As the events this past month unfolded, our aggregated American heads swiveled towards Iran, looking at it with greater interest than since the 1980s. Who is this Iran, center of the Axis of evil, run by a midget Holocaust denier, and populated with beautiful and politically engaged students? Iran’s history seems like it has been a long tug between its rich, cultural Persian history and religious fundamentalism (with some US puppet governments thrown in for good measure.)
I’m not sure why, but I’ve always been an Iranophile. I have been deeply impressed by all Persians I’ve met and find the mystical and artistic traditions lovely. This even allowed me to benignly ignore the completely ridiculous assertions of Ahmadinejad, and even more so enjoy the SNL musical spoof of him.
And so for a long time, I’d been looking to read an Iranian-woman author. So when I saw Touba and the Meaning of Night on a pile at a friend’s house, I picked it up and started reading.
Great political changes happen during the long life of the title character, Touba. Her life extends from the turn of the last century till probably the 1960s; and throughout the novel she is vaguely aware of political change but never of it. The almost total separation of the woman’s realm from the men’s is extremely hard, especially as a 21st century western woman reader, to fathom, and yet I assume that Touba is a novelistic rendering of a pretty accurate and commonplace experience. And as she grows older, and Iran undergoes total political and social (change), all of which tug on Touba’s life in mostly upsetting ways, she only is able to perceive the world as a vaguely upsetting shadow; as if the character from Plato’s cave was a veiled woman.
Unlike Magical Realism, the fantastical or escapist aspects of the novel are not a way for the writer to create a slanted critique of their countries corrupt politics (the back of the novel unhelpfully compares it to works by Marquez and Allende.). In Touba, her escape into mystical experiences is just an aspect of this character’s psychological profile, and for whom, as the reader may experience, are a salve for her relentlessly pessimistic life and attitude. She is a woman locked out of (or into, depending how you look at it) her expected social roles. Even in the restricted society of her time, the expectations of women’s roles oscillate. One regime outlaws the Burqa, the next reinstates it. And being poorly informed, and uneducated, everything just seems like an arbitrary and frustrating attack on her personal realm. Though, Touba, unlike other women of her generation, was taught to read and this makes her exceptional. It also allows her just enough of a glimpse into the forbidden realm of politics to make her confused. For example, when her husband explains the Bolsheviks by saying they want to divide everything, even women; Touba misunderstands and thinks the Bolsheviks want to literary break women in half.
The novel also dips in and out, in an almost Austenian manner, of the lives and minds of other characters in her sphere, from the uncle who tears the fetus out of his raped teenage daughter’s womb, to the viciously angry young reactionary who threatens to burn Touba’s home. It’s all very depressing. This is not the novel to read if one is looking for happy endings (or happy beginnings or in-betweens, even). The characters are not just trapped by their natures (as should be any worthy literary characters), but by an ossification of the roles society demands of them. All the misery seems so worthless. Touba never suffers from poverty, violence, abandonment, on any great scale, and yet the subtleties of her suffering and her escape into religious observance are almost caustic. But it is in direct proportion to how uncomfortable this novel made me that I strongly recommend it.