Nobody.’ Displaying a by now familiar disrespect for the members of the Basij. ‘You cannot talk to girls in the street. This is the Islamic Republic of Iran! And he did not like your tie,’ he said pointing to the sloppy knot that hung halfway down my chest under the unbuttoned collar. The European version of a sloppily worn chador.
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