I have just put down “Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books” (It was a very disjointed book; I don’t recommend it unless you are an enormous fan of James, Nabokov, Austen, Fitzgerald. Even then, I believe her analysis of these works is somewhat cursory.) The book is about oppression during the Islamic Republic in Iran, and mostly about how the Islamic Republic truly stifles any emotion, any depth of feeling — indeed, it destroys any attempts at even living.
Women, of course, bear the brunt of the regime’s repression. Women must wear a full-length chador outside, cannot be seen unaccompanied, cannot walk alongside a man who is not a father, brother, or son. Perhaps worst of all, the Islamic Republic prevents one from falling in love – that which we take for granted, and see as so sacred in the West. In such a brutal regime, love itself is corrupted, broken down into something worthless. Love is the “West” – it is tainted, unnatural, decadent, and worst of all – worth hating. The author, Azar Nafisi, falls ever deeper into the only escape she has – literature. She teacher her students how to appreciate literature, how to escape through literature, and perhaps most of all — how to utilize literature to better understand their own lives. Fiction, perhaps, is the closest these young women will ever get to experiencing love, happiness, joy, passion. For the Islamic Republic strips all emotion from the experience of life. And so, are the oppressed even living, or simply the dead on earth?
For some reason, the book made me think deeply about the journey of my own mind. In high school and perhaps the beginning of college, I still thought of myself as a largely artistic persona. I was constantly in pursuit of beauty – I too, like the girls in this book, was in love with fiction. I could read for hours, delve deep into the characters, find meaning to apply to my own experiences (though perhaps they were not so dramatic). I loved art and music, too. Most of all, I loved poetry. Poetry always held the most meaning to me because it simply represents a feeling. It magically captures a thought, freezes a moment in time.
But you know what? I am no longer able to appreciate literature in the same way as I did before. Instead my mind is overtaken by thoughts of poverty & human rights violations. I am constantly reading books like “Out of Poverty” by Paul Polak, and “The Rich Get Richer, The Poor Get Prison.” I’ve become a lover of non-fiction, a fan of practical applications. Theory and indeed, the magic of fiction somehow holds less appeal to me now.
This may sound a bit crazy, but human rights violations, poverty, the massive magnitude of problems in this world — they are, to me, the oppressive Islamic Republic. I myself am being oppressed by all the problems out there. When there is such ugliness in the world, I am restricted. I cannot turn away from the problems to simply take a deep breath and enjoy the simple pleasures in life – like art, fiction, or poetry. I cannot sympathize with fictional characters, because I am overwhelmed with concern, frustration, worry about real people and their very real human suffering. So I have to read about solutions to these issues instead. The level of human suffering out there is oppressive. It is always in the back of my mind, lurking behind me like a ever-growing shadow. (P.S. I do not mean to make light of the concept of ‘oppression’ – I obviously know you can’t compare the repression of the Islamic Republic to my own life, at ALL. I’m not complaining – merely realizing something that I didn’t see so clearly before).
Fiction begins to seem trivial. Art, unnecessary. Fiction and art, especially, are too particular. Poetry, for me, is the hardest. Poetry is still beautiful to me but only because it can take on any shape, any meaning — the meaning I want. I still appreciate and love poetry because it helps me put the amount of human suffering out there into words. It remains amorphous and I can take it with me on this journey of the mind.
Ultimately, Nafisi and her girls have to fight the Islamic Republic because they have no choice — they are forbidden from living, loving, breathing, being while under the oppressive hand of the regime. There are only three choices: fight, leave, or die. In other words: win, give up, or lose. Nafisi herself gives up. So do many of the others.
For me, I have to, have to do something to alleviate the human suffering that is so oppressive in my mind – that is not allowing me to enjoy the simple things that are at my feet. For me, there can only be one choice: win. I cannot concede defeat, nor can I bear the weight of losing. But winning may not be possible in my lifetime, sadly — and perhaps I will have to create a fourth option to fit into: die fighting.
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