City of Lies by Ramita Navai Read Free Book Online

way you clothed yourself was a litmus test for morality. The brighter and tighter the dress and the thicker the make-up, the higher up the
jendeh
scale you scored.
    Somayeh and her friends strongly believed that the
hejab
should be enforced. They agreed with the law, which states that if your make-up and clothes are contrary to public decency and you intend to attract attention, you can be arrested and taken straight to court. The sexy excuses for
hejab
being paraded on the streets confirmed their suspicions that a dress code free-for-all would result in a speedy degeneration of morals and would be the undoing of the city. ‘If the
hejab
wasn’t compulsory, these women would be walking around half naked, men wouldn’t be able to help themselves and we’d all be in trouble,’ as Vista put it.
    The girls were not to blame for their misogynous views. They had been fed the regime’s line on
hejab
, which was usually touted around the city via huge billboard advertisements, since birth. The government had two basic tactics: to warn of the physical dangers of bad
hejab
(which was judged to be ‘asking for it’), and to disseminate a culture of shame. A recent campaign showed a picture of two boiled sweets, one that had been opened and one that was still in its wrapper. The sweet that had been opened was surrounded by three flies looking ready to pounce. Underneath were the words: VEIL IS SECURITY . Some were not so subtle: ‘We ourselves invite harassment’ was the strapline on another advert. Some posters purported to use science. Underneath a picture of a couple of girls looking decidedly
Western
(lashings of make-up; blonde hair falling out of brightly coloured headscarves that were pushed back as far as they would go; short, tight
manteaus
) were the words: ‘Psychologists say those who dress inappropriately and use lots of make-up have character issues.’
    Most of north Tehran looked like a whorehouse to Somayeh, but she accepted that it was impossible for all these women to have loose morals. She accepted that they were not as devoted to God as she was. But the Tehran around her was changing so fast, it was hard to tell who was a
real
prostitute and who was not. There was bad
hejab
everywhere. Somayeh also knew that a chador could hide many sins. Her brother had once pointed out a spot near Shoosh Street, at the southern tip of Vali Asr, where
chadori
women were real-life
jendehs
. Poor souls selling their hidden bodies for the price of a
kabab
. Somayeh cried when she first saw their sullen faces and dead eyes.
    Somayeh loved her chador, for it was part of her
sonat
, her culture. It symbolized far more than a respect for tradition. The simple black cloth stood for modesty and piety; for supplication to God and a spiritual, ordered world where rules were in place to protect. It was all these things and more. It was her oversized comfy cardigan, hiding her when she had her period and she was feeling bloated. It was her protector, concealing hints of curves from men’s lustful stares. Her favourite look was black chador, skinny jeans and Converse trainers, the juxtaposing of old and new – a dual-purpose ensemble that kept her simultaneously connected to God and fashion. But most of all she wore her chador because of her father, Haj Agha. For him, it was the only acceptable form of
hejab.
‘A girl in a chador is like a rosebud, the beauty hidden inside, making it all the more beautiful and closer to God,’ he would say.
    Modesty was a serious business in Haj Agha’s household. The only men who had ever seen Somayeh’s hair or even her bare arms were her father and her brother Mohammad-Reza. In Somayeh’s Tehran, it was inappropriate for even her dearest uncles to set eyes on her slim body. Sometimes, instead of a chador she wore a headscarf and
manteau
, mostly for practical reasons, when she went hiking in the mountains with her friends and on family picnics. Her
manteau
was always loose, below the knee and