Jacqueline Saper's Blog

By Jacqueline Saper
The Seattle Times
Published Oct. 30, 2020

A few days after I turned 18, in March of 1979, my father urged me to vote. As an Iranian citizen in the pivotal year of a revolution, voting enabled me to express my opinion on whether my country was to become the Islamic Republic. After months of civil unrest, strikes, martial law and demonstrations, the people were now “free” to make the slogan, “Independence, Freedom, the Islamic Republic” become reality. This particular referendum was so instrumental that the government lowered the voting age from 18 to 16. There was only one problem: After 2,500 years of monarchy, no one had ever experienced or knew what Islamic Republic governance would entail.

There and then, I had to cast my vote in front of a few armed men in khaki uniforms and black boots. I was given a two-part ballot with two distinct colors. Green indicated a large printed “Yes” in favor of the Islamic Republic. Red indicated a large printed “No” to reject the Islamic Republic. Under the imperious glares of everyone around me, I carefully separated the perforated ballot into two pieces and inserted the “correct” one in the appropriate box. After I cast my vote, I handed my birth certificate booklet to the official seated at the corner of the table. He turned the pages and firmly imprinted a stamp on the top of page three. Now, I could show my alignment with the new establishment and avoid potential political retribution. On April 1, 1979, following overwhelming support, Iran was declared as the Islamic Republic of Iran.

A few days before I turned 26, in March of 1987, I emigrated to the United States with my husband, daughter and son. I had fled a country where its government demonized the United States as “The Great Satan” and sanctioned ubiquitous chants of “Death to America.” My family first resettled in Texas, where friends and neighbors cheered the Houston Astros’ baseball team’s achievements. But I was most eager to celebrate the forthcoming Independence Day on July 4, this most quintessential American celebration. Nearly 34 years later since my arrival, as an American citizen, I exercise my right to vote in the privacy of a polling booth amid a pandemic, demand for social equity and a freshly filled vacancy on the United States Supreme Court. As I stand in line to cast my vote in one of the most crucial elections in our history, I will remember my thoughts when I stood in line in Tehran, where anyone in the room could see how each person voted. As I reflect on my personal journey over the past few decades, my vote in 1979, in a nondemocratic society, was an act of survival. In 2020, my vote in a democratic society is an act of civic duty. Leading up to Nov. 3, 2020, my social media feed is filled with contentious and passionate political posts. Remarks, tweets and caricatures of presidential candidates are, at times, humorous, disturbing and thought-provoking.

This election cycle — as is the case in past election cycles — we in America have the freedom of expression to mock or approve our civil servants’ officials. Our collective voices heard through individuals’ private votes will determine the outcome of our leadership. In contrast, in the Islamic Republic of Iran, most power lies in the hand of an unelected official known as the Supreme Leader. Not only can he not be voted out by the citizens’ popular vote, but ridiculing him could entail grave consequences. During this extraordinary year and contentious election season, I find myself thinking of the young girl who cast her first ballot for the referendum that created Iran’s Islamic Republic. Forty-one years ago, I did not have a choice. In 2020, I have a choice. This time my vote ensures democracy in action.

Jacqueline Saper is the author of a memoir, “From Miniskirt to Hijab: A Girl in Revolutionary Iran.” She lives in Illinois.

By Jacqueline Saper
Published in Foreign Policy News -
March 3, 2020

On this International Women’s Day, women around the world celebrate their social and political achievements and gains. In Iran, though, women are decades behind the place they once stood. Their struggle in the year 2020 is to claw back the societal advancements they already achieved and then lost following the 1979 Islamic Revolution.

I came of age in prerevolutionary Iran during the 1960s and 1970s. I knew of many strong-willed women in both the public sector and my private life who lived life to their own accord. My father often reminded me that our king, Mohammad Reza Shah and his father, Reza Shah, had been instrumental in improving women’s rights of our Middle Eastern nation. He remarked that my role model should be Dr. Farrokhru Parsa, Iran’s Minister of Education, because she was the first woman in the country’s history to occupy a cabinet position.

The implementation of rapid modernization beginning in the mid-twentieth century contributed to women’s empowerment. In 1936, Reza Shah emancipated women from the hijab. Until that time, Iranian women had been veiled — by state mandate — for centuries. In 1937, Iranian women began to attend universities. They would soon hold positions as judges, ministers, and ambassadors. In the Iran of my youth, Mohammad Reza Shah’s edicts protected the rights of women in matters of family law. Women were free to dance the night away in the city discos, sunbathe their skin on the shores of the Caspian Sea, attend sporting events in stadiums, and become celebrity singers.

Iranian women, at times, were even ahead of their European counterparts. For example, the Shah gave women the right to vote in 1963, eight years before their Swiss counterparts gained the same civil privilege.

Everything changed in the pivotal year of 1979 as the Shah’s nemesis, Ayatollah Khomeini, steered a revolution from afar — he’d been exiled to France — that gained rapid momentum. Some of my fellow Iranian sisters believed his pledge to bring about a utopia of social justice. I, did not. A senior in high school and just shy of my eighteenth birthday, I sensed that I would be entering adulthood in a backwards-moving environment; that my rights would revert to these of bygone years.

Seemingly overnight, the newly-founded fundamentalist regime altered the country’s name to the Islamic Republic of Iran. It replaced the nation’s flag and national emblem. It adopted a new Constitution. Iranian women were denied fundamental rights that American women took for granted. We were subjected to draconian rules about relationships and marriage, how to dress, and how to behave. We were second-class citizens when it came to participating in cultural events, travel, and the judicial system. On May 8, 1980, Dr. Farrokhru Parsa was executed by the firing squad.

Yet our insistence on rights never extinguished.

The first act of defiance against the Islamic Republic happened on International Women’s Day 41 years ago. On March 8, 1979, thousands of Iranian women and girls took to the streets to protest an edict that reimposed the hijab on all women, regardless of their ethnicity or religious background. They were harassed, forced to disbursed. But their light of defiance stayed lit and has grown ever since. Courageous Iranian women from various strata of society, joined forces in recent uprisings to demand more social, political, and cultural rights.

Even in the face of harsh consequences, Iranian women take off their mandatory headscarves in public and voice their opinions against the limitations imposed on them. The 56-year-old human rights lawyer and activist, Nasrin Sotoudeh, was sentenced to 38 years in prison. 21-year-old Saba Kord Afshari was sentenced to 24 years in prison. And just last month, Shirin Ebadi, an Iranian lawyer, former judge, and the winner of the 2003 Nobel Peace Prize, in an open letter to the Iranian women, asking for forgiveness for her role in supporting the Islamic Revolution.

On this International Women’s Day, May 8, 2020, I cheer for these brave women of Iran. The world should support their drive for justice and equality.

Jacqueline Saper is the author of a memoir, “From Miniskirt to Hijab: A Girl in Revolutionary Iran.” (Potomac Books – University of Nebraska Press). jacquelinesaper.com

By Jacqueline Saper
Published in The Forward on May 7, 2018

In 2018, Israel celebrated the 70th anniversary of its independence. In 2019, Iran will commemorate the 40th anniversary of the establishment of the Islamic Republic.

In 1897, at the first Zionist Congress in Basel, Switzerland, Theodor Hertzl predicted that a Jewish state would exist in fifty years. In 2018, the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic, Ayatollah Khamenei continuously repeats that the Jewish state will cease to exist in twenty-five years.

As I carry both my Iranian and Jewish identities, I regularly witness the animosity between my homeland and my holy land. Despite such hateful rhetoric, both nations have a deeply entwined history of coexistence, which has influenced both of their cultures and traditions.

My roots in the Middle East go back 2,500 years to the time of Cyrus the Great, the first ruler of the Persian Empire. In 2015, the Israel Post issued a Cyrus Declaration stamp to honor the ruler’s edict of 539 BCE that granted the Jewish people the freedom to return to the Land of Israel or to remain in Persia as free citizens. Later in the ancient Persian era, a Jewish girl by the name of Esther became the queen of the Persian Empire. The holiday of Purim emphasizes Esther’s courage and heroism to foil the plot of the king’s advisor, Haman, to destroy the Jewish people. Esther and her uncle Mordechai, who held a position inside of the king’s court, are buried in present-day Iran.

From the downfall of the ancient Persian Empire until the early 20th century, Persian culture was marred by the degradation of religious minorities, which included acts of anti-Semitism. However, there was a significant shift in this mindset in the twentieth century when the father and son Pahlavi shahs ruled the country.

Subsequently, during the idyllic decades of the 1960s and 1970’s, Iran had a favorable relationship with the Jewish State of Israel, which was exceptional in the Middle East at that time. The Israeli-Iranian friendship was mutually beneficial. Iran was Israel’s largest supplier of oil, while Israel sold weapons and built infrastructure for Iran. Israel also helped to launch Iran’s nuclear program, which is now, controversially, in the hands of the Islamic Republic.

My childhood and adolescent years were spent in an Iran that was secular and modern. Many Americans, Europeans, and Israelis worked and lived within its borders. Tehran was a cosmopolitan city that hosted many nightclubs, restaurants, and movie theaters, while radio and television programming was in both Farsi and English.

Every morning on my way from home to school, I passed the Israeli Day school, as well as the Israeli embassy building, which was a ten-minute drive from my family’s home. On the days that I didn’t have school, I would accompany my English mother to Mehrabad International Airport, where she had a prominent position as the assistant to the airport manager. This was the time when Israel’s leading airline, El Al, flew between Tehran and Tel Aviv on a regular basis, providing the means for Iranians to visit Israel as tourists or to seek advanced medical care.

Soon after the Iranian revolution, the Islamic Republic officials invited the Palestinian Liberation Organization president Yasser Arafat to Tehran. I watched his broad grin on national TV programming, as he took the keys of the then evacuated Israeli embassy. The road in front of the mission was renamed from Kach-e Shomali street to Palestine Street.

After the success of the revolution, the Iranian government shaped its foreign policy with an anti-Israel strategy. Ayatollah Khomeini declared Israel as an “enemy” and “The Little Satan” (as opposed to “The Great Satan,” the United States). Israel, in the minds of the revolutionary leadership, was not a country or a geographical reality, but a symbol of all evil. Thus, the struggle against Israel would be the battle between good and evil.

The Iranian government also promulgated an aggressive anti-American stance. However, despite such efforts, many Iranians hold a favorable view of the United States. This viewpoint is because many Iranians are aware of American movies, literature, and culture. This exposure hasn’t been readily available with Israeli culture, as the government has banned travel or communication with the ‘Zionist regime.’

In the present-day Middle East, Iran and Israel stand as two of the most potent forces in the region, as symbolized by their deepening involvement in the Syrian conflict. Ironically, both the Iranians and the Israelis have many similarities. For example, as the citizens of a Shiite country and a Jewish country, Iran and Israel, respectively, are minorities in the majority Sunni Middle East and are both surrounded by enemies.

Autocratic governments such as Iran dictate their citizens’ conduct in matters that the citizens of the free world take for granted. Iranians are restricted in how they dress, how they socialize in mixed gender settings and how they can express their opinions. The Iranian government even goes so far as to restrict their interactions with citizens of other nations, such as Israeli citizens, in settings where interactions are considered to be acceptable. For example, Iranian athletes have been reprimanded for playing against Israeli opponents, and the Iranian government and Israeli technology companies have a complex relationship, as evidenced by the Iranian government’s decision to ban the “Waze” navigation application on many occasions.

Although certain formats of social media such as Facebook are illegal in Iran, many have found ways to bypass the state’s Internet filtering system. Such platforms are a place where the citizens of both nations can find common ground. Through social media or Farsi speaking programming broadcasted into Iran, Israelis can break the cultural barrier by introducing the many aspects of the Israeli society such as food, books, and movies to the Iranians.

As an Iranian Jew or as a Jewish Iranian, I fall within the narrow slice of the population that consistently sympathizes with both cultures, as they have both shaped a significant portion of my identity. And as I reminisce about the halcyon days of my past, I long for the days when Israelis will fly to Iran once again, not via F-16 fighter jets, but via El Al passenger planes.

By Jacqueline Saper
Published in The Sun-Sentinel on April 22, 2019

It was Shabbat on Spring break, and I was in the Dutch-Antilles Island of Curacao. So, like many traveling Jews, I put on my sunscreen, adjusted my sandals, and started my search for the local Jewish community. My quest led me quite quickly to congregation Mikve Israel, the oldest temple in the Western hemisphere.

I stepped into the grand sanctuary of the snoa, a Ladino Judeo-Spanish word for synagogue. The layout of the mahogany elevated bimah, (pulpit) in the middle of the room, was exactly like the grand sanctuary of Yousefabad Kenisha, a Judeo-Persian word for a synagogue, of my youth in Tehran, Iran. Even though fine white sand covered the Caribbean temple’s floor, and Persian handwoven rugs covered the floor of its Middle Eastern counterpart, both synagogues had similar Sephardic practices.

Sephardim are primarily the descendants of Jews from the Iberian Peninsula, but the term also includes the Jewish communities of the Middle East and North Africa who practice the same laws and customs. Mikve Israel-Emanuel synagogue was founded in 1723 by expelled Spanish and Portuguese Jews who re-established their lives in the more tolerant societies of the independent Dutch provinces. Likewise, in my current hometown of Chicago, the Portuguese Israelite Fraternity congregation was founded in 1914 by the descendants of survivors of the Spanish Inquisition who re-established their lives in the United States.

The congregants at the island synagogue were comprised of an eclectic tapestry of races and cultures. Jews from North and Latin America, Europe, and Asia, were well represented. The European congregants, in particular, mostly Dutch citizens, were either vacationing or living in the Caribbean on a part-time basis. KLM airlines run a non-stop flight between Amsterdam and Curacao regularly. Other non-local congregants, like myself, were passengers of the nearby docked cruise ships; eager to maximize their short stay on the island by visiting its most notable landmark. Today, an American teenager was celebrating her destination bat mitzvah with her entourage of guests who had joined her on this special day.

To my left, dressed in a long floral gown with a matching colorful headwrap and dangling earrings, sat my new Curacaoan friend, Jemyma. She grasped the star of David around her neck and swayed from side to side as the Hazzan recited the prayers in a deep and gripping voice.

Similarly, at the Portuguese Israelite Fraternity congregation in Chicago, blending different traditions from members’ ethnic backgrounds add to the richness of the experiences of the Jews in the diaspora. The membership constitutes a variety of nationalities from Latin American nations such as Mexico, Brazil, and Venezuela, to Middle Eastern countries such as Israel, Iran, Iraq, Morocco, and Tunisia.

After the service, I walked up to Hazzan Tracht, the spiritual leader of the congregation, to wish him Shabbat Shalom (a peaceful Sabbath). We then walked toward the tiled courtyard outside, and soon developed a warm rapport. I was intrigued as to why the floor was covered with sand and soon learned that the sand symbolized the time when the Spanish and Portuguese Jews had to muffle their footsteps during prayer at the time of the Inquisition.

I mentioned my forthcoming memoir and my upbringing in the Middle East. The Hazzan was interested to know more about the story of a Jewish girl from a distant world so different to the Caribbean paradise of his existence. As we shook hands to say our goodbyes, I asked Hazzan Tracht why he was the "Hazzan" and not the “Cantor?” With his pleasant demeanor he told me that the answer was quite simple, as in Dutch, Kantoor means office.

If you happen to be vacationing in the island of Curacao, don’t forget to take a short walk to the juncture of the cobble-stoned streets of Hanchi Snoa and Columbusstraat in the capital city of Willemstad. There, under the clear blue sky and behind the row of multi-colored colonial buildings at the waterfront edge of Saint Anna Bay, you will see a bright yellow building with expansive white trimmed windows. The sign on the large wooden gate is a welcoming invitation that reflects the ideology of tolerance and respect for all: “Visitors are welcome to worship with us.”

By Jacqueline Saper
Published in The Jerusalem Post on April 3, 2019

Persian Jews have lived in the Middle East for two-and-a-half millennia. As a result, they have adopted many of their countrymen’s customs and merged them with their own, rich, Jewish traditions. One of the best examples of this Persian-Jewish fusion is when Nowruz (the Iranian new year) and Passover intersect.
The Nowruz holiday takes place on the first day of spring (March 21) and is the most important festival in Iran. The preparations for the 13-day holiday begin weeks in advance when families clean their homes from top to bottom. The grueling task of cleaning and scrubbing every nook and cranny is known as khaneh takani meaning to shake the house. Everyone buys new clothes, and makes it a point to visit relatives and friends.

The Nowruz traditional table setting, known as the haft seen, is the center of the new year celebrations. Seven symbolic items, all beginning with the Farsi letter sheen, are placed on the table: sabze (green grown sprouts); samanu (sweet pudding); senjed (dried fruit of the oleaster tree); seer (garlic); seeb (apples); sumac (spice); and serkeh (vinegar). Also, colorful painted eggs, coins, fragrant hyacinths, goldfish and candles decorate the traditional spread.
Depending on the Iranian celebrants’ religious affiliation, excerpts from the Quran, Bible, Avesta or poetry books of renowned Persian poets such as Ferdowsi or Hafez are placed at the table. Traditional dishes served include rice with herbs, and white fish stuffed with walnuts and pomegranate, and garnished with tarragon, parsley and radishes. The most common food offered over pleasantries is dried fruits, pistachios, edible seeds and dates.
Just like Nowruz, the preparations for the eight-day Passover holiday, which also occurs in the spring, begin weeks in advance. Families clean their homes and remove the forbidden hametz (leavened foods).
The Passover traditional table setting, known as the Seder, is the center of the biblically derived holiday which retells the story of the Israelite’s freedom from bondage in Egypt. The Seder plate displays six symbolic items: matzah; zeroah (roasted lamb shank bone); maror (bitter herbs); beitzah (boiled egg); haroset, a mixture of chopped fruits and nuts; and karpas (greens such as parsley), that we dip in salt water. Four cups of wine are drunk during the banquet.
I have vivid memories of my childhood Seders in Iran. My father would don a tailored three-piece suit and read from the Haggada in a strong, commanding voice. We would read along and sing the traditional songs from our Farsi and Hebrew Haggadot. We ate grape leaves stuffed with rice and ground beef, grilled fish, roasted eggplant, saffron rice with barberry and slivered almonds, and chicken stew. Most delicious was the crispy golden tahdig, which is the crust of rice left to scorch at the bottom of the pan.

Now that I live in Chicago, our Seders have evolved again to incorporate Persian customs, as well as American and Ashkenazi Jewish customs. At our table, we read and sing from the Haggada in English, Hebrew and of course Farsi. My granddaughter’s custom-made Haggada references the American civil rights movement and highlights the similarities with the Jewish people’s quest for freedom.
We decorate our table with fresh flowers and fragrant hyacinths, and include a meal of herbed rice and white fish stuffed with walnuts and pomegranate, decorated with an assortment of fresh tarragon, parsley, and radishes. There is also brisket and matzah ball soup.
At the center of our table, lettuce replaces the horseradish, and vinegar replaces salt water. We fight over the delicious haleq (Persian haroset), which everyone demands to have an extra serving. At the recitation of the 10 plagues, we incorporate the Ashkenazi custom of dipping one’s finger in the wine with the Sephardi tradition of spilling drops of wine into a bowl.
The highlight of the evening is when we sing the traditional Passover song, Dayenu. In a uniquely Persian tradition, everyone grabs a scallion to fend off aggressive vegetables. This action is our way of remembering the “whipping” the Israelite slaves in Egypt received from their Egyptian masters.
Persian Jews mark the end of Passover, known as Shab-e Sal, with a meal composed of dairy products featuring a variety of yogurt and herb dishes. The day after the end of Passover, known as Ruz-e Sal, as well as the last day of Nowruz celebrations, known as sizdah bedar, are both spent in the outdoors and close to nature. If Lake Michigan weather permits, we try to spend this time with family at a park or the Botanic Gardens.
Passover is about celebrating our freedom with family and the community. So why don’t you find yourself a Persian American Jewish family and celebrate Passover with a twist?

By jacqueline Saper
Published in The Seattle Times on June 28, 2019

Women in the United States are wearing hijab proudly to identify with their Muslim faith. However, while women in America wear hijab by choice, for the past 40 years, women in Iran are fighting for the choice not to wear one.

Hijab, meaning barrier in Arabic, refers to a strict code of dress that covers both the hair and the curves of a woman’s body in the presence of men who are not close relatives. Some examples are the burqa and the chador that completely cover the body; head coverings such as the maghnaeh or a large headscarf; or the niqab, which hides the face but not the eyes. A woman who wears hijab is referred to as Muhaajaba.

I grew up unveiled and later wore hijab for eight years while living in the Islamic Republic of Iran. The history of hijab in Iran is complicated and interesting. In 1936, Reza Shah, the first Pahlavi king to modernize the country, imposed a decree that legally banned women from wearing hijab, who, until that time, had been veiled for centuries. Simply, being covered in public became a crime that would get a woman arrested. During the reign of Mohammad Reza Shah, the second Pahlavi monarch, the prohibition against wearing hijab was lifted. Women could choose to wear hijab but were encouraged to dress as their American counterparts.

In the months preceding the civil unrest that led to the Iranian revolution of 1979, some women started to wear a stricter form of hijab as a political statement of empowerment to protest the Western-leaning monarchy. These same women cheered when the Shah was ousted, and the clerical establishment assumed power.

Shortly after assuming power, however, the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khomeini, imposed a decree that forced women, who had been unveiled for decades, to wear hijab. Now hijab had become a visible political symbol of oppression instead of empowerment, curtailing many of the rights women had achieved under the previous regime.

All women, regardless of religious background or nationality, were subject to this rule. Therefore, as an Iranian Jewish teenager, I, too, had to dress as an orthodox Muslim woman. Indeed, “morality police” were tasked with patrolling the streets in order to arrest, fine, and imprison women and girls who dared show their hair or wear anything other than a loose shaped coat or an all-encompassing chador in defiance of the regime’s modesty laws. By 1986, my 6-year-old daughter, as part of her first-grade school uniform, was also forced to dress like me.

My family emigrated to the United States in 1987, where I could once again practice the freedom to dress as I like. The women I left behind are now protesting hijab as a symbol of defiance in much the same way they did in 1979 when the decree was issued. This time, they are doing it by stripping themselves of hijab and using social media to spread their message. Iranian citizens also have created a smartphone app to warn users of nearby morality police.

Hijab remains a controversial matter in both the West and the Middle East. Nothing better exemplifies this than the wide range of opinions surrounding the recent Sports Illustrated photo of Somali-American swimsuit model Halima Aden in hijab and burkini on the cover. Regardless of one’s opinion on hijab, as an Iranian-American woman who has lived in both Iran and America, I know that there is a huge difference between wearing hijab in democratic versus undemocratic nations.

While for some women in the West, hijab is a choice and a means of expression, for many women in the authoritarian society of Iran, hijab is a symbol of oppression that strips away their most basic human rights and the dignity to wear what they want.

Published in Foreign Policy News on March 3, 2020
On this International Women’s Day, women around the world celebrate their social and political achievements and gains. In Iran, though, women are decades behind the place they once stood. Their struggle in the year 2020 is to claw back the societal advancements they already achieved and then lost following the 1979 Islamic Revolution.

I came of age in prerevolutionary Iran during the 1960s and 1970s. I knew of many strong-willed women in both the public sector and my private life who lived life to their own accord. My father often reminded me that our king, Mohammad Reza Shah and his father, Reza Shah, had been instrumental in improving women’s rights of our Middle Eastern nation. He remarked that my role model should be Dr. Farrokhru Parsa, Iran’s Minister of Education, because she was the first woman in the country’s history to occupy a cabinet position.

The implementation of rapid modernization beginning in the mid-twentieth century contributed to women’s empowerment. In 1936, Reza Shah emancipated women from the hijab. Until that time, Iranian women had been veiled — by state mandate — for centuries. In 1937, Iranian women began to attend universities. They would soon hold positions as judges, ministers, and ambassadors. In the Iran of my youth, Mohammad Reza Shah’s edicts protected the rights of women in matters of family law. Women were free to dance the night away in the city discos, sunbathe their skin on the shores of the Caspian Sea, attend sporting events in stadiums, and become celebrity singers.

Iranian women, at times, were even ahead of their European counterparts. For example, the Shah gave women the right to vote in 1963, eight years before their Swiss counterparts gained the same civil privilege.

Everything changed in the pivotal year of 1979 as the Shah’s nemesis, Ayatollah Khomeini, steered a revolution from afar — he’d been exiled to France — that gained rapid momentum. Some of my fellow Iranian sisters believed his pledge to bring about a utopia of social justice. I, did not. A senior in high school and just shy of my eighteenth birthday, I sensed that I would be entering adulthood in a backwards-moving environment; that my rights would revert to these of bygone years.

Seemingly overnight, the newly-founded fundamentalist regime altered the country’s name to the Islamic Republic of Iran. It replaced the nation’s flag and national emblem. It adopted a new Constitution. Iranian women were denied fundamental rights that American women took for granted. We were subjected to draconian rules about relationships and marriage, how to dress, and how to behave. We were second-class citizens when it came to participating in cultural events, travel, and the judicial system. On May 8, 1980, Dr. Farrokhru Parsa was executed by the firing squad.

Yet our insistence on rights never extinguished.

The first act of defiance against the Islamic Republic happened on International Women’s Day 41 years ago. On March 8, 1979, thousands of Iranian women and girls took to the streets to protest an edict that reimposed the hijab on all women, regardless of their ethnicity or religious background. They were harassed, forced to disbursed. But their light of defiance stayed lit and has grown ever since. Courageous Iranian women from various strata of society, joined forces in recent uprisings to demand more social, political, and cultural rights.

Even in the face of harsh consequences, Iranian women take off their mandatory headscarves in public and voice their opinions against the limitations imposed on them. The 56-year-old human rights lawyer and activist, Nasrin Sotoudeh, was sentenced to 38 years in prison. 21-year-old Saba Kord Afshari was sentenced to 24 years in prison. And just last month, Shirin Ebadi, an Iranian lawyer, former judge, and the winner of the 2003 Nobel Peace Prize, in an open letter to the Iranian women, asking for forgiveness for her role in supporting the Islamic Revolution.

On this International Women’s Day, May 8, 2020, I cheer for these brave women of Iran. The world should support their drive for justice and equality.

Jacqueline Saper is the author of a memoir, “From Miniskirt to Hijab: A Girl in Revolutionary Iran.” (Potomac Books – University of Nebraska Press). jacquelinesaper.com

By Jacqueline Saper
Published in The Times of Israel on April 26, 2020

Coronavirus has become a global epidemic, forcing world leaders to deal with the health, economic, and psychological fallout. In Iran, though, the coronavirus is just another disaster dropped upon an already-traumatized citizenry and exacerbated by a misguided government.

Last November, protestors took to the streets to object to a sudden increase in gasoline prices, and to show their discontent with inflation, unemployment, and corruption. In response, Iranian security forces fatally shot an estimated 1,500 people and detained many more. 2020 then began, literally, with the force of a deluge. Heavy rains and flash flooding In January resulted in fatalities and widespread destruction. A few days later, General Qasem Soleimani, viewed by many as Iran’s second-most powerful person, was killed by an American airstrike in Iraq. Then came Iran’s response to Soleimani killing: it shot down a passenger jet, Ukraine International Airlines flight 752, with 176 people aboard as it took off from Tehran Imam Khomeini Airport. The strike, apparently, was an accident — the result of an itchy trigger finger in a warlike atmosphere. 146 Iranians or dual national Iranians are among the dead.

By mid-February, coronavirus reared its head. Quickly, it spread at an exponential rate. And equally quickly, the threat was downplayed by Iran’s leaders. February is the “Ten-Day of Dawn’s” celebration where people are encouraged to flock to the streets to commemorate the return of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini to Iran in 1979 after fifteen years in exile. Iran’s parliamentary elections were also due to take place in February. Government leaders wanted high voter turnout and the support expected to come with it. So the virus was not acted upon with urgency.

Yet another factor playing into the Iranian government’s harmful decision making was a desire to maintain peoples’ pilgrimages to the holy city of Qom, a city 90 miles south of Tehran. Qom houses the sacred Shrine of Fatima Masoumeh, among other shrines and mosques. Proposals for quarantines were repudiated by Iran’s vocal and plentiful religious zealots who believe the shrines have extraordinary healing power. Sure enough, Iran’s first detection of COVID-19 was in Qom, and as pilgriming visitors returned to their respective homes, they spread the virus throughout the country and beyond its borders.

Even once the outbreak took hold of Iran, the nation’s ruling establishment used the crisis to emphasize its priorities of religion, anti-American propaganda, and an unbending anti-Israel stance. Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei rejected America’s offer of humanitarian assistance, instead emphasizing Iran’s self-reliance in fighting coronavirus. Based on this same philosophy, the Iranian Health Ministry rejected an offer from Doctors Without Borders to establish an intensive care field hospital in the hard-hit city of Isfahan.

Iran has highly skilled medical professionals. It also has some equipment. On April 18, the country marked Army Day with a parade of uniformed soldiers in masks and gloves riding on disinfection vehicles, and by displaying a range of medical equipment. But it has failed to fully leverage these assets. Instead, it has muted their effect by prioritizing religion in its approach to coronavirus. Clerics continue to suggest an array of non-medical remedies such as reciting verses while smelling rosewater and consuming oils. Any combination of religion and medicine must be one in which the dual approaches complement one another. What we’re seeing in Iran is a minimization of science and medicine.

And of course, there’s propaganda. Iran has made a bogus claim, declaring that it’s invented smart system equipment that can instantly identify coronavirus in the environment by creating a magnetic field. Misinformation, misplaced priorities and missed opportunities to access international aid are compounding Iran’s sickness and suffering.

The people of Iran have lost trust in their government’s manipulated statistics of positive cases and the dead. Iranian authorities are dealing with this deadly and invisible plague with an utter lack of transparency. Same as ever, a regime founded on lies continues to rule on shaky grounds. The Iranian people continue to suffer the consequences.

Jacqueline Saper is the author of a memoir, “From Miniskirt to Hijab: A Girl in Revolutionary Iran.” (Potomac Books – University of Nebraska Press). jacquelinesaper.com