Death to America?

We attended Friday prayers at Tehran University shortly after I wrote last. It was a challenging trip, particularly for us women travelers, as we are not accustomed to wearing the chador with any gracefulness at all. This was additionally difficult as we were advised not to bring any purses or bags with us because of the lengthy security checks and we were also trying to hold on to our cameras and wallets alone (keep in mind that western women’s dress clothing usually fails to have any useful pockets). Add to this that it was raining steadily and we had to keep the chador up out of the puddles. A third or fourth hand would have helped us, but the local women were much better practiced. Along the way we had help from two local women who could guide us through the security checks and into the women’s part of the assembly.

A large green curtain about standing height sectioned us off from the men and granted some privacy. I wish I had pictures, but our cameras didn’t make it past security and were kept for us by an attendant. In the meantime, hundreds of women filled the space, open air but covered by a high roof, and lined up on the carpets provided to soften the plaza as well as offer a seating arrangement for those gathered. Each woman who arrived took off her wet black chador, changed into a white chador, usually with some floral pattern printed on it, rolled out her own prayer mat, opened a handkerchief with a small clay tablet made from the soil of Holy Kerbala in Iraq and placed it where her forehead would later touch the ground in prayer, and usually also brought out a set of prayer beads. She then made her initial prayers, and sat to listen to the sermon. If a woman was cold, she would put her black chador on over the white one. The clothing varied slightly according to the women’s village backgrounds.

Occasionally, as we’d been cautioned by our guide, the speaker would prompt the assembly to shout, ‘Down with the USA!’ or ‘Death to America!’ I think there might have been a few enthusiastic men on the other side of the curtain, but for the most part the women took no notice. A few halfheartedly raised their arms in the air and muttered along. Others talked to their neighbors. Some were a little embarrassed, because they could see us from where they were sitting, and others didn’t seem to notice. One woman said to us, “We mean your administration, but not you. Don’t panic.”

Friday prayers are a political assembly as much as a religious one in Tehran, and only a fraction of the city populace turns out for them. Many prefer to avoid the rhetoric and worship at home. This is particularly true for the women. Others accompany their husbands or sons, and still others come on their own.

We departed just as the final prayers were ending, to avoid the rush of everyone leaving, and went out into the rainy streets to find our bus. One woman in our group unfortunately dropped her camera on the pavement with all she had to carry, and it doesn’t look good. Somewhere though is a group picture of us, awkward and inexperienced in our chador, and glad to take them off once we got back into our bus. As a group, we much prefer the tailored black robes which are both comfortable and functional. For example, I can wear a t-shirt and sweatpants underneath and no one is the wiser. That is precisely what I am doing right now, but it's time for me to get a manteau. More on that later...