Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East by Jared Cohen Read Free Book Online

selfish. I wanted to meet people I could talk to and some who could help me stay sane while in Iran. I needed people to explain to me the dynamics of what was happening and how to keep myself out of trouble. Given the misery of the first four days, much of which was due to my indiscretion in that first night’s ride from the airport, I clearly had no idea how to fly under the radar screen in a police state.
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw a female student standing in the middle of the room. She wore a long black chador, void of any individual characteristics; she looked like a silhouette. Her arms and legs were completely covered, as was her head. But when she turned around, I noticed her eyes right away. They were elaborately painted with blue mascara, eyeliner, and as it seemed, any other makeup product that one could possibly fathom using. Her cheeks were red and her lips covered in a noticeable light pink lipstick. Wearing elaborate makeup is just another way for women to reject the harsh dress codes imposed upon them.
    Everyone else seemed as if they were in a rush, oblivious to what was going on around them and determined to get to their next class. She stood there looking in my direction and when it became clear that she was not going to approach me, I walked over to her. “Excuse me, do you know where Dr. Rezai’s office is?” I felt slightly awkward asking this question because Dr. Rezai was a name I had created in a shameless effort to make friends.
    She looked at me puzzled. “I am not sure of Dr. Rezai, are you sure he teaches here at the law school?”
    I told her, “Oh, maybe I have the name wrong. You see, I have just arrived from the United States and I am hoping to talk to somebody about Iran and—”
    She didn’t let me finish; instead, she took me by the arm and guided me out to the courtyard. As I’d learn, Iranian women are not shy and are often extremely confident. Over a year later, she would tell me in an online instant-messaging conversation that she thinks I came up to her because she is more beautiful than the other girls. I couldn’t deny this.
    She smiled at me and said, “Wait right here. I have to meet with my law professor and then I shall answer all of your questions. You don’t worry.” Almost immediately after she returned, she extended her hand and introduced herself.
    “I am Gita. What is your name?” She spoke with such a confidence and there was something incredibly engaging about this.
    “I am Jared.”
    “Jrrrd?” she said as she tried to pronounce it.
    “Ja-red,” I said slowly in response.
    “OK, Jrrrd, please don’t go anywhere, I want to see if I can help.”
    I found a bench in the middle of the courtyard. Over the next forty-five minutes, I felt like an exotic creature on display in a foreign land. Random groups of students kept approaching me and asking where I was from. They all wanted to know the same thing: What do people in America think of Iran? There we were, citizens of two countries that are sworn enemies, all experiencing the same curiosity and eagerness to speak to one another. After about fifteen students had gathered around, one of the female students spoke up.
    “We watched what happened on September eleventh. We saw it on the television.” I hadn’t even noticed her, but I began to notice a pattern. The female Iranians love to talk and take charge; hardly the image I had of women in a country ruled by Islamic law. She was kneeling behind the bench I was sitting on. She was a petite girl wrapped in her black chador as if it were a blanket keeping her warm. Her face was tiny and she had glasses that hung down on her nose. I was not sure what she was insinuating with her comment, so I responded with something benign.
    “Yes, that was a tragic day for my country.”
    She nodded her head and adjusted her hejab slightly before tenderly offering her condolences. “You know on that day, all of Iran wept for America. We felt like our brothers