A few days of leave granted to me for unspecified reasons (without a personal request) offered me the chance to step out of Evin Prison and witness the new face of Tehran after approximately a year and a few months. This new face did not pertain to the city’s infrastructure or urban landscape; Tehran had not undergone significant changes in this regard, except that, thanks to the brilliant management of the esteemed mayor, it seemed a little more dilapidated and neglected. What caught my attention, however, was the modern visage displayed through the attire of people in the public spaces of the city. From men in shorts to women who, with elegance and decorum, chose not to wear any fabric to cover their hair, the diversity in public appearance was striking.

In fact, women’s attire could be classified into several categories:

1. Women with nothing (not even a hat) covering their heads.
2. Women whose shawls or scarves were draped over their shoulders, seemingly kept for emergencies.
3. Women clearly employed in government offices, wearing formal headscarves, though the abundance of hair spilling out revealed that outside work hours, they likely dressed like the first two categories.
4. Women with semi-formal head coverings (similar to the style common among the populace before the events of 2022).
5. Women wearing modest coverings but not as strictly as their chador-clad counterparts.
6. Women with stringent hijab, including both headscarves and chadors.

What was beautiful and noteworthy was the peaceful coexistence. The veiled women did not admonish those without hijab, nor did the unveiled women mock those who wore it. It seemed that, after enduring temporary crises exacerbated by the authorities that had created a childish polarization between veiled and unveiled women, both groups had now reconciled. They passed by each other without issue or conflict.

Interestingly, on a Friday that coincided with a government-organized prayer and propaganda-laden ceremony to commemorate the death of the leader of Hezbollah in Lebanon, I was invited to a friendly gathering at a café near Haft-e Tir Square. Stuck in traffic among cars whose appearance suggested their owners were staunch regime supporters, I wondered how the women and girls at our gathering would be treated by such individuals. My concern, however, proved unwarranted. The end of our meeting coincided with the conclusion of the prayers. Accompanied by friends—most of whom wore no head coverings—we headed to our cars. To my surprise, there was no confrontation or even a single admonishment from the intensely veiled crowd. Everything concluded in a civilized manner.

This leaves the government, which childishly refuses to recognize or accept this level of modern societal tolerance. Just as it once resisted video players and satellite dishes—resorting to countless crackdowns before being forced to accept these ordinary phenomena—it now finds itself out of step with the everyday norms of its people. Today, even the government-sanctioned films and television series depict the absurdity of that era, when possessing a video player or satellite dish could lead to fines or even flogging.

This ongoing comedy is still in play. For instance, on the walls of cafés and restaurants, one often finds pleading notices written by desperate owners that read: “Due to repeated closures of our establishment, we kindly request [read: we beg] that you observe Islamic hijab.” Of course, the “Islamic hijab” referenced in such notices usually means a token shawl that barely covers much hair but spares the business owner from crippling penalties. True “Islamic hijab,” consisting of chador and formal headscarves, is something no one expects patrons of such venues to observe anymore.

Now, with this brief leave, I am left with mixed emotions. Should I feel proud of living among people who have so civilly embraced their differences in beliefs and practices? Or should I lament a government so out of touch with the everyday norms of its citizens, beating a hollow drum whose jarring, discordant sound no longer appeals even to its own supporters?

Note:
Navid Mihan-Doost, a director and writer, is currently imprisoned in Evin Prison. This short piece reflects his personal observations and opinions.