Narrator: Anonymous
Edited and Compiled by: Hamia Naderi
It was an autumn day, one of those days when the cool breeze gently caressed your face, and the sunlight still carried a hint of warmth. She decided, for the first time in a long while, to go to the bazaar. Not to buy anything specific, but just to step out of the confines of her home and breathe. She put on her favorite scarf, the one her mother had hand-stitched years ago, adorned with tiny blue flowers that always gave her a sense of being alive. With cautious, slow steps, she left the house, knowing that something as simple as this scarf could become a cause for trouble at any moment.
The bazaar was as crowded as ever, but its bustle no longer held the vibrant energy of the past. The gazes were heavy, as if everyone was watching everyone else. A few steps in, the familiar shout of a man with a long beard and dark clothing stopped her in her tracks. He was one of the enforcers of the Ministry of Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. Pointing at her, he barked, “Why is your scarf so thin? Your hair is showing! Don’t you know this is a sin?”
Her heart pounded. She tried to stay calm, but her hands trembled. “I’m sorry, this was the only scarf I had,” she said. But he didn’t even listen. In a louder voice, he continued, “This is no place for showing off! A woman must preserve her modesty!” A few people gathered around, some looking on with fear, others with their silence seeming to affirm his words. She pulled her scarf tighter around her head, but it felt like nothing was enough. He kept glaring at her with disdain, as if she weren’t a human being but a walking offense.
Finally, he let her go, but those few minutes felt like an eternity. She walked back home, her scarf no longer a source of joy but a reminder of humiliation. When she reached home, she stood in front of the mirror. Looking at herself, she asked, “Why should a piece of fabric, a color, a moment of joy, come at such a cost? Why, in my country, is being a woman always tied to fear and shame?”
That day, she decided to write her story. Perhaps it’s the only thing they haven’t taken from her yet. Writing, for her, is like a scream she cannot let out in the streets. She writes to remember that she is still alive, that she can still feel, and that she can still hope for a day when joy and beauty are no longer crimes in her country.
