Islamic Brothel Workers in Iran

Harpers:

From interviews with Iranian brothel workers conducted by Roya Karimi-Majd for Zanan, a women's magazine published in Teheran. Last March, Iran's delegates to the United Nations Commission on the Status of Women rejected draft declarations that called for signatories to “condemn violence against women and refrain from invoking any custom, tradition, or religious consideration to avoid their obligations with respect to its elimination.” Translated from the Farsi by Kamran D. Rastegar.


How did you get into this line of work?
When I was in the fourth grade my mother died, and my father died when I was sixteen. My older brother took the other eight of us to Teheran to live with our half brother and his family in a couple of tiny rooms he rented in the Islamshahr district.
A couple of days after we arrived, I befriended a girl at the vegetable market. I went to her house, and she lent me a beautiful overcoat of hers to wear to the store. When we went out, everyone was staring at me—I had become pretty. That night my half brother, who worked in the same area, came home, ate dinner, and then beat me. He kept saying, “Two days you've been in Teheran and you've been corrupted! What were you wearing? You've ruined my reputation!” If his wife hadn't been there, he would have killed me.
I was in so much pain that I couldn't sleep. When the morning call to prayer sounded, I ran away. I said to myself, “I'll go find my mother's sister. I'll go back to my hometown. I'll find a husband and be free from all of them.”
It was nighttime when I got to the southern bus terminal, and the tickets were sold out. I didn't have much money, so I went into the bathroom, where a few other girls were sleeping. I had just started to fall asleep when a loud sound awakened me. The religious police were conducting a raid, and they took us all to the police station. From there we were sent to court. I couldn't understand a word of what the judge was saying. I was sleepy. I wanted to tell him what had happened, but I couldn't. In the end he gave me a sentence: eighty lashes and a 30,000 toman fine [thirty-five dollars].
When they whipped me, it hurt. My stomach hurt, my feet burned. At first, I screamed out loud. Then I just bit down hard on the edge of my chador. I was an idiot. I was only sixteen years old. I was locked up for three months. I actually missed my half brother's beatings.
When they let me go, I had no money, no idea where I was. I slept in the park. Eventually, I found a pay phone and called an old neighbor of mine. She asked me where I was, and I told her. That night I was sleeping in some cardboard boxes when I heard a sound. I got up and saw it was my half brother. I laughed and called out, “Have you come looking for me?” He said, “Yes, come on, let's go.” We walked toward the woods, and I saw he had a rope. I knew he was going to beat me, but I figured it couldn't be worse than the lashes, so I said to myself, “Let him beat me, then we'll go home.” But instead he tied the rope to a tree, made a noose with it, and grabbed me and put my head in the noose. I couldn't breathe. I was about to die. I said, “I'm dying.” He said, “Good, good.” His eyes were red. When he let go of me, the branch bent, and my feet touched the ground, so I could breathe again. He ran to straighten the branch, and suddenly a light shone on us, and he ran away. The branch broke, and I fell down, choking.
The police took me to the hospital. I wanted to file charges against my half brother, but they said, “You're not legally an adult.” So I went back to the streets. I started waiting until cars came by, and then going with them, and sometimes I would go with motorcyclists or even pedestrians. As long as I had a place to stay at night, the price didn't matter. It took me a while to learn what to charge. I'd put the money in a small bag, which I hid under a bridge, until there was enough to get a place for myself. So things aren't so bad right now. I haven't heard from my half brother in over a year. I never spoke to my old neighbor again. But I miss my half brother's children.
* * *
How old are you?
I'm fifteen.
Why did you leave home?
One day I was coming home from school when Abbas started following me, asking for alms. Every day for a week he followed me home, but I ignored him. Then one day I answered, and my brother happened to see me. He went straight to my father. That night my father beat me until my whole body was black and blue. Then he locked me in the cellar. There were rats down there. I screamed and shouted, but no one came to help me. I thought I was going to die from fright. The next day, after my father had gone to work, my sister passed a piece of bread and some cheese to me under the cellar door. For a whole month she did that every day. For a whole month I didn't wash or change my clothes. There was a pit in the cellar where I went to the bathroom. Finally, I broke a window in the middle of the night and managed to escape into the street. I had no chador, so I stole one from the mosque. I was on my way to the bus terminal when I was picked up by the police. At six o'clock in the morning, they took me back home. I was beaten again. This time my father hung me by my feet from the hook he used to hang slaughtered lambs. That night my sister cut me down. She said, “Go.” I said, “He's going to kill you.” She said, “You go, I'll think of something.” She gave me a chador and some money. I went straight to the town square, found a ride, and came to Teheran.
And what do you do now?
I work in a house. The madam I work for pays me and lets me go out for walks.
Do you want to go home?
No. Once I called and spoke to my sister. She said that my father beat her for a week after I left, so she would tell him where I was. And my mother told her that if she sees me she'll burn me alive.
Why?
My mother says that since I am going to burn in the next life, it is her duty to set fire to me in this one.
* * *
How did you end up at this house?
When I was a kid, my parents died in a car crash. I went to live with my uncle, who had six kids. I loved his children, and my uncle's wife was kind to me, but my uncle was always angry—not just with me, with everyone, with his wife, his kids. He would beat me a lot. He said, “I already have enough troubles, and now I've got you hanging around my neck.” He received all my parents' inheritance for taking care of me, but he never spent a penny on me.
I was just starting high school when Ahmad started getting interested in me. He was good-looking. He was nice. Every day he'd follow me home. At school the other girls were jealous; everyone wanted to be friends with Ahmad. But he was only interested in me.
One day a girl said, “Stupid, show him you're interested. What if he gets tired and loses interest in you?” So the next day I looked at him. He understood. He asked my name. I answered his questions. A few days later he said, “Let's go for a walk.” We went to the park, and he held my hand. He was really nice. Then he said, “Let's go to my house, I have a surprise for you there.” We went to his house. No one was home.
When I realized I was pregnant I told Ahmad. He said, “How is that possible?” I said, “Let's go to the doctor.” He said, “Are you crazy? What would I tell the doctor?” I asked him what I should do. He said, “There's nothing I can do about it. I still have to do military service, and I have no money. If my father were to find out, he'd kill me. If your uncle were to find out, he'd kill you. The best thing to do is kill yourself.”
I cried all day, knowing that he was right. I filled a pan with oil and took it into the bathroom. I locked the door. My aunt knocked and asked, “Why is the door locked?” I said, “The air is cold, there's a draft in the bathroom.” I poured the oil over my hair and clothes and I lit a match.
I was burning. My hands, my face. My body. I couldn't stop it. I began screaming. My aunt broke down the door. I don't know what happened after that. When I came to, I was in the hospital. I couldn't move. I was covered in bandages. A week later, when I was able to talk, I asked a nurse, “If someone catches on fire, will their baby die?” She asked, “Are you pregnant?” I said, “Yes.” She told me my baby was alive. The next day my uncle came to the hospital with a knife. I rang the bell for the nurses, and the police came and took my uncle away.
When my burns began to heal, I was taken to the police and given eighty lashes for having an illicit relationship.
I went to a friend I had made in the hospital. My uncle had told her not to take me in, but she did. She took me to a midwife, who gave me an abortion. Then I began to work here. The woman I work for found out what I'd done and felt sorry for me. She said, “Just clean up, I won't ask more of you.” It's difficult under these circumstances to work. But I'm willing, just to have a place to stay.
Look at my eyes. My uncle says that the first time he saw my eyes, he knew they were the eyes of a whore.
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IranProstitutesProstitutionTeheran

Many thanks to CJ.