Behind the Green Veil

Chapter 01

A Persian Woman Unveils a Hidden Passion after a Chance Encounter

----------- Orkideh ------------

"Fucking hell!" I exclaimed as I slapped at my I-phone with dread. Four a.m. was just a cruel and inhuman time to have to wake up. I was tired and also frustrated wondering why all the good dreams always seem to wait until the last few minutes of deep sleep before they come into our consciousness. I was dreaming of my fiancé waiting for me back in Boston and dreading the twenty three hours of flying I had ahead of me before I could get to him.

The dream I was having was graphic in its detail and in my mind I could almost smell the sex we were having in the dream. I woke up feeling the wetness in my panties and could not help the feelings of embarrassment and shame that came over me. Even though I was a grown woman, being in a home with all my family around put me back in the mindset of being a teen in my parent's house where any notion of my sexuality was strictly forbidden.

The rest of the house was still asleep and would be for some time. We had all just gone to bed at 1:30 or so. We so seldom have an opportunity to get together as a family. It had been five years since the last time we had all been together so no one wanted to go to sleep on our last night. As the wine flowed, we stayed up talking and laughing until the wee hours. I spent most of my time playing with my nieces and nephews. At 3, 5, 6, and 8, these were their formative years that I most regretted missing out on. It had been so long since I had seen each of them last that they were just getting comfortable with me again and here it was time to go.

As I laid out my clothes for my return trip I wondered what I would wear. My long, conservative dresses were old and looked as much -- I never buy new ones because I only have to wear them when I come home. I wished that I could just wear the jeans, blouse and a sweater that I would usually wear when flying these days. Even though my family was asleep and would never know, the cab driver might refuse to take me to the airport, where I could also run into additional trouble dressed too casually Western.

More importantly, I had the distinct feeling of being followed since I had come to Malaysia two weeks ago. My entire family was gathering here where my brother now lives, celebrating my father's 75

th

birthday. It was easier and safer to gather here in Kuala Lumpur rather than try to go back to Tehran where my parents still lived. The Iranian government was angry with me and I had no idea how far they might go to insure my silence. It was not unheard of for Iranian government agents to come after dissidents even when they are outside of Iran, especially when they are in another Muslim country.

I decided that to be safe, I would be a so-called good Muslim woman and wear the ultra-conservative burqa that would cover me head-to-toe with only my eyes showing. I would take it off once I was safely past security in the airport. As a consolation, I picked out my green underwear and green bracelets that I would wear underneath my other clothes underneath the burqua -- my small symbols of protest.

What most Westerners refer to as the "Arab Spring" actually started in Iran with a Persian winter waged by the Green movement. Before the uprising in Tunisia and the overthrow of the 23-year dictatorship of Ben Ali -- sparked by the self-sacrifice of Mohamed Bouazizi setting himself ablaze in December of 2010 -- the Green movement in Iran started an uprising demanding that President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad step down from office after the fraudulent elections of 2009. While the governments in Egypt, Libya and Yemen had fallen in similar uprisings inspired by Tunisia, the Green Movement in Iran had been brutally crushed, as did the protesters in Bahrain and Syria.

I had only recently moved out of Iran to the UK when the Green Movement really began to take off. I went to the UK to study for my Master's degree but I had taken part of some of the early organization against Ahmadinejad's government while I was still an undergraduate student in Tehran. But living abroad had actually allowed me to help my friends in struggle back in Tehran when the protests broke out. They were able to send me information and pictures that I was then able to post online, on my blog, on facebook, and twitter accounts, without fear that one of Ahmadinejad's thugs would break into my home and throw me in prison.

My actions, however, (both online and in my academic scholarship) had caused increased attention to come to other members of my family and with my parents still living in Tehran, we all feared for their safety. They supported me fully, though, and I tried my best to keep my online activities anonymous. My parents were devout Muslim's who shared many conservative views but they did not believe in the oppression of women. It helped that they had three strong-minded daughters and one son. It also helped that my mother was a brilliant tactician at negotiating gender politics in the home and my father loved her deeply. Many of his conservative tendencies melted under her manipulations.

Apparently my discretion in my online activities had not fully worked as I got a mysterious call right before I left Boston telling me to watch out and that the Iranian government was searching for me to ask me questions. The call had left me with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I never found out who it was. To make matters worse, I felt like I was being followed my whole time in Malaysia since I stepped off the plane. I couldn't make it back to Boston and into the arms of my fiancé fast enough.

No sooner than I was dressed my phone rang, startling me. I answered it quickly so as not to wake anyone else in the house. It was the taxi driver, waiting for me outside. I grabbed my luggage and headed toward the door. Before leaving I stopped and tip-toed into my nephew's room where all the young children were sleeping soundly sprawled out all over the floor. I gently kissed each one of them, trying to remember all the little details of their faces to keep with me until I saw them again.

As I stepped out of their room I was startled half to death to see my mom standing there in her robe. She had set her own alarm to see me off, even though I had insisted she not do so. She seemed a little surprised to see me in my full burqua but then a knowing look said she understood. We just hugged each other for a long time without saying a word. I am her youngest daughter -- she had so much parenting experience already under her belt before I came along. I always felt so exposed around her, like she could look right through me and see everything I was thinking. This time was no different. She knew I was sad to leave but happy to be going home to the arms of my fiancé.

As soon as I sat down in the back of the taxi I felt a set of headlights come on behind us. When the driver took off for the airport, the set of lights continued to follow us. It was still dark outside and we were pretty much the only cars on the road so they were easy to spot. My heart started racing a bit and I didn't know if I was being silly or rightfully paranoid. I kept checking behind us nervously.

"Someone following you?" the driver asked casually.

"I don't know," I replied, a slight hesitation in my voice. "But if it's all the same to you, the sooner we get to the airport, the better."

The driver studied me intently in his rear view mirror for a minute. Since I was wearing a burqua, he could only see my eyes. His eyes narrowed as they met mine, and after a few seconds they softened with understanding. He nodded and stepped on the accelerator. The car behind us kept pace with our increased speed. I slumped down in my seat trying to keep my mind calm. I had all sorts of panicked scenarios running through my head -- about being shot, or about them attaching a sticky bomb to our car like the Israelis had done to an Iranian nuclear scientist recently. I laid down fully in the back seat and just prayed.

When we got close to the airport the driver asked me what airline I was flying. I told him and we headed to the international terminal. There were other cars on the road now, a number of people who had early flights so I felt a little less nervous. Even still, I asked that the taxi driver let me out near a police van where a group of armed airport security men stood chatting.

As we stopped there was a car that had stopped behind us. I could not tell if it was the same car that had been following us as I had only been able to see its headlights before. The windows were darkly tinted and I couldn't see inside, which made me even more anxious. I hesitated for a second but decided that with the armed security just outside, I could risk it. The driver helped me load my luggage onto a cart. The car that had been stopped behind us seemed to sit for a second watching me, assessing the situation, and then drove off. I let myself breathe, not realizing I had been holding onto my air this whole time. I tipped my driver generously and ran inside, eager to go through security. I couldn't get through fast enough.

I slipped into a restroom and took off my burqua. I had worn black pants underneath that were much more comfortable and warm for 23 hours of flying. I had also worn a light shirt in case I got warm and brought a sweater in case I got cold. I wrapped my hijab around my face and looked at myself in the mirror. The burqua was great for anonymity in public but not good for going through airport security. I let my shoulders relax a bit -- felt the tension ease in them, and then went back outside. I was safe... at least for a while.

-------------- Jackson --------------

A depressed feeling came over me as I boarded the Malaysia Airlines Boeing 737 headed to Tokyo. I was ultimately headed back to Houston, where I live and teach at Rice. I had a grueling 26 hours of travel ahead of me, however. I was leaving Kuala Lumpur and after I landed in Tokyo I had a four hour layover until my next flight to JFK airport, and then from there I would head to Houston. Tokyo to JFK would be the longest leg of the flight -- a full 14 hours. It was going to be pure hell on my lower back and on my tailbone, and I was not looking forward to the torture.

That, however, was not why I was feeling low. I just wasn't looking forward to going home. There was something ugly happening in America, something very hateful that was getting worse and worse. For the past two weeks being abroad I had not felt any of that, and I was grateful.

I had a wonderful time and met some great people, yet I didn't think I was saddened just because I was leaving. I had been gone for a little over two weeks and I would normally be excited to once again sleep in my own bed after being gone that long. I couldn't quite put my finger on what exactly was troubling me.

I found my seat and settled in, Sudoku and ipod in hand. It was god-awful early in the morning and I anticipated I would be sleep before too long. Even though this was one of the shorter legs of my trip, it was still a 6 hour flight to Tokyo. There would be plenty of time to pull out my laptop and watch movies later. I had a window seat, and soon a middle-aged Japanese couple settled in next to me. They seemed nice enough -- they smiled and we bowed at each other, but a language barrier kept us from communicating any further from that. Didn't much matter, after the flight crew served us breakfast, I was knocked out.

I woke up drooling and disoriented. I looked at my watch and was stunned to figure out that I had been asleep for almost four hours! It was shocking because I never sleep on planes. It's not because I am too uncomfortable, but more because I just don't ever sleep in a public place due to a phobia of mine. You may think that odd, but you will understand once you hear my reasoning. It all started during the first month of my first year in college. An article in the school news paper gave the details of a warning issued by the campus police to all students who studied late at night in the library. They had received numerous reports that some sick bastard was hanging out late at night in the stacks and would prey on students who had fallen asleep while studying by jacking off on them and into their hair. It was a while before they caught the guy but after reading that story, I never fell asleep in public again.

Which is why I was so shocked to find that I had slept for 4 hours on this flight. I must have been really exhausted from all we had done on this trip. When I first saw the announcement for the conference in Singapore, I knew I had to go. Though my travels had been wide, I had never been to that part of the world. Though the conference was only three days, my friends and I made plans to stay for two weeks: one week in Singapore then take the train up to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia for the final week.

Being in Singapore felt like being in an alternate Manhattan without the rats and the piss, plopped down in the middle of a tropical rainforest -- just beautiful. In the US, we mostly know Singapore for the rumors we hear about people being caned for spitting their gum out on the sidewalk. I never actually saw or heard about anyone getting the cane, but apparently just the fear of it was enough to keep the city spotless with gorgeous lush greenery everywhere.

Culturally, however, the place was not as conservative as one might suspect. If they were strict about cleanliness, they were permissive about sex and gambling. Prostitution was legal and they had a huge casino that seemed like it was a mile high in the sky. Alcohol was extremely expensive, taxed heavily to pay for their amazing infrastructure with subways that go all over the city and an extensive network of underground malls, food courts, and shopping. And you had perfect cell phone reception wherever you were underground. Whoever heard of full bars of reception while buried deep in the middle of the basement of some conference center? The gambling was also taxed, but only for local residents. It costs them the equivalent of $50 just to get in to the casino. Foreigners could walk in for free. I guess that's one way to cut down bad gambling habits.

The people their trace their heritage to a number of countries throughout south-east Asia: China, Laos, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, Malaysia, and various other parts of Indonesia. I don't have any particular fetish for Asian women, but the mix made for a very beautiful population. The women were chic: not Euro chic and not New York City chic, but stylish all their own. And the food! Imagine different food options from all those different regions of the globe, all in ready supply seemingly on almost every corner. We ate well!

An economic and trade hub for the western pacific, I did not know that Singapore was one of the few places on earth that is both a country and a city until planning to make the trip. Cost of living was high there like in Manhattan, too! I was on an expense account, but as a university professor I sure didn't have an unlimited

per diem

, so I had to keep my spending in check. That changed quite a bit once we took the train up into Malaysia.

Being in Malaysia was my first time being in a predominantly Islamic country. The first thing I noticed was that almost all the women wore hijabs, and then I was surprised to discover how chic and stylish all the different styles of hijab were. They were all manner of stylish silks in vibrant colors and cool designs. It became immediately apparent to me that they stood in for different hair styles, a way for women to express themselves in a culture when it was tradition for women to keep their heads covered in public. And most everyone was incredibly friendly, interested in talking to me to learn about what brought a person like me to their part of the world.

This was true of everyone, male and female, except the small percentage of women who wore the full body burqa with only their eyes showing. They did not speak to me at all, nor nod or give any kind of acknowledgement. And I did not get the feeling that it was because they were snooty or didn't want to, but instead it seemed like they were literally forbidden. You rarely saw these women out alone, they usually had a man who I assumed was their husband accompanying them, and they always walked three or four steps behind him. You could just feel an oppressed energy coming off of them. It was very sad.

Then I wondered, how does anyone tell them apart with everything all covered up like that? One day I sat for a while eating lunch and just people-watched, trying to figure it out. Then it hit me: it was their shoes and their purses! These women in the full burqas had the loudest shoes and most stylish purses out of all the women in Malaysia. With such a limited canvas for self expression, they got it in with those two accessories.

I soon also figured out that there was no pork in any restaurant in the entire country, and alcohol was scarce. I surprised myself by going the whole week without drinking. I don't drink very much in my personal life but I generally let myself cut loose when I'm on vacation. However, the people I met there were so cool that I genuinely didn't really miss it. By the end of the week, though, I was seriously contemplating asking around to see if there was a black market for pork products!

It was really the breakfasts where I missed it most. There were beautiful breakfast/brunch spreads in the hotel and not one single piece of bacon, sausage or ham to be found. Just criminal! For the life of me I can't figure out why a group of people would ever deny themselves the joy of some really good thick-sliced bacon. Oh well, to each their own. They take their Koran seriously. To be fair, Christians are technically not supposed to be eating pork, either, or shrimp or lobster... at least according to Leviticus. That chapter of the bible seems always conveniently forgotten. Can't say that I'm mad about that, though. There is no joy in this life quite like a smoked pork rib.

Where Singapore was expensive and squeaky clean, Kuala Lumpur was much poorer and umm... grittier. New Yorkers would feel right at home. But by far the best attraction was the people. You had much of the same people who were in Singapore with the addition of many more people from the Middle East. The people were so nice, so generous, so personable. I loved the experience of every new person I met. And the women were also beautiful, their skin a few shades darker than the people in Singapore. With the conservative Islamic culture, I knew there was slim chance of meeting anyone and hooking up but I had one experience with an Indian woman that was, in many ways, more satisfying.

This woman was a chef in our hotel. One day my friend JB and I complimented her on one of the dishes she had made: "beef rendang," the most tender, melt-in-your-mouth beef slow-cooked in a blend of rich spices and coconut milk. She asked us if we would like to learn how to make it. We were totally surprised but not quite sure how she was going to teach us. Nevertheless, we said yes. She explained that the next day was her day off and if we wanted, she would take us shopping for the ingredients and then we were invited over to her family's house where she would teach us how to prepare it. We were blown away with such an offer of generosity. It wasn't a flirtatious come-on in any way, just good-natured generosity.

We tried to politely refuse, telling her that surely she had better ways to spend her day off. She wouldn't hear of it, though, and insisted that it would be her pleasure. So the next day we went and had an absolutely wonderful time getting to know her and then getting to know her family. And we laughed and laughed and laughed. We bought enough spices to take back to the states with us (yes, we smuggled them past customs!) and then she even showed us where to go shopping for some cool clothes. It was a great day, clearly the highlight of the trip.