Experiences as a Woman on Mission to Iran in 1986
Seeking Vocational Training Opportunities for Refugees in Iran
It was in 1986. I was part of a UNHCR mission to evaluate the situation of Afghan refugees in Iran and to recommend what the Office could do to assist the Iranian Government in providing for these refugees. I was the only woman in the mission team of 5 persons and my particular task was to seek vocational training opportunities to enable refugees to find employment.
The Director of the Middle East Division warned me of the code of dressing for women that had to be absolutely respected. “I know”, I responded, and quickly called up an Iranian ex-colleague who gave me the run down. “You are expected to be covered, “she started. “This means that only your hands and face should be visible and you clothing should not reveal your figure.”
“So how should I do this”, I asked.
She was very patient. “Well, you need baggy trousers, socks, low-heeled shoes and a loose gown known as a “chador”. Your head should be covered such that not a single strand of hair was exposed.”
I found the last point about my hair difficult. It was summer, and I had just put braided thick afro attachments to my hair. I imagined that having to keep it covered in the confirmed summer temperatures in Tehran was going to be hell. But I got myself well equipped for the mission.
It was during the Iran/Iraq war, and the only foreign airline that flew to Tehran was Swissair. The Iraqis had just announced that they would shoot down any Iranian plane flying over its territory, so we were told that the flight would avoid the Iraqi airspace and land on the southern tip of Iran at a town called Bandarabass.
As we boarded the plane in Zurich, everything looked normal. The women were in jeans and t-shirts and for a brief moment I thought that things had been exaggerated and maybe, I did not need all the hideous clothing after all.
I fell asleep and was suddenly waken up by the Director to ask me if I was sure I had the required clothing. I opened my eyes and was in shock. The whole plane was transformed. All the women had changed into the “appropriate” clothing, and all these sexy looking women, who boarded the plane, appeared like black objects, and well covered up. I quickly went into the toilet and put on the gear, I had carefully purchased. The whole mood on the plane had changed. Even the laughter had subsided, as we were transformed into reverent women, with full respect for the required “norm”.
When we arrived at Bandarabass, we had a one-hour transit before boarding Iran Air for a one-hour flight to Teheran. It was 53 degrees centigrade and I was in black from head to foot, with my thick mass of hair carefully tucked under a huge head scarf. It was teeming hot, and the air conditioner in the waiting room was not working. Then we were offered hot orange juice, which I just could not drink. The few women, who were there looked like moving tents. I sat there, enduring the heat and thought that I would faint any minute.
At last we boarded the Iran Air flight. There was a huge portrait of Ayatollah Khomeini, which covered all the space on the front screen. We were asked to recite the “Al Fatia”, holding out our hands with reverence to the Prophet. Although I was not a Muslim, I joined in the prayer, as I believed that any appeal to God to keep the plane in the air over a war zone was worth it.
We arrived in Tehran, still hot and sweaty, and it suddenly dawned on me that the two weeks ahead of us would be grueling and prayed that I would endure it.
I was the only woman in the hotel. The Iranian prevention police was at work. I needed to be prevented from sinning, so they would walk me to my room, each time, just in case I strayed into the rooms of my colleagues. There were complaints to our Head of mission that even though I was properly dressed, I laughed too much. The television set in the room was flashing at frequent intervals photos showing the dress code for women and at the hotel lobby, announcements were regularly made to warn women to cover their hair completely.
At the Office, women were allowed to remove their “regalia”, but the moment the doorbell rang we all had to scramble to the cloakroom to dress up again. A Caucasian Swiss colleague at the office once took pity on me.
“I am sorry that I cannot drive you back to your hotel, because if we are stopped by the prevention police, I cannot show a marriage certificate or pass you off as my sister, for obvious reasons”, he said once when there was no driver available.
For me, the events of the two weeks were most humiliating. From outside Iran, we learnt of the oppression of women, but it took an on-the-spot experience to fully appreciate what this meant in reality. A number of incidents during the mission stand out.
The Office had written to the Ministry of Education to arrange a visit for me to the vocational training institutes. No reply. I got nervous, as time was going by and I had not started my work, so I urged the Representative to call the authorities. They explained that the institutes were all-male institutions, so “could the Office not send a man instead?” I could not believe my ears. The intervention of the Minister was necessary to make a visit possible.
On another occasion, we had separated during the day with different tasks. When we returned to the hotel, we agreed to meet at the poolside at 6pm, for a joint debriefing on the activities of the day. As usual I was escorted to my room and after a brief rest I picked up my notebook and proceeded towards the pool. As I was going through the dining room leading to the pool there was a general scuffle and I thought that someone must be drowning or having a heart attack. It took some time to observe that the attention of this mainly-male environment was focused on me. I was stopped suddenly by someone, probably a prevention police.
“Sorry, Madame you cannot proceed to the poolside”, he declared
“But I am to meet my colleagues there”, I pleaded. “Why can I not go there?”
“You absolutely cannot go there”, he insisted. “There are men swimming.”
I could not understand this, “Was I going to grab the men?” I asked myself.
So I begged him to inform my colleagues, who were already at the poolside, to change our venue to the hotel lobby, where we met, under the watchful eye of the prevention police.
Yet another incident occurred at the Ministerial building where we were to meet with the Minister of Labour. At the gate there were two screening facilities, one for men and the other for women. I had been warned, so I dressed to the letter as depicted on TV. I had even bought a more concealing “chador” from a shop called Boutique de Paris, obviously the name it had before the revolution. I was quite proud of myself that I conformed well, so it was with the pride of a lion, that I entered the screening booth. The lady screeners greeted me warmly but started by looking into my handbag. They put aside some items of make-up and my nail polish. I was furious.
“These are in my handbag, but I am not wearing them. Could you please put them back in?” I demanded.
They did this reluctantly, when they saw that I was serious. Then they looked at my shoes.
“We are sorry”, one of them said, “your heels are too high”.
They were less than two inches high.
“What is your size?” she asked. Maybe you could wear my shoes and recover yours on the way out, she suggested.
“No way,” I said. “I will just stay here and wait for my colleagues to return.”
After about ten minutes there was a call from the Minister’s office. It was the head of mission.
“Whatever happened to you?” he queried. “We are all waiting here.”
So I recounted what had happened and it took yet another intervention by the Minister to get me into the building.
Needless to say that, due to the restrictions, I could not achieve much from my direct contacts, although I was able to pool secondary data together to draw up a vocational training programme.
At last the mission came to an end. As we settled on the plane, I removed my head scarf in the scathing heat.
“Put your scarf back on,” warned by boss, “we are still in Iran.”
At this point I had had enough.
“I really do not care anymore,” I replied.
