‘In a moment of solidarity, all fear fades’

Parastou Forouhar, artist

I was born and raised in Iran, in a dissident family. My parents met through their political struggle, fighting for democracy in the Shah’s time. My father was arrested again and again. As a child, I would visit him in prison. And at home there were always political meetings with my parents’ comrades, who were like family to me.

When the revolution took place, I was 16. Intellectuals, liberals, democrats, people like my parents committed themselves to the revolution, but the religious forces gained the upper hand. The Islamic Republic grew into a monster that uses tradition and religion to oppose diversity, freedom, democracy and the rights of women. And enforces its rule with brutality. By the 1980s I had started to study art and I saw how bad it was – that repressive bleakness. It wasn’t just the veil: all freedoms were suddenly restricted. Friends of my parents were executed. There were mass arrests. Three girls from my class in high school were put in jail, and one was killed. Thousands of people died. My father was arrested and sentenced to death. We didn’t know if he would ever get out of prison, but fortunately he was released.

It took decades for an opposition to form, for people to find a language to speak out, to criticise. And among the most radical opponents were my parents. The family of those who were involved politically suffered, too.

In 1991 I came to Germany with my two little sons to study. I wanted to go back to Iran to work as an artist, but when I put on an exhibition there I was besieged by secret service agents. Instead I built a life in Germany. One day I heard my parents had been murdered by Islamic Republic agents, in the house where I grew up. Since then, the families of victims of such murders have used the anniversaries to remember them, but also to demand truth and justice. I go to Tehran every year on the anniversary of my parents’ deaths. This year I was fearful, but with the uprising in Iran I was determined to do my part. At the airport my luggage was searched. But when I walked out of that interrogation room, my eyes roamed round the entrance hall and I saw unveiled women. The first sign of change was these wonderful women’s hair. It filled me with joy. On the way to my parents’ house I saw slogans against the regime sprayed on walls. Propaganda banners had been shredded and burned. In that moment of solidarity, all fear fades.

I have been living in Germany for more than 30 years as an artist, activist and art professor. Every artist draws from their lived experience. Repression and violation of human rights is not an exclusively Iranian phenomenon. It is simply a human condition. But every act of resistance is a spark of hope. In my work I use the image of a butterfly. It is a magical creature, as thin as paper, with so many patterns. It has a poetic role in Iranian literature, and in other cultures – in Greece it represents the soul. It’s a symbol of resurrection, and it’s also my mother’s first name, Parvaneh.
As told to Mascha Malburg

‘I lost everything because I didn’t wear a hijab’

Shiva Amini, football coach

I grew up with football. When I was two, I started to play on the street with boys. I didn’t have any toys, just a ball. It was natural, something inside of me. They said to me: “You are a girl. You cannot play football with boys. You have to wear the hijab.” I remember I came home and talked with my mum and I said: “Look, I want to be a boy because a girl here cannot do anything.”

When I was 16, I started to play professional futsal [a type of five-a-side football played on a hard court]. I was a forward. Playing in a hijab is so hard. Especially when it’s warm, you cannot breathe, you cannot run. When I was asked to play in the national team, I said no. My mum called the Iranian Football Federation and told them: “Shiva doesn’t want to play with the national team. Only Super League.” They said: “No, she has to come, she has to do everything we decide for her.” In Iran you cannot decide for yourself. It’s not just sport – it’s everything. When you go outside you have to respect their rules. If not, they arrest you. They torture you.

I built a good life in Iran. I had a house, a car, a dog. My family lived in Isfahan, I was in Tehran, and every weekend I went to see them. I was happy. But six or seven years ago I lost everything. I cannot see my family.

I was on holiday in Zurich when I found out I couldn’t go back. My family and friends called me and said: “What’s happened? What did you do?” Everybody was talking about me on social media because I had played football without a hijab with some boys in Switzerland. I called the Iranian Football Federation and they said: “You are playing with our enemy.” Enemy? They are my friends. I saw a lawyer in Switzerland who said: “You cannot return because they will arrest you.” A lawyer in Iran told my family the same.

I built a new life in Switzerland. I learned German, made friends and wanted to play with FC Zurich. But I had to leave because I was on a Schengen visa from Italy. It was terrible because I lost everything. It’s not easy to build another life from zero, but in Italy I now work as a coach in Genoa. I started with children aged six or seven, then with 15- and 16-year-olds. It’s a new life.

If I went back to Iran now, they would arrest me in the airport. They would kill me because they are against girls, especially girls who speak out, who fight them. The Islamic Republic took everything from us, except hope. Now I’m fighting against them. In Iran a girl has no rights. She cannot ride a bicycle, go to a stadium. Sahar Khodayari set herself on fire in Tehran after she went to a football match disguised as a man and was charged with not wearing a hjiab. Every day we lose another person – and we keep fighting.

I’m also angry with Fifa. They should ban the Iranian regime’s football team. They did it with Russia. What difference is there between Russia and Iran?
As told to Mathias Braschler

Read more on the original:

https://www.theguardian.com/society/2023/mar/18/women-forced-out-of-iran-acts-of-resistance-hope