rackets.â
Khaleh Farzi set a bowl of freshly sliced cantaloupe on the glass table, thanked God sheâd never had children, and sat down to watch us argue.
âListen, Daria. Can I just tell you what happened to me last night? Listen, and then afterward tell me if you still want to become a Basiji .â
I had been out with a friend, Nikki, her boyfriend, and one of his friends. Everyone had been raving about the new Chinese restaurant at the Jaam-e-Jaam mall food court, so we had gone over there for dinner. After eating, which involved much chopstick flirtation, we called a taxi to pick us up, and were waiting outside on the corner for it to come. As we chatted under the warm evening sky, one of the dark, menacing Land Rovers
driven by the morality police, known as the komiteh, rolled up, and three officers jumped out. (The komiteh were different than the Basij but performed the same functions.)
The two guys turned to face each other, and Nikki turned to me, our body language giving no indication we knew one another. One of the komiteh walked up to Nikkiâs boyfriend and asked how they were related. I donât even know who youâre talking about, he replied. The komiteh then stepped in front of Nikki, got up within two inches of her face, and repeated the question. Iâve never seen him before in my life, she said coolly, without blinking. Donât lie to me, he hissed, I just saw you standing here together. You mustâve gotten me mixed up with someone else, she said, itâs a busy intersection.
He tilted his head back toward her boyfriend. So if heâs not your boyfriend, if youâve never seen him before, you wonât care if I hit him, right? And he punched Nikkiâs boyfriend in the cheek. I felt her body tense next to me, but her eyes didnât flicker. The komiteh watched her reaction closely. From behind him, one hand pressed against his face, her boyfriend shot her a look of warning: Donât give us away. The komiteh turned back again, and this time he punched him on the other side, on the ear. Nikki exhaled slowly. You can beat him till heâs bloody, she said coldly, but Iâve already told you, and now Iâm telling you again, I have no idea who he is. Her voice didnât even quiver.
She turned her back on them both, and dialed a number on her cell phone. Hey maman, yeah, weâre still waiting for the cab. Do you need anything from outside? See you in a bit. By this time, the komiteh was livid. Okay, so maybe heâs not your boyfriend. Was he bothering you? Because if he was, just tell me, and Iâll make him pay for it. He stepped closer again, so close he was breathing on her, and she moved back. He wasnât. And I donât need anyone, especially you, to hit someone for me. Deflated by his failure to provoke an admission from either of them, the komiteh got back in the Land Rover and shot up Vali Asr Street.
It was, to me, an encounter of shockingly casual violence. I thought Nikki would need months of therapy to recover, and that her boyfriend would insist on meeting indoors forever after. Not at all, it turned out. To them, it was just another Friday night in the Islamic Republic. Young people anticipated these sorts of incidents, and had confronted them so
many times that they were almost taken for granted. They considered the morality police part of the geography of the city, like the Alborz Mountains and the long boulevards. They had perfected the art of inventing and synchronizing stories on the spot, how to predict what sort of policeman would take a bribe, and what sort would respond to a convincing argument.
As I recounted the story for Daria, he seemed genuinely puzzled. He made little rows of fork holes all over the slice of melon in front of him, morosely refusing to look up. Thatâs fucked up, he said, a minute later. We had not been prepared to find the cosmologies of our universe so skewed. In California, where I
Khaleh Farzi set a bowl of freshly sliced cantaloupe on the glass table, thanked God sheâd never had children, and sat down to watch us argue.
âListen, Daria. Can I just tell you what happened to me last night? Listen, and then afterward tell me if you still want to become a Basiji .â
I had been out with a friend, Nikki, her boyfriend, and one of his friends. Everyone had been raving about the new Chinese restaurant at the Jaam-e-Jaam mall food court, so we had gone over there for dinner. After eating, which involved much chopstick flirtation, we called a taxi to pick us up, and were waiting outside on the corner for it to come. As we chatted under the warm evening sky, one of the dark, menacing Land Rovers
driven by the morality police, known as the komiteh, rolled up, and three officers jumped out. (The komiteh were different than the Basij but performed the same functions.)
The two guys turned to face each other, and Nikki turned to me, our body language giving no indication we knew one another. One of the komiteh walked up to Nikkiâs boyfriend and asked how they were related. I donât even know who youâre talking about, he replied. The komiteh then stepped in front of Nikki, got up within two inches of her face, and repeated the question. Iâve never seen him before in my life, she said coolly, without blinking. Donât lie to me, he hissed, I just saw you standing here together. You mustâve gotten me mixed up with someone else, she said, itâs a busy intersection.
He tilted his head back toward her boyfriend. So if heâs not your boyfriend, if youâve never seen him before, you wonât care if I hit him, right? And he punched Nikkiâs boyfriend in the cheek. I felt her body tense next to me, but her eyes didnât flicker. The komiteh watched her reaction closely. From behind him, one hand pressed against his face, her boyfriend shot her a look of warning: Donât give us away. The komiteh turned back again, and this time he punched him on the other side, on the ear. Nikki exhaled slowly. You can beat him till heâs bloody, she said coldly, but Iâve already told you, and now Iâm telling you again, I have no idea who he is. Her voice didnât even quiver.
She turned her back on them both, and dialed a number on her cell phone. Hey maman, yeah, weâre still waiting for the cab. Do you need anything from outside? See you in a bit. By this time, the komiteh was livid. Okay, so maybe heâs not your boyfriend. Was he bothering you? Because if he was, just tell me, and Iâll make him pay for it. He stepped closer again, so close he was breathing on her, and she moved back. He wasnât. And I donât need anyone, especially you, to hit someone for me. Deflated by his failure to provoke an admission from either of them, the komiteh got back in the Land Rover and shot up Vali Asr Street.
It was, to me, an encounter of shockingly casual violence. I thought Nikki would need months of therapy to recover, and that her boyfriend would insist on meeting indoors forever after. Not at all, it turned out. To them, it was just another Friday night in the Islamic Republic. Young people anticipated these sorts of incidents, and had confronted them so
many times that they were almost taken for granted. They considered the morality police part of the geography of the city, like the Alborz Mountains and the long boulevards. They had perfected the art of inventing and synchronizing stories on the spot, how to predict what sort of policeman would take a bribe, and what sort would respond to a convincing argument.
As I recounted the story for Daria, he seemed genuinely puzzled. He made little rows of fork holes all over the slice of melon in front of him, morosely refusing to look up. Thatâs fucked up, he said, a minute later. We had not been prepared to find the cosmologies of our universe so skewed. In California, where I
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