The hijab activist: imprisoned three times for taking off her headscarf in public
The Hidden Freedom
of Shaparak Shajarizadeh
Shaparak Shajarizadeh, recognized by the BBC as one of the 100 most inspiring and influential women worldwide in 2018, forms part of a rising tide of activists challenging Iran’s compulsory hijab law. She has been active in protest campaigns such as #WhiteWednesdays and #TheGirlsofRevolutionStreet.
Shajarizadeh was arrested thrice in 2017 for publicly removing her headscarf and was incarcerated in both Shahr-e Rey and Evin prisons. She escaped to Turkey, reuniting with her son, and discovered she had been sentenced to 20 years in prison, with 18 years initially suspended before the sentence was reduced. She and her son now reside in Toronto. Her lawyer, renowned human rights advocate Nasrin Sotoudeh, was also found guilty of national security crimes in March 2019 and received a lengthy prison sentence for defending women who protested the compulsory hijab law.
The mandatory hijab is a fundamental tenet of the Islamic Republic. Following the Islamic Revolution in 1979, the newly formed theocratic Islamic government under Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini gradually enforced dress codes that forbade women from revealing their hair in public. While many protested the enforced headscarf in 1979, the hijab became obligatory from 1985 onwards, a law that persists today.
Under Iran’s Islamic penal code, girls and women who violate the dress code risk fines, arrest, flogging, and imprisonment for committing haram (an act forbidden by Islamic law). Non-compliance is perceived as a sign of opposition to Iran’s Islamic regime and carries severe repercussions.
Presently, Shajarizadeh is the target of a state and media campaign in Iran for her continued advocacy for women’s rights. However, this has not deterred her from speaking out against oppression in Iran.
Former Canadian Justice Minister Irwin Cotler describes Shajarizadeh as “an ordinary woman of extraordinary courage.”
Shajarizadeh was interviewed by Celine Cooper during an event hosted by the Institute for Genocide and Human Rights Studies at Concordia University in Montreal, in partnership with the Raoul Wallenberg Human Rights Centre. This marked her first public interview since arriving in Canada in September.
Here are some highlights from her interview.
Firstly, could you provide us with some context on the situation of women’s rights in Iran?
In Iran, women’s rights are severely limited. Women lack the right to child custody or divorce, even in cases of domestic abuse. The man holds the deciding power. Women are not permitted to travel, work or attend university without their husband’s consent. These are among the many rights that women activists, journalists, and lawyers have been fighting for over the past 40 years, including the issue of mandatory hijab.
Some argue that there are more pressing issues than the mandatory hijab. However, for me, it’s not just about wearing a scarf or adhering to a dress code. It’s about the violence. Iranian women constantly live under a shadow of fear when we step outside. We don’t feel safe.
What is your response to those who claim the hijab is part of Iranian culture?
The mandatory hijab is not a representation of Iranian culture. It is a symbol of oppression. Adhering to Islamic law is a matter of faith. If you believe in the hijab, I respect that. It’s your personal choice. However, not all Muslims subscribe to the mandatory hijab. If you don’t believe in covering your body, you should have the freedom to make that decision for yourself.
You knew there would be repercussions when you decided to join these protests. Why did you decide to take part?
Before all this, I admired the suffragettes and influential women in Iran. I wished I could be like them. But I wasn’t a journalist or a lawyer. I was a regular woman. The day I saw a White Wednesday video, I went out and bought a white scarf. I was elated.
That was the moment I decided to get involved, to take a stand.
(White Wednesdays is an initiative started in May 2017 by Masih Alinejad, an exiled Iranian journalist and activist residing in the United States. She also founded My Stealthy Freedom, which encourages men and women to post images of themselves in white attire or without headscarves on social media, as a protest against the mandatory hijab).
In that moment, I felt empowered. I realized that as a woman, I could raise my voice and reject the compulsory hijab and violence. This realization came gradually. They were pushing, and we were pushing back. We are not backing down now. We want our rights.
After White Wednesday, the nature of the movement changed. Going without a hijab was a little intimidating.
I knew it would be perilous, but I was unable to restrain myself.
(In December 2017, a 31-year-old woman and mother called Vida Movahed stood silently on a box on the pavement of Tehran’s Enghelab [Revolution] Street, waving her headscarf like a flag in protest against the compulsory hijab laws. She was arrested and spent a month in prison. In the ensuing days and months, Iranian women began to replicate this act of civil disobedience in cities across the nation. They became known on social media as the Enghelab Street Girls or the Revolution Street Girls).
Vida’s act was admirable. I am opposed to violence and this was a peaceful protest. She was merely waving a white flag. Inspired by her, I decided to take action. Instead of dressing in white and not wearing a hijab, I suggested “let’s mount our headscarf on a stick”. I had a few followers on Instagram, so I filmed myself and encouraged other women to follow suit. I sent the video to Masih [Alinejad], who shared it. That’s how the girls of Revolution Street gained recognition.
The following day, the internet was flooded with images of women and men protesting all around the country.
Let’s rewind a bit to the first time you were arrested.
The first time I was arrested [in Tehran for removing her hijab in public] I encountered considerable injustice in the courtrooms. They subjected me to intense psychological torture. They physically abused me. I was aware that I had some rights as a detainee, but I realized that they could do anything to you. There are no rules in there. There’s no justice. They put me in solitary confinement. I knew that was not where I belonged. I was denied the right to call anyone. I was not allowed to see my lawyer [Nasrin Sotoudeh] when I was arrested. I couldn’t even speak to her.
The next time, they also arrested my husband. We were both sent to Evin prison.
I remember my son being left alone at home. He was just nine years old at the time. I was concerned because it was just before a national holiday. Neither my family nor my husband’s family were in town. I wanted to call someone and say “go fetch my son,” but they didn’t allow us.
They took my husband to a different room. I heard the interrogator’s voice. They accused me of being a spy because of [my participation in] the White Wednesday protest. As I frequently traveled to other countries, they questioned me about the places I visited and the people I met. My husband faced similar accusations. That day, I saw fear in my husband’s eyes. His face turned pale. […] We were anxious about [my son] and my pets because no one knew we were there or that we had been arrested.
The third time I was arrested was genuinely terrifying.
What transpired?
I was arrested alongside my friend and my son [in the city of Qassan, south of Tehran, for removing my hijab]. They handcuffed me in front of him.
Witnessing your child scream and beg police officers for release while in a foreign city is a harrowing experience for any mother. My son was terrified, pleading to return home.
For six long hours, he accompanied me in the interrogation room and later in court. They brought me to court late in the afternoon, an odd time since it was supposed to be closed. However, the prosecutor was eagerly awaiting my arrival, having ordered his officers to apprehend me.
The corridor was lined with cold stone benches. My son, exhausted from crying, fell asleep in my arms on one of these benches. At that moment, I knew I was in the right, but I also saw the consequences of my actions.
They sought to imprison my friend as well, despite her innocence. She had her head uncovered, but I was their primary target. Upon realizing my son had no one to care for him, they released her on some form of bail with instructions to take care of him. They seized our car, our mobile phones, and our money. They then released her with my son, leaving them stranded in a foreign town amidst the desert. Eventually, they returned her phone, allowing her to contact my husband. The entire process was incredibly distressing.
Initially, many criticized me for my activism. For months, they accused me of being a negligent mother. The consensus was that my duty to my son should supersede my fight for women’s rights. They used this argument to shame me.
Upon my release from prison, I went on a hunger strike for nine days, abstaining from water for three. When I returned to Tehran, I told my husband, “I can’t stay here any longer.”
Hengameh Golestan’s best photo: Iranian women revolt against the 1979 hijab law
Hanjane Ghanaian lawmakers have been embroiled in a two-year battle. Sian Cain
Interview with Iranian photographer Hengameh Golestan – The Guardian – 03.09.2015
I began my photography career in 1972. At that time, Iran had only four or five female photographers. It was considered peculiar for women to pursue this profession. When I revealed my occupation as a “photographer,” my friends and family would laugh, dismissing photography as a mere hobby. They believed photographers only worked at weddings and tourist sites.
This photograph was taken on March 8, 1979, the day after the enactment of the hijab law, which mandated that Iranian women must wear headscarves to leave their homes. Many people in Tehran responded by striking and protesting in the streets. It was a massive demonstration, with participants including women and men from all walks of life, such as students, doctors, and lawyers.
We fought for freedom: political, religious, and individual.
The photo was snapped at the onset of the demonstration. I was walking alongside a group of women who were engaged in lively conversation and laughter. They were all delighted to be photographed, their faces radiating happiness and strength. The Iranian revolution had instilled in us the belief that if we wanted something, we had to take to the streets and demand it. The atmosphere was electric with joy – I recall a group of nurses stopping a car full of men and jesting, “We want equality, so you should wear a headscarf too!” We all erupted in laughter.
I was eager to join every demonstration during the revolution, but I knew my role was to document the events as a photographer. I thought to myself, “It’s my responsibility to record this.” Being petite, I was able to weave in and out of the crowd, ceaselessly snapping photos. I used about 20 rolls of film that day. When it was all over, I rushed home to develop the images in my darkroom. I was acutely aware that I had captured a historic moment. I felt immense pride for all the women and wanted to showcase our best.
As it turned out, that was the last day women could walk the streets of Tehran without covering their heads. It was our first encounter with the disappointment of Iran’s new post-revolutionary leaders. We didn’t achieve the result we had fought for. Yet, when I look at this photo, I see more than the imposed hijab; I see the women, the solidarity, the joy, and the strength we felt.
I offered my photos to newspapers, but none were interested. However, in 2010, I took the photos to a women’s festival in Syria. The response was heartwarming, from both Muslim and Christian women. They were witnessing the authentic lives of Iranian women for the first time. A photography student even chose to base her PhD thesis on these images, which was incredibly gratifying for me. The reactions from young Iranians, who have never seen women without hijabs in the streets, are particularly intriguing. Their world is starkly different. Some are even unaware that these protests took place.
Post-revolution, Iran saw the emergence of hundreds of talented women photographers. But when I sought to document the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s, the authorities barred me. “Only men on the front line,” they declared. Nowadays, I am friends with an Iranian student who was permitted to photograph the war in Afghanistan. I always tell her she’s living out my dream.
Hengameh Golestan
