The White Raven

Hur ser du på framtiden kopplat till det som händer i Iran?

Oklart, vi vill ha hopp…förändring. Vi vill kunna leva ett vanligt liv…

These are selected memories I have from Iran. What I write here are not only memories but also my hopes and dreams for a Free Iran. I share them with you. Keep them if you like. As a memory, as a persons dreams which one day, hopefully soon, will come true.





I am one year old, I am screaming, my legs and my hands are burned cause I fell in extremely hot water. My father is not home, my mom is desperate, chocked. She holds me in her arms , runs to nearest hospital, the guard won’t let her in because her hijab is not enough. My mom cries, asks for help…a kind passenger takes me from her and runs in to emergency room. My mom is left outside the hospital, crying. I hope for a free Iran where no mother would face this situation again.





I am bicycling on my red bike near our home. I am 9 years old. No other girls in my neighborhood plays outside! Boys my age or older, men of all kinds whisper when I pass by, I get ugly looks every time. In people’s eyes, I am the bad girl with unacceptable behavior. My parents get so many Complaints that they finally ask me not to bicycle outside. In a free Iran All girls can take their colorful bikes out and bicycle as much as they want no matter where or how old they are.





I am a teenager. At school we wear scarves which cover our hair completely. But my hair is longer than the scarf. Our School principle goes around, she checks our appearance. I am often caught. She always has a scissor in her hand. She cuts my hair. She calls my parents and set a meeting with them to discuss my unacceptable appearance. In a free Iran women’s hair get compliments, it doesn’t get cut because it is long.











Again a school girl, this time 17 years old. Coming home from school, wearing school uniform and complete hijab, I am suddenly hit by something really hard. I am pushed in the moral police van. I am terrified, alone, I cry, scream. Spend one night in jail. I am not allowed to call my parents who are worried to death. I don’t know what my crime is. In court I hear all possible accusations against me. I am sentenced to 75 lashes. Parents have two options, pay a huge sum of money or watch while their children receive their punishment. My parents pay to set me free. After that my family is harassed by neighbors, there are rumors, people call me a prostitute. My parents are ashamed, I am forever scares of the police. I do not want to remember the details of that night. In a free Iran, we trust policemen, we feel secure in their presence.




I am prepared to face many things when I am going out. In summer it is extremely hot, I wet my hair so I can tolerate the heat under the scarf. I carry ice cold water in a bottle and hold it close to my body. I also very often carry a canvas. Not only because I am an art student, but because I use it to defend myself. Men can sexually harass me, touch me, pinch me, no one blames them, they blame me. Because I look colorful because I am a women. So I hold my canvas tightly against my body as a shield. Sometimes I can push them away, sometimes I hit them back with my canvas. Few steps further, I hear women in chador, cursing me. I hear them saying: I hope you burn in hell, you provoke our men…
In a free Iran, men behave, they have no rights to offend women. In a free Iran being colorful is identity, your appearance is your choice. Women support each other despite their different believes. Canvases are for painting, they are not a shield.





At the art academy I finally feel at home, I am good at what I do. But I am less valued, less seen or heard of comparing to male classmates. The professor who is supposed to help me in my thesis, sexuality harasses me, I run out of his office. I am warned not to report this guy because he is famous, religious and has contacts.” He would ruin you”, another teacher says… better to keep silent. In a free Iran we are all equal and universities are safe places for creativity and knowledge.






It is difficult for me to work as a female artist, I m ignored, galleries won’t cooperate because often themes of my artworks are sensitive issues. One day…one gloomy day, I pack my bags, I take as much as I can with me. Memories…well…no suitcases are big enough for them. I carry them all here in my mind in my heart. I cry silently in my brothers arms. I leave them, I leave everything I love. For a better life, to continue my journey as an artist. In a free Iran, we do not leave, we come back. We do not need suitcases. All we need is already there. Love, freedom and hope.