Although I have an adventurous spirit and am interested in learning about different customs, I found Iranian culture to be oppressive in many respects. The pursuit of happiness is such an important part of U.S. culture that it is even a constitutional right. The Iranian people I got to know were deeply unhappy with the current government and used to reminisce about the open society under the Shah’s rule in the 1960’s and 70’s with longing.

Many Iranians supported the Islamic Revolution in 1979, but the oppressive nature of the new regime soon became apparent and has fueled many protests both inside and outside of that country. But to rebel openly in Iran means almost certain imprisonment, torture and even death, so the majority suffer in relative silence as they try to make a living with raging inflation, few well-paying jobs and insufficient educational opportunities. Many Iranian people asked me why I had left heaven (the U.S.) to come to that hell. I could only smile as, inside, I began second-guessing myself. I wondered whether I should have been in such an all-fire hurry to leave the U.S. after all. However, most Iranians truly like and admire Americans, and I never felt uncomfortable, which is not surprising when you consider that for a lot of Iranians, America epitomizes what is good about this world—freedom and almost unlimited opportunity.

     The first major change in my lifestyle came when I began covering my hair. Women in Iran over the age of ten or so are required to conceal their hair, arms and legs. It is widely believed that this type of outward modesty is best for a society and in Iran it is required, while in some other Islamic countries covering is optional. I would have preferred not to cover.

At war within me were my naturally outgoing, optimistic personality and the severe limitations I had to live within in order to feel at all comfortable. I could not smile or laugh in front of mixed company (because to do so would mean I was of loose morals, according to my spouse), could not have parties at home for my American and British friends (he disapproved of most of them) and could not even let my hair feel the breeze or the sun’s warmth. One evening, a few months into my stay, I felt the need to be outside without a scarf. I walked down our small street until I reached a house under construction, looked around to be sure I was alone, then dramatically flung my scarf off, looked up at the stars and breathed deeply, letting the wind caress my long hair. I had not been outside with uncovered hair in months. It was ridiculous to have to wait until dark to be comfortable, but I reasoned that it was better than nothing. Not more than two minutes had gone by when I suddenly felt I was no longer alone. Sure enough, a couple of construction workers were standing nearby, staring at me. I was angry and resentful for a moment but had to laugh inside at the situation as I covered my head once again and slowly walked home.

     I eventually learned how to wear a chador, the traditional Iranian head-to-toe covering which hangs down from either side of a woman’s head, with the face visible. It is held in place with one hand, under the chin, which can be tricky. Grabbing a chador is sometimes simpler than putting on a coat and scarf, so I would wear one to save time and to show that I could manage it.

     If I had married into a liberal Iranian family, I would have taken off my scarf and dressed like an American in the home, even in front of visitors, but I lived among conservative, deeply religious people and therefore I would grab a scarf before answering the door, or when I needed to go into the backyard. At first, I wore my usual short–sleeved shirts and jeans with the addition of a scarf. That felt strange, exposing my arms while covering my hair, so I just decided one day to dress like an Iranian Muslim woman, which means that the arms, head, neck and legs are covered in public. I would have preferred not to, but I was trying to fit in and earn the respect of my new family, who cared very much about the opinions of neighbors and friends.

     One hot summer day in Tehran as I walked home from the local bread baker, holding several still-warm loaves in one arm while my other hand clutched my chador to keep it from falling off, I passed by a typical middle-class house, with a large yard filled with flowering trees and plants. I glanced over to see a middle-aged man watering his pomegranate trees, dressed only in a sleeveless white undershirt and baggy cotton pajama bottoms. I nearly dropped my loaves of bread as I tried not to stare at him. At first I supposed that he was unaware of how exposed he was-after all, it was his own yard-but the gate was wide open and he was obviously at ease with his attire. Meanwhile I was literally covered from head to toe, and also had on a long-sleeved blouse, pants and dark stockings. The concept of Islamic modest dress was still new to me, and I wondered why it seemed that only women had restrictions. Over the next several years I saw many men wearing pajama bottoms, even at some homes we visited, and I always thought it was hypocritical not to allow women to dress comfortably as well.

     Another aspect of Iranian society bothered me, since I enjoy celebrations. Birthday parties were only for children in my husband’s family and I hated that the adults around me would not celebrate happy occasions, such as birthdays or anniversaries, because they were considered to be frivolous. However, the yearly commemorations of the deaths of various religious leaders were very important occasions. There were meetings, special television programs, parades, and other public displays of emotion. At one religious gathering I attended acknowledging the death of an Islamic figure, the segregated women were packed shoulder to shoulder in small rooms in a house without air conditioning. I wept with the other women as we listened to wailing lamentations which I could not understand, as I tried to enter into the spirit of the occasion. Tears streamed down my cheeks, not because I was saddened by what I heard, but because I felt so alone and miserable. I was adrift in a sea of crying, caring women clad in black from head to toe. I felt like a fraud.