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| Syria-Lebanon-Iran |
| Iranian Women Explain Why They Became Prostitutes |
| 2004-06-19 |
| From Harpers Magazine When I was in the fourth grade my mother died, and my father died when I was sixteen. My older brother took the other eight of us to Teheran to live with our half brother and his family in a couple of tiny rooms he rented in the Islamshahr district. A couple of days after we arrived, I befriended a girl at the vegetable market. I went to her house, and she lent me a beautiful overcoat of hers to wear to the store. When we went out, everyone was staring at meâI had become pretty. That night my half brother, who worked in the same area, came home, ate dinner, and then beat me. He kept saying, âTwo days youâve been in Teheran and youâve been corrupted! What were you wearing? Youâve ruined my reputation!â If his wife hadnât been there, he would have killed me. I was in so much pain that I couldnât sleep. When the morning call to prayer sounded, I ran away. .... Eventually, I found a pay phone and called an old neighbor of mine. She asked me where I was, and I told her. That night I was sleeping in some cardboard boxes when I heard a sound. I got up and saw it was my half brother. I laughed and called out, âHave you come looking for me?â He said, âYes, come on, letâs go.â We walked toward the woods, and I saw he had a rope. I knew he was going to beat me, but I figured it couldnât be worse than the lashes, so I said to myself, âLet him beat me, then weâll go home.â But instead he tied the rope to a tree, made a noose with it, and grabbed me and put my head in the noose. I couldnât breathe. I was about to die. I said, âIâm dying.â He said, âGood, good.â ..... The police took me to the hospital. I wanted to file charges against my half brother, but they said, âYouâre not legally an adult.â So I went back to the streets. .... ***** Iâm fifteen. One day I was coming home from school when Abbas started following me, asking for alms. Every day for a week he followed me home, but I ignored him. Then one day I answered, and my brother happened to see me. He went straight to my father. That night my father beat me until my whole body was black and blue. Then he locked me in the cellar. There were rats down there. I screamed and shouted, but no one came to help me. I thought I was going to die from fright. The next day, after my father had gone to work, my sister passed a piece of bread and some cheese to me under the cellar door. For a whole month she did that every day. For a whole month I didnât wash or change my clothes. There was a pit in the cellar where I went to the bathroom. Finally, I broke a window in the middle of the night and managed to escape into the street. .... I was on my way to the bus terminal when I was picked up by the police. At six oâclock in the morning, they took me back home. I was beaten again. This time my father hung me by my feet from the hook he used to hang slaughtered lambs. That night my sister cut me down. .... ***** When I was a kid, my parents died in a car crash. I went to live with my uncle, who had six kids. .... My uncle was always angry â- not just with me, with everyone, with his wife, his kids. He would beat me a lot. He said, âI already have enough troubles, and now Iâve got you hanging around my neck.â He received all my parentsâ inheritance for taking care of me, but he never spent a penny on me. I was just starting high school when Ahmad started getting interested in me. .... When I realized I was pregnant I told Ahmad. He said, âHow is that possible?â I said, âLetâs go to the doctor.â He said, âAre you crazy? What would I tell the doctor?â I asked him what I should do. He said, âThereâs nothing I can do about it. I still have to do military service, and I have no money. If my father were to find out, heâd kill me. If your uncle were to find out, heâd kill you. The best thing to do is kill yourself.â I cried all day, knowing that he was right. I filled a pan with oil and took it into the bathroom. I locked the door. My aunt knocked and asked, âWhy is the door locked?â I said, âThe air is cold, thereâs a draft in the bathroom.â I poured the oil over my hair and clothes and I lit a match. I was burning. My hands, my face. My body. I couldnât stop it. I began screaming. My aunt broke down the door. .... The next day my uncle came to the hospital with a knife. I rang the bell for the nurses, and the police came and took my uncle away. When my burns began to heal, I was taken to the police and given eighty lashes for having an illicit relationship. .... |
| Posted by:Mike Sylwester |
| #7 this article to long. why arent they just say cuz they are need the money. |
| Posted by: muck4doo 2004-06-19 3:50:41 PM |
| #6 Where is that Iranian Bitch that has been running around expousing the virtues of life in Iran for women? I guess once you dupe the Nobel commission you don't have to be an 'activists' anymore. Unless of course there is a political motive to them. Sad that these stories are far from unique. |
| Posted by: Cyber Sarge 2004-06-19 11:16:26 AM |
| #5 Sorry, Mike - should have realized you were being sarcastic. |
| Posted by: Barbara Skolaut 2004-06-19 11:05:28 AM |
| #4 My point exactly, ma'am. |
| Posted by: Mike 2004-06-19 10:44:51 AM |
| #3 Mike - DUH! What strict Islam says it values and what it shows it values are two totally different things. Hypocritical, torturing bastards. |
| Posted by: Barbara Skolaut 2004-06-19 10:25:04 AM |
| #2 For a culture that supposedly values the virtue of its women, strict Islam sure is awfully rough on 'em. |
| Posted by: Mike 2004-06-19 6:47:09 AM |
| #1 Their choice was a no-brainer: death / beatings or life with a measure of control. In spite of the screechy asshat NMM who drops by and calls me a pedophile because I've been to Thailand every time I encounter him (can you say "projection"?), I do not, of course, know the "game" is played in Iran, so I can't say if the average prostitute lives well or scrapes by, is constantly abused and/or ripped off by Police, suffers serious physical and/or mental harm from "clients", etc. Rotten choice, but easy if you're not indoctrinated to equate the associated shame of that society with a death-wish. You can escape prostitution, if determined to do so, in most places - death is definitely final. |
| Posted by: .com 2004-06-19 4:15:37 AM |