The Moth - Rooftops in Tehran: Mojdeh Rezaeipour

Episode Date: January 20, 2023

On this episode, we talk to Mojdeh Rezaeipour about the situation in Iran, and hear a story from her. This episode is hosted by Jenifer Hixson. If you want to learn more about the ongoing revolutionary movement in Iran, Mojdeh recommends following the Instagram accounts @from____Iran and @collectiveforblackiranians for information on what's happening in English. Storyteller: Mojdeh Rezaeipour

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slashordSlashHuston to experience a live show near you. That's theMoth.org-FordSlashHuston. Welcome to The Moth Podcast. I'm Jennifer Hickson. At The Moth we know that sometimes stories can help people view things in a new light, see issues with some added perspective. In this episode, we wanted to share a story that resonated with the ongoing revolutionary movement in Iran. Mojdae Riziah Poor told this at a New York City main stage in 2013, but Mojdae begins

her story in 1995 when she was still a little girl. Stay tuned after this story when I'll be talking with Marj Dey about what's changed since she first shared this, and her take on the protest significance on a global level. Here's Marj Dey live at the moment. I'm sitting across the table from a terrifying woman in a black veil. My heart's racing, and I'm trying really hard to remember which questions to answer truthfully

and which ones to lie about. I wish my parents could help, but they are in the adjacent room with a different terrifying woman answering the same questions. Earlier that day, we had all been escorted to this remote location outside of Teheron in the middle of a beautiful garden. The woman who's interviewing me smells sour. She holds her veil under her chin with one hand and takes notes about what I'm saying with her other hand.

She's asking me things like, do you have a side of light TV at home? Does your father drink alcohol? And does anybody you know ever travel to America? What may seem like the scene of some sort of sick interrogation is simply a qualifying final interview for a school I was applying to in Iran. I was nine years old. I was pretty hard to crack though because for a long time at this point, I had been living a double life.

My family and I were never really politically involved in one direction or the other, but we definitely enjoyed the personal liberties and private that we were denying in public. So we listened to all kinds of music. My father's liquor cabinet was always filled with prohibited whiskey imports and my mother enjoyed a plethora of American soap opera as an satellite TV Outside of our home though everything was different my second life started as early as the very first day of elementary school When I was forced to put on a headscarf uniform Every morning from there on out, the principal would lead my classmates and me

to stand in single-file lines chanting death to America 100 times. Oh. Yeah. The first time that happened, I was only six. And as you can imagine, I was really terrified. So I went home and asked my mom, Hey, mom, why do we have to say death to America at school? Does an auntie live there?

I really don't want her to die. And she'd be like, oh, sweetie, you don't have to mean it. Most of your friends at school don't either, but you just all have to pretend so they let you study there. And she tried her best to teach me what things were okay to say at school and what things weren't okay to say at school, but what I never fully understood was why.

And I think that's because there was only so much she could say when she was trying to protect me as a child from knowing too much. When I was 12, my family and I left Iran in pursuit of freedom and opportunity. And it wasn't until we moved to the US that I began to realize that I was free to think what I want, to say what I want. And I don't want to say that I forgot about my past,

but as my secret life became my real life, my experiences in Iran as a child started to become somewhat of a distant memory. Meanwhile, my family always spoke about our country in a good light, and in my studies I learned more and more about the incredible ancient history and the amazing architectural sites in Iran. To this day when I think about what a beautiful part of the world I come from, it makes me proud. But so naturally after I graduated from college, I decided to make a trip and

to see all the everything from myself as an adult. And I was so excited. I was right. As soon as I got there, the smell of the soil instantly opened my chest of memories and every sound, every sight unveiled a new emotion in me. I started to feel at home again in a place I hadn't really experienced in many years and almost immediately the double life started up again. Only this time, as somewhat of a temporary reality, it seemed a little exhilarating to me. My cousins who were still in college dressed conservatively during the day

as they went about their business, not to be bothered by the police. But at night, we would all get super dressed up and go to these elaborate underground dance parties. There was always a secret code to get in. There were girls dressed up in mini skirts and high heels. There were boys and girls holding hands. There were legal underground bands playing music. There was a whole lot of dancing and there was a whole lot of imported booze. But at one of these parties, the band kindly asked that we don't photograph them.

No photos, guys, because if Musavi wins the election, everything's probably going to be fine, but if Ahmadinejad stays in power, we're probably all going to get decapitated. And then everybody laughed, except for me. It was 2009 and I had coincidentally decided to visit Iran in the midst of the presidential elections. It wasn't until that moment that it first occurred to me that this could be a very dangerous time. But it was also a really exciting time. When I first arrived, everyone seemed to a wonderfully happy and optimistic. And the entire city was filled with this era of positivity.

Everyone was on the streets holding up election posters and dressed in green, which symbolized Musavi, who was running against Ahmadinejad in the presidential race. But I think more than that, the color green symbolized change and the yearning for something new, some hope for the future. And it was very contagious. After a while, I also started to believe that in a week or so,

we really would elect a new president and everything would start getting better from there. So the day finally came. And meanwhile, the entire election is really, really westernized. It has this facade of democracy to it. There are statistical polls being held before the elections. There are debates being held between the candidates on TV and on the day of. They're even showing an interactive map as the results are coming in, just like in America. So finally the day bit of came, everybody voted,

and we were just at home glued to the TV to find the results. And by 9 p.m. that night, Musavi had had so many votes that even if Ahmadinejad were to win everything else, he still would have lost the election. At this point, the picture on the TV changed suddenly to a flower blowing in the wind, to the soundtrack of Persian classical music.

We weren't really sure what was happening. We thought maybe the cable went out, so we went to bed optimistic. And in the morning, much to our surprise, the TV announced that Ahmadinejad had won the election with 60-some percent of the votes. Some people had predicted that this might happen, but when my cousins friends were talking about how

if it did happen, there would be bloodshed on the streets. I thought they were joking. That day, I went to French class with my cousin and we waited a while, but nobody showed up. And our cell phones had stopped working so we couldn't call anyone. We decided to leave. And on our way out, I just can't believe my eyes. I looked to my right and all I see are giant trash cans lit on fire rolling down the street.

There's pieces of broken glass everywhere and there's a stampede of students our age running towards us with blood all over their clothes. One looks right at me crying and said, don't go that way. There's a protest and the guards will attack you. They don't care what you're doing. So that's when we knew we had to get home right away. And when we got there, my grandparents who saw themselves as responsible for me in the absence of my family in the US

swore me to house arrest for my remaining time in Tehran. And then my parents called and tried to get me to expedite my return ticket. I wasn't really sure how to feel about that. I was confused. I turned on the TV and the local news channel showed nothing. But even far from the city center, on the 22nd floor of my grandparents' apartment building, I couldn't sleep at night

because of the noise of people screaming. Their feet stomping on the streets chanting, where is my vote? Death to the dictator. Gunshots, tear gas explosions. At 5 p.m. every night, I would open the windows and I could smell fire all over the city, as every car for motorcycle to tow truck would honk their horns to voice their discontent. There were also beautiful moments of solidarity.

At 9 p.m. every night, hundreds, maybe thousands of people as far as the eye could see would rise to their rooftops and balconies chanting Allahu Akbar, which is God is great and Arabic, back and forth at each other. Now, I know that Allahu Akbar may not sound like a cry of opposition to an Islamic regime, but like many other things in Iran,

it took on a double meaning. It meant not only that God is great, but that together we are great. And they cried it back and forth at each other, back and forth. Even my grandparents who had already seen our country through one revolution watched and all. Meanwhile, we're just all glued to foreign news channels, which we're accessing through

illegal satellites and to internet sites which we're accessing through filter breakers to see what's happening just outside of our home. And with every article I read, every photo I saw, every video I watched, I was filled more and more with this immense sense of guilt. Guilt because I felt like everyone out there on the streets is just like me, except for they only have two choices. First being to just shut up and like take it how they hate it, just like they've suffered their entire young lives.

And second was to speak up and to risk their lives. And they were. Kids from my elementary school were probably on the street fighting the fight, getting brutally murdered by the regime. And here I was with this ever-so-attractive third option, which was simply to leave, to return to the US, where my family is, where my friends are, where I have a free life. And it was just too much to risk, so I couldn't be on the street with those people. For three weeks, I had just stayed home and I had watched. Finally, my ticket was ready to leave. And on my way to the airport,

I was filled with a lot of emotion after everything I just witnessed. I was thinking about the guards on the streets. I was remembering the woman in the black veil, the principal at my school, my cousins, my childhood friends. I wondered what would come of my country in the next few months, whether it would be safe to return anytime soon.

I was really startled when this young, intimidating officer asked to see my passport. I showed him my Iranian one, of course, because that's what I'd been advised to do. He looks at it for a brief second and says, do you have another passport? He had realized I don't have a visa. It had been a while since I'd been interrogated. I was shaking as I handed him my American passport.

I didn't know what he wanted to do to it or to me. But he simply looks at it, takes a moment, turns to me with a tear in his eye and says, I hope you realize that you're really lucky. Thank you. That was Mojide Riziah for. Mojide is an Iranian-born artist whose interdisciplinary practice bridges her varied backgrounds as an architect, storyteller, and community organizer. She has exhibited nationally and internationally in a wide range of venues from DIY projects bases in Berlin to museums such as the Phillips collection. Mojda is currently based in Washington

DC where she's an artist and residence at the Henry Luce III Center for the Arts and Religion. I got the chance to talk with Mojda recently about her life now, the protests, and her hopes for the coming year. Here's that conversation. You're in a studio right now? Yeah, I'm in my art studio right now. All your ideas pinned behind you? Actually, it's images from the revolution since this whole thing started. I have turned this studio into a little bit of an analog newsroom for photos that have been coming out of Iran. And I've been sitting with them and kind of working through my own moment to moment learning of everything that's going on. It's overwhelming the amount of imagery that's coming out of Iran and like all of the profound displays of courage, resilience, beauty, and power that

are really only accessible to us nowadays because of social media being this far away. So for people who aren't following the news and just listen to your story, can you give us some context about what's changed and what's happening now? So for the past four months, my people have been in the militant state of revolution, led and instigated by women and young girls. This is significant as one of the most intersectional moments in the history of assistance in my country with solidarity across class, geography, ethnicity, religiosity. It started when a 23-year-old Kurdish Iranian woman,

Gina Masa Amini, was arrested for improper hijab, and then later murdered at the hands of the regime so-called morality police while in their custody. At her funeral in her hometown, Sakres, her family and community started chanting Jean-Géon Azzadis, which is this slogan rooted in 40 years of Kurdish women's struggle in the region and translates in English to woman life freedom.

And in Farsi, it translates to Zanz and Deghi Aza-D, which became the sort of central iconic slogan for the movement, as women took to the streets to take off and burn their mandatory headscarves in protest of Gina's murder, as well as decades of human rights violations rooted in this system of fascism and gender apartheid that has been running Iran for more years than I have been alive. Today, four months in, 20 to 30,000 people are behind bars and undergoing absolutely

horrific conditions just for protesting. The regime is charging many of them with fabricated crimes called war against God and corruption on earth, which are punishable by the death penalty as defined by the regime's laws. So far, the Islamic regime has murdered about 600 of our citizens, including at least 70 children between the ages of 8 and 17. Despite this most violent repression, people are still finding reasons to get out there on the streets consistently. There are nationwide strikes happening, oil workers, steel workers, truck drivers, and this is putting a lot of pressure on the regime's economy, making it so that more groups of people are joining the revolution.

I would say that today is a very dark moment in the history of my people, but this is a marathon and victory is imminent. I do believe that. What's the difference between what was going on in 2009 and what's been going on in Iran for the past few months? Yeah, so in 2009, people were protesting a rigged election inside of the existing government. Today, these protests are not about reform at all. People are very clearly calling for an end to the Islamic regime.

And after 43 years of this tyranny, people have had it and have broken through this wall of fear and are just out on the street because they don't have a choice. And yeah, like what feels present to me still from 2009 is the sense of guilt and shame around like being so far away and only being able to do so much. And how about what do you hope for in the coming year? I think that this movement has relit this really dim flame of hope inside of many of our hearts for

a free Iran. And for one day being able to go back and live in Iran again. I hope for a truly democratic Iran, an Iran that centers the voices and communities that have historically been silenced and marginalized. So, women, queer and trans communities, ethnic minorities in places like Cortiston, in Baluchistan, in Choozistan. And I hope that as we rebuild the country after this regime is gone for good, that rebuilding is

inclusive of this very same generation that instigated the movement. And I also hope for all of us to hold this slogan, woman life freedom in our hearts as a daily practice, to help us fight to maintain the freedoms that we do have, and also to live in us as we move toward a more healed and just world where we can have the freedoms that we have only imagined. Beautiful. What is it like hearing your story after all this time? I wouldn't say that there's anything that I would take back or anything that wasn't true. It's all still true.

But like many of us, I have grown a lot in terms of my social and political understanding in the past decade. And I can't help but to hear parts of that outdated world view in the ways that I tell this story. Specifically, I'm talking about my framing and portrayal of America as this land of, as this place where freedom and real democracy already exist. We're not exempt from any of this here

in a country where it wasn't that long ago when military police was shooting tear gas at protests. I mean, it's all relative, right? I might be able to wear my hair out how I want, but in many states, I don't have a right to abortion. I guess I just want to take away this sense that this is something happening over there far away. This is not just about people in Iran, people in Afghanistan. There is a global rise of right-wing religious extremism. And in one place that might start with a forced head scarf, in one place that might start with a forced pregnancy, there is not really a difference.

And I think that the world that these women have imagined is not one that has ever existed in Iran before. It's also not one that has ever existed in Iran before, it's also not one that has ever existed anywhere before. And I just hope that we can try to build that world together wherever we are. Much day, thank you so much for taking the time to give us more context about your story and about what's happening. Thank you for having me. I'd like to thank Mojde once again for sharing her story and her time. That's all for this episode.

From all of us here at The Moth, we hope you have a week filled with challenged assumptions and new perspectives. Jennifer Hickson is a Senior Director, one of the hosts of the Peabody Award winning Moth Radio Hour and co-author of the Moth's Had to Tell a Story. This episode of the Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Geness, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Salinger. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Kathleen Burns, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bulls, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Kluxay, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bulls, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Klucche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Leanne Gully, Ingeglielski, and Aldi Kaza.

All Maus stories are true as remembered by the storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story and everything else, good or website, TheMouth.org. The Mouth podcast is presented by Pierre-Ex, themouth.org. Themouth podcast is presented by Pierre X, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at PierreX.org.