When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up? A footballer? An actress? A doctor?
Well, when I was a little girl, whenever I was asked the question, my answer was pretty much always the same: "When I grow up, I want to become a man."
To my logic, that was the only way I could live a life free from the suffocating restrictions that women in my birth country of Iran were forced to endure.
I'm not quite sure where this line of thinking started from, but a particularly hot summer's afternoon comes to mind. I was nine years old and along with my family, as we did on every summer holiday, we had traveled to the north of Iran to a little seaside village called Chamkhaleh. For as long as I remember, some of my best childhood memories are of me swimming in the Caspian Sea, paddling in its waves and making sandcastles on its gorgeous beaches. All of those lovely memories, though, were about to be rewritten.
In the Islamic Republic of Iran, when a girl turns nine years old, she has legally entered womanhood. And that means having to follow a series of restrictive rules written by men. The most symbolic of which is probably the mandatory wearing of the hijab. That year, my mom had to sit me down and sorrowfully explain that I was now too old to get into the water wearing a swimsuit. Now that I was nine years old, it was illegal. And if I wanted to get into the water like all the other women, I had to go in fully covered from head to toe. I had to go in wearing a pair of trousers, a long-sleeved top and a loose covering called the manto to cover it all. And of course, the headscarf. I still remember the lump in my throat as I set foot in the water. I could no longer feel the fresh coolness of the Caspian Sea against my skin. Instead, my now-wet layers felt itchy and weird. I can still remember feeling the watchful eyes of the morality police, the so-called morality police, making sure that me and the other girls were not showing too much hair or too much skin to, God forbid, arouse the men. It was as if my former freedoms were washing away with every tide and flow of the water.
Next, I'm deep in the water. I was a good swimmer, but my layers were so heavy and restrictive. I tried to gasp for air, but my headscarf kept blocking my face. The tides were pulling me further and further out. I could see my mom and dad on the beach, I tried to call for help, but they couldn't hear me. Perhaps my voice was drowned out by the roaring engines of the bikes that the morality police were patrolling the beaches. The tides continued, pulling me further and further out and hopelessness started creeping in.
Next, I wake up on the beach, cold, wet, shivering. It turns out my father had just spotted my struggles in time and had rushed in to get me. That was the last time I ever set foot in my beloved Caspian Sea.
Growing up in the Islamic Republic of Iran, every day it felt as though I was going through the same experience but in different ways. And looking at the women in my life, they seemed to be going through the same thing too, in different ways. And the older I grew, the further out the tides of oppression, injustice, inequality felt like they were pulling me in. Wherever I turned, shame, fear and especially hopelessness were ever-present.
Women in Iran are second-class citizens. They have almost no access when it comes to some of the most basic rights like divorce, custody of children and even travel. They have no legal protection against sexual harassment and domestic violence. They are not allowed to sing in public or have sex outside of marriage, and they're only allowed to show their face and hand in public. In the 20 years or so since I almost drowned, nothing has changed. Iranian women have been adrift in a vast sea of oppression. Their only way out, for those who could, is to leave themselves at the mercy of people smugglers, set out on dangerous journeys in hope of finding safety in a land far away.
That's what happened to me. Age 12, along with my mom and my baby sister, we escaped Iran. And after years of living in refugee camps across Europe, sleeping rough and being at the mercy of some very, very dodgy people smugglers, we finally found safe haven here, in the UK. For my friends and family who stayed behind, there was little hope for change.
And so when in September last year, 22-year-old Mahsa Jina Amini stepped out of the metro onto the bustling streets of Tehran, there was little reason to expect a change to the status quo. The same way that it's happened to my own mother and many other women I know, Mahsa was arrested by the so-called morality police because, in their opinion, she was showing more hair than they deemed acceptable. Three days later, Mahsa died in police custody.
This time, though, something changed. Thanks to the power of social media and the brave journalists working hard on the ground, the news of Mahsa's killing wasn't drowned out in the regime's relentless propaganda. In the same way that the unjust killing of George Floyd ignited the Black Lives Matter movement, the unjust killing of Mahsa Amini ignited the biggest anti-regime protests across Iran since the formation of the Islamic Republic in 1979. For the first time in decades, women in Iran are finally daring to defy the strict morality laws. In a fight for equality and dignity, they are taking off their headscarves, burning them in bonfires, and some are cutting off their hair. They're chanting "Zan. Zendegi. Azadi." "Woman, Life, Freedom."
Furious crowds are calling for democracy, for freedom of speech, for freedom of expression, whilst many others are calling for the fall of the supreme leader, Ali Khamenei. Khamenei is Iran's spiritual leader and has the final say over all government matters. For the first time in a very, very long time, there seems to be hope in the air. Hope that perhaps change in Iran is possible. And that's exactly why the crackdown has been so brutal and deadly.
These are the faces of the protesters who fought for freedom but will not live to see it. Since the protest began nearly five months ago, around 500 people have been killed. Nearly 80 of those children. Around 18,000 protesters have been arrested. And there are reports of psychological, physical and sexual torture in prisons. There has been a series of hasty trials, forced confessions and public executions of the protesters.
The authoritarian regime of Iran is clearly desperate to kill any and all hope because they know that for as long as we remain hopeless, we'll resign to their oppression and injustice. But as history has shown over and over again, the light of hope emerges from the depth of darkness. Hope is angry. It's defiant. Hope is dangerous. Hope is standing its ground on the streets of Iran, chanting "Woman, Life, Freedom." Hope is in political prisons, biding its time, sustaining those in shackles. Hope has now spread to the four corners of my birth country.
As a journalist, I can't travel to Iran. But as my sisters in Tehran, Mashhad, Shiraz, Baluchistan, Kurdistan, shomal, jonoob, shargh, gharb, all over Iran have done, I, too, I'm going to cut my hair to show my solidarity with the movement.
(Cheers and applause)
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Thank you.
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Thank you.
Audience: Freedom for women!
(Cheers)
SZ: This hair, for too long, has been intertwined with religion and politics. But I say with my sisters in Iran: no more. And I say with them: Women, to reclaim our rights.
(Applause and cheers)
Life, for the lives unjustly taken.
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Freedom, for the liberation of my people.
(Applause)
I stand here with my hair in my hand, in hope of a future where no little girl has to wish she were a man because she's terrified that she might drown every day.
(Applause)
Yes, the crackdown is brutal. And yes, there might not be a solution inside yet. But the only thing that can help create and sustain one is hope. Sorry.
(Cheers and applause)
The only thing that can help create and sustain one is hope. And every single one of us can take a step and play our part. I'm standing here speaking to you now. Many non-Iranians and Iranians outside of Iran have been signing petitions, going to protest, putting pressure on their governments so that in turn, they put pressure on the Iranian regime and government. For the past few months, I've been speaking to protesters inside of Iran, and they tell me how much it matters to them that we on the outside stay informed and engaged. So let's try our best to make certain that those of us on the shore let those at sea know that we see them, that we hear their cries.
Thank you for taking a step towards a future where freedom is not just a dream, but a reality. Not just for women, but for everyone. And not just in Iran, but everywhere.
Thank you.
(Cheers and applause)
