Iranian American Comedian Negin Farsad: “I Stand in Solidarity with the Women of Iran”

You may have heard about the protests in Iran, ignited by the tragic death of Mahsa Amini. The scale of these protests is remarkable, spreading across cities nationwide and sparking international demonstrations in support of the courageous Iranian women leading the fight. As an Iranian American Muslim raised in the U.S., I have been watching this unfold with a mix of hope and anxiety, alongside profound fear for my family in Tehran. I strive to hold onto the optimism, as for the first time in ages, this movement poses a genuine threat to the authoritarian Islamic Republic. It could liberate those I hold dear.

Like countless others before her, Amini was stopped for allegedly violating the dress code. In Iran, women must adhere to the “hijab,” typically a headscarf and loose-fitting attire that obscures the shape of their bodies. Reportedly, Amini’s headscarf was deemed too loose and improperly worn. She was detained for this infraction, and she tragically died in custody.

The government claims her death resulted from a pre-existing heart condition—but, as is often the case, many are aware of the fluctuating nature of truth in such matters. Especially regarding women.

Women, including those in my own family, have been the emblematic representatives of Islam in Iran since the 1979 revolution. Before that revolution, women in Iran resembled those in any Western nation, donning miniskirts and bell bottoms. However, this Western style concealed the harsh realities of the Shah’s regime, which included secret police, detentions, and the suppression of free expression.

According to my aunts, the revolution in 1979 seemed essential, yet the Islamic regime that emerged was not what the revolutionaries had envisioned. Ayatollah Khomeini's initial decree mandated that all female employees don the hijab in government settings. By 1983, this requirement expanded, and women were expected to wear the hijab everywhere. Women became symbols, representing to the world: 'Look, we are an Islamic Republic, as shown by these headscarves.' They were seen as a marketing tool, and controlling them was central to the Ayatollah's vision for Iran.

Growing up in Palm Springs, California, I recall family dinners that began with light-hearted discussions but inevitably shifted to deep frustration over the Ayatollah’s remarks.

He expressed opinions like: 'These seductive women,' he remarked in an Italian magazine, 'who adorn themselves with makeup and flaunt their necks, hair, and bodies in public. . . . They fail to be useful, neither to society nor in their careers. Their mere presence distracts and irritates people by revealing too much.' These statements seemed to convey to the world, 'We are a genuine power! Look at how effectively we have subdued these women!'

However, during my childhood, I was oblivious to these issues—at least initially. My experiences of Iran were fleeting. We would spend summers in Tehran for weeks—not quite the Hamptons, but I loved it as a child. Most of my extended family resided there: over a dozen aunts and uncles, both sets of grandparents, the whole Persian clan. They showered me with affection, delightful treats like faloodeh and saffron pudding, and an endless array of cousins to play with. My memories of that time are filled with warmth and joy.

At some point, we missed a summer, and when I turned 11, I was informed that on our next visit, I would need to wear a headscarf and a full-length jacket in public. Essentially, I had to comply with the hijab. In Iran, girls reach this dreadful milestone at just nine years old. As a preteen obsessed with pop music and eye-rolling, this was incredibly frustrating. I remember feeling hot and uneasy, struggling to grasp why everything had to fit so loosely. I longed to feel the sun on my skin.

Once again, I was merely a visitor, an observer of this kind of oppression. At summer's end, I could return home and step into my middle school wearing shorts and a trendy tank top. I could play around with lipstick. Meanwhile, my cousins were condemned to wear the Ayatollah’s decree on their heads every single day.

Who enforces this dress code? The widely despised Morality Police. Armed with rifles, they patrol the streets, scrutinizing women for any misstep. Often, the Morality Police consists of other women, colloquially known as 'the Sisters.' As a Southern California girl fascinated with boys, frozen yogurt, and glitter pens, I felt a knot in my stomach at the sight of the Sisters. Their black chadors and AK47s seemed... a bit excessive.

One summer when I was around 16 or 17, I was casually walking with my aunt in Tehran, humming a Skee-Lo song about wishing to be taller, when we encountered a couple of the Sisters. My aunt pinched my arm. 'Ow! What’s that for?' I exclaimed. She leaned closer and whispered that I should stop whistling Western tunes to avoid drawing the Sisters' ire. In that moment, a simple whistle of Skee-Lo could turn me into a state enemy.

On another occasion, perhaps when I was 19 or 20, I was stopped for wearing sunglasses considered too stylish. Not to boast, but I have an eye for accessories—and that can be quite threatening to authoritarian regimes. A Sister approached me, instructing me to take off my off-brand aviator shades. Naturally, I complied immediately; she was armed and undeniably intimidating. I mumbled an apology. Was it an apology for needing sunglasses in the sunlight? Or for the very existence of the sun itself?

Around the same time, my mother was out walking with one of her sisters when they were stopped for wearing trendy sunglasses. The police demanded she take them off, and in a moment of panic, she handed them to her sister, as if to say, 'These belong to her; I have no idea about sunglasses.' They now share a laugh about that incident.

I was puzzled by the government's fixation on sunglasses. What I didn't understand at the time was that they were viewed as a means to conceal eye makeup. Yes, makeup was also prohibited. They were determined to control every single aspect of a woman's appearance.

These encounters with the Morality Police felt almost trivial—a mere reprimand, nothing more. However, many of my family members have experienced far more severe run-ins in Tehran. Some have faced detention in jail for hours or even days. Because so many forms of courtship are banned, one relative was detained simply for being on a date. The couple received lashes as punishment. Yes, lashes. It took them two weeks of lying on their stomachs to heal.

For Iranian women, the question is never if you'll be detained but when. My aunt was once stopped while carrying groceries. The strap of her bag had pulled her sleeve back, exposing her wrist. She was with her two young children. They were all detained in a vehicle and released after 30 minutes. But had she said anything even slightly suspicious, she could have faced the same fate as Mahsa Amini. An exposed wrist could have cost her life.

From a young age during my visits to Iran, I sensed a profound feeling that these people don't want to live like this anymore. Whether it was my aunts' and uncles' ongoing worry about the lack of job opportunities (thanks to Iran's diplomatic isolation and sanctions) or the women around me frequently cursing their headscarves, it was evident that the oppression had deeply affected them. Beyond being inhumane, violent, and cruel, it’s simply exhausting.

Iranian women have shouldered the immense weight of a totalitarian regime. They have done so without breaking down or losing their identities. They have excelled as remarkable engineers, scientists, Olympians, and Nobel Laureates. Meanwhile, we in America often overreact when asked to use public transport, conserve energy, or participate in elections. Can we even begin to fathom such resilience? Can we envision standing up to guns, tanks, and torture?

We ought to reflect on this, for if we take our rights for granted in America, we might one day need to draw upon the strength these women have demonstrated. Through countless visits to family over the years, I (if only briefly) felt what it’s like to be a woman without rights. This experience made me realize that I have enjoyed the rights that women in Iran are still yearning for. While this sometimes fills me with guilt, it has more importantly motivated me to become an American patriot and advocate for change.

I stand in solidarity with Iranian women and hope that our leaders not only support them but also learn from their courage. This regime has placed every conceivable obstacle in their path, yet they continue to persevere. I hope this movement leads to genuine change. I hope my cousins will someday feel the sun on their skin.