Camelia by Camelia Entekhabifard Page A

outings to the restaurant Eskan, the arcades of Meidan Argentine, the Surkheh bazaar, and Khiaban-e Jordan. When the ominous white cars appeared, our hearts would throb in our breasts, and despite my father’s warning, our hands would unconsciously gravitate to our head scarves. If we were wearing colorful clothing, we’d try to hide behind one another. The sisters, wrapped in chadors, veils, and black gloves, would come crashing down on your head like a nightmare. It was possible that they’d let a glimpse of exposed hair slide, but nail polish and makeup, never. Sometimes they contented themselves with our tears and pleading as long as they didn’t find anything in our handbags like cassette tapes or “obscene” pictures of Hollywood movie stars or expatriate Iranian singers, like Fataneh, Moeen, or Andy and Kouros from Los Angeles. We’d beg for forgiveness and put ourselves down a thousand times while listening to their speeches about the fires of hell and how letting one strand of hair show implied disrespect to the blood of martyrs. And if they took you with them . . . The booming voice of my father rang in my ears, “If any of you go with them, you won’t ever be coming home.”
    When I was twelve and thirteen, we all wanted to be punks. To be a punk, I needed pants with their cuffs rolled up and crazy-colored socks. Our punk rock spiritual leader was my sister’s friend Kristian,
an Armenian girl. Her mother made the homemade vodka that my father and his friends bought and called by the code name Sabaquz (a made-up word). Kristian could dance like Michael Jackson and told us all about having a real boyfriend, like the enticing secret behind “kissing like the French people.” She wrote “Madonna” and “UB14” (for UB40) on my yellow binder, and I’d parade around the schoolyard with the English facing out. I made a fake gold bracelet from the strap of my mother’s handbag and wore it next to my big round watch. It was everything to me to be “with it” and to be seen by the boys cruising past my school.
    My favorite way to spend Thursday afternoons, when school let out early for the Friday holiday, was to visit my uncle Manuchehr, because he lived in the coolest district of Tehran. Gisha was lined with stores, and boys would drive their sports cars back and forth down the avenue. As soon as our father buried his head in his backgammon game with my uncle, Kati and I would poke my mother in the ribs. “Say it!” “Say it!” was our way of asking permission to go out and stroll past the shops. My mother would escort us out and then she’d turn executioner: “Fix your head scarves! I’m in no mood to deal with you being arrested! Get in front of me!”
    One Thursday in Gisha I had rolled up the cuffs of my pants to show off the bright striped socks that my cousin Fariba had knitted for me. And I’d pushed up my sleeves and undone the top buttons of my overcoat, flashing the color of my blouse. Young people walked through the crowded streets checking each other out, sometimes exchanging phone numbers. That day, my mother remembered something she needed at Kayhan’s Pharmacy, and she pulled us all in with her. I was restless and poked my head out to watch a traffic jam under the overpass, and I accidentally made eye contact with a woman in a black chador, then lowered my eyes to read “Guidance Patrol” on the side of her car. I quickly retreated back to sit with my sister and brother in the back of the drugstore, but
within moments someone tapped me on the shoulder. I thought at first that she was just asking directions. “Excuse me, please speak louder,” I said. Then I turned and looked at her. Chador, veil, black gloves! She commanded, “Come outside with me.”
    I whimpered for my mother. It was too late for me to arrange my head scarf, unroll my pants, or anything else. My