Children of Jihad: A Young American's Travels Among the Youth of the Middle East by Jared Cohen
Authors: Jared Cohen
Tags: Religión, General, Social Science, Travel, Sociology, Islam, Political Science, middle east, Islamic Studies, Political Process, jihad, youth, Middle East - Description and travel, Political activity, Political Advocacy, Children's Studies, Cohen; Jared - Travel - Middle East, Youth - Political Activity, Muslim Youth
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need to make sure you see Iran before you leave. Just wait until I get back to Tehran next week. I will show you.”
M ariam wasted little time getting in touch with me after she got back to Tehran. In fact, she called me just as she was arriving back into the city limits, insisting that she wanted to take me out that night. Mariam picked me up on Taleqani Avenue in Tehran right in front of the mural at the old United States Embassy that depicted the Statue of Liberty with a skull. Mariam greeted me with the traditional three kisses on the cheek and insisted that I take the front seat, so I crawled into the front seat of her friend’s Pontiac and introduced myself to her friend Nassim in the back.
Nassim was studying to be a teacher. She wore a long wool beige coat, a light hejab tied underneath her chin, and blue jeans underneath her jacket. From underneath the front of her hejab, I could see that her dark hair was lightened by blond highlights just like her friend Mariam’s. This seemed to be the trend. Her skin was smooth and radiant from the makeup; her eyes were pronounced with blue mascara and her eyelashes were accentuated by thick black eyeliner. Nassim didn’t care how the regime told her to dress; she did things her own way.
Wherever Nassim and Mariam were taking me, it was clear their purpose was to show me something special and different. If there was one thing I had learned in Iran, it was to expect nothing, and be surprised by everything.
I was itching with curiosity. “Nassim, where are we going?” I implored.
Mariam looked at me and answered on her behalf. “Don’t worry, my baby, I think you will like this. You need to see all the sides of Iran.”
We turned onto Fereshteh Street. Before my eyes caught a glimpse of the scene, I could hear the revving of motors, the beats of hip-hop music, and the repetitious sound of horns as if this evening was a cause for celebration. But as I would later learn, every night for the Iranian youth is a celebration. Fereshteh was more than a street; it was a phenomenon. The long street was packed bumper-to-bumper with cars and there was not an adult in sight. It reminded me of a high-school parking lot; each young person competing to see whose sound system is louder, whose windows are a darker tint, and whose window decals mark the hipper band. The rambunctious youth didn’t constrain themselves to the confines of their souped-up vehicles. Confident boys, with their carefully sculpted hair, sat atop the roofs of their cars, doing what many adolescent males do in this situation: They ogled, pointed, and heckled. I saw three guys sitting on the hood of what looked like a blue sports car holding a large boom box that clearly had the volume pumped all the way up, as I could hear the distortion from the speakers’ reaching more than their maximum sound capacity. Despite the time of night, these three boys sported dark sunglasses in an expression of coolness.
The girls were equally hip. Each face I saw was meticulously painted with mascara, blush, eyeliner, and lipstick. They all wore the hejab, but it was hardly noticeable. Each hejab was so elaborately decorated and pushed so far to the back of the girl’s head that it looked more like a scarf than a head covering. Their fashion was the latest: designer blue jeans, stunning jackets, and shirts that were no different from what I might see in a night out on the town at home. In addition to the fashion and makeup, I kept noticing that some of the girls had white bandages over their noses, which was something I had also seen when I was in Shiraz. When I facetiously asked Mariam and Nassim whether nose jobs were the “in” thing in Iran, they explained that most of the girls who adorn themselves with the white bandages do so for status rather than healing. Mariam and Nassim were entertained by my disbelief that someone would actually pretend to have gotten plastic surgery.
Fereshteh Street was more than a
M ariam wasted little time getting in touch with me after she got back to Tehran. In fact, she called me just as she was arriving back into the city limits, insisting that she wanted to take me out that night. Mariam picked me up on Taleqani Avenue in Tehran right in front of the mural at the old United States Embassy that depicted the Statue of Liberty with a skull. Mariam greeted me with the traditional three kisses on the cheek and insisted that I take the front seat, so I crawled into the front seat of her friend’s Pontiac and introduced myself to her friend Nassim in the back.
Nassim was studying to be a teacher. She wore a long wool beige coat, a light hejab tied underneath her chin, and blue jeans underneath her jacket. From underneath the front of her hejab, I could see that her dark hair was lightened by blond highlights just like her friend Mariam’s. This seemed to be the trend. Her skin was smooth and radiant from the makeup; her eyes were pronounced with blue mascara and her eyelashes were accentuated by thick black eyeliner. Nassim didn’t care how the regime told her to dress; she did things her own way.
Wherever Nassim and Mariam were taking me, it was clear their purpose was to show me something special and different. If there was one thing I had learned in Iran, it was to expect nothing, and be surprised by everything.
I was itching with curiosity. “Nassim, where are we going?” I implored.
Mariam looked at me and answered on her behalf. “Don’t worry, my baby, I think you will like this. You need to see all the sides of Iran.”
We turned onto Fereshteh Street. Before my eyes caught a glimpse of the scene, I could hear the revving of motors, the beats of hip-hop music, and the repetitious sound of horns as if this evening was a cause for celebration. But as I would later learn, every night for the Iranian youth is a celebration. Fereshteh was more than a street; it was a phenomenon. The long street was packed bumper-to-bumper with cars and there was not an adult in sight. It reminded me of a high-school parking lot; each young person competing to see whose sound system is louder, whose windows are a darker tint, and whose window decals mark the hipper band. The rambunctious youth didn’t constrain themselves to the confines of their souped-up vehicles. Confident boys, with their carefully sculpted hair, sat atop the roofs of their cars, doing what many adolescent males do in this situation: They ogled, pointed, and heckled. I saw three guys sitting on the hood of what looked like a blue sports car holding a large boom box that clearly had the volume pumped all the way up, as I could hear the distortion from the speakers’ reaching more than their maximum sound capacity. Despite the time of night, these three boys sported dark sunglasses in an expression of coolness.
The girls were equally hip. Each face I saw was meticulously painted with mascara, blush, eyeliner, and lipstick. They all wore the hejab, but it was hardly noticeable. Each hejab was so elaborately decorated and pushed so far to the back of the girl’s head that it looked more like a scarf than a head covering. Their fashion was the latest: designer blue jeans, stunning jackets, and shirts that were no different from what I might see in a night out on the town at home. In addition to the fashion and makeup, I kept noticing that some of the girls had white bandages over their noses, which was something I had also seen when I was in Shiraz. When I facetiously asked Mariam and Nassim whether nose jobs were the “in” thing in Iran, they explained that most of the girls who adorn themselves with the white bandages do so for status rather than healing. Mariam and Nassim were entertained by my disbelief that someone would actually pretend to have gotten plastic surgery.
Fereshteh Street was more than a
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