Lying on the floor of a cold, crowded, dirty prison wasn’t how I’d pictured turning 16.
It was the day that changed my life forever.
Growing up in post-revolution Iran was tough as a young girl. The government had been overthrown in 1979 and the country became completely Islamic. With that came a new set of rules.
Alcohol was banned, clubs were shut down and women had to be covered head-to-toe in public. But people did as they pleased behind closed doors. I’d see friends and family drink alcohol in their own homes, and my mum had plenty of European fashion magazines. She even had a mink coat. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she rarely wore it, so aged eight, I’d assumed it was rubbish and cut a few inches off to make my Barbie a fur coat. Needless to say, she was furious.
As I got older, I started watching Baywatch on illegal satellite TV and I was fascinated by fashion. I was suspended three times from school for breaking the uniform code and experimenting with clothes. But I saw these ladies in dresses and heels on the TV and I didn’t understand why me doing the same made me a bad Muslim, or person.
My family didn’t mind what I wore at home, they were just frightened I’d get in trouble. I never thought I’d get caught. Besides, my friends were the same. We’d leave the house in our hijabs, then change clothes the second we got to each other’s houses.
We had parties where we were surrounded by boys and alcohol. Yes, we’d heard stories of friends who had been arrested for underage drinking and partying, but they seemed far-fetched. So to celebrate me and my friends all turning 16, my friend Neda threw a little party.
There were about 30 of us, a mix of boys and girls, and once at Neda’s I headed to her room to remove my hijab and change into my short skirt and high heels. Honestly, the party was tame – no booze, no drugs, just a load of kids listening to Mariah Carey.
Unfortunately, though, Neda had decided not to invite her ex-boyfriend, and for revenge, he’d called the Basij, an extremely religious voluntary group, who were way more strict and violent than the Iranian police. They believe they’re given permission by God to punish sinners.
What happened next was a blur. I saw men storm in with guns, so I ran for the back door with Neda, and we sprinted down the street in our skirts and heels and only stopped when we heard the Basij shout, “Stop, or we’ll shoot.”
Neda and I were marched back by the men, who held rifles to our heads and called us names. I had a vision of me being shot there, and my mum and dad sobbing over my dying body, ashamed at the sight of me in a mini skirt.
One of the Basij even saw me try to pull my skirt down to cover my thighs and shouted, “It’s too late to cover yourself up now, what kind of woman are you? You’re a disgrace.”
I managed to stop shaking enough so they could cuff me, and boarded a bus that took us straight to the prison, filled with the party guests. At the prison, Neda and I sat on the cold, grimy floor crammed with criminals and drug addicts. I prayed my family would turn up to bail us out.
Only no one came that night. Or the next day. Me and Neda stopped chatting after the third day. The longer we were in there with no contact from our families, the more worried we became. Five days later, we were dragged up and marched to a court room, where we saw our terrified families for the first time since the arrest.
My initial feeling was relief. I assumed they’d been able to pay off the Basij, but
I was wrong. I was led to the judge and listened in shock as the court issued every single one of us girls with 40 lashes. The boys got 50. Our crimes? Wearing skirts and listening to western music.
Straight after sentencing, Neda and I were led into a room with a dirty single bed on either side. Forced to lie face-down on them, a woman covered head-to-toe dipped the whip in water (making it heavier, so more painful) and started the lashings. It must have lasted a minute, max, but it felt like hours and it was agonising – almost like being burned with a hot iron. I knew I was screaming loud enough for our families to hear from outside the room.
My family were outraged with the situation. From that moment on, parties were a no-go. Not just because my family said so, but because I was terrified. I went back to school as normal, wore my uniform properly and only experimented with fashion behind closed doors.
Once I finished high school I went to Dubai for a few months with my brother.
There on the beach I was sat next to a woman covered head-to-toe, only her eyes showing, and on the other side of me, a lady in a bikini. I was in a swimsuit, but I couldn’t believe they had such a choice.
After that eye-opener, I took the plunge and moved to the States. My family had encouraged me to study abroad, so I applied to a college in Washington DC. I missed everyone and found myself isolated, as I didn’t speak English. Plus the fashions – beaten-up trainers and sweatshirts – weren’t as amazing as I expected.
But as soon as I started my English course, things started to pick up. I even got a job at a boutique,which helped. I also started sketching designs, inspired by the girls who came in to buy prom dresses.
After that, I enrolled on a fashion course and started handmaking T-shirts, the stand-out design having slashes at the back, inspired by the lashes I’d endured.I sold them on my college campus and at parties, and found someone to invest in the business. But being clueless, I lost all the money. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was embarrassed, but started working in clothes shops and making clothes at home with my sewing machine. I was determined.
After four years, I went back to Iran for the first time. It was nice to see everyone, but my life was in the States.
Somehow, after years of perseverance, I designed and launched a swimsuit line in 2008. I showcased it at Miami Fashion Week and my brand was chosen to sponsor the 2010 Miss Universe beauty pageant.
Now celebrities such as Kristen Stewart and Lea Michelle from Glee have worn my designs. I received a lot of hatred from individuals who said I should be stoned to death as a Muslim encouraging women to bare their bodies. I used to cry over these comments, but they’re outweighed by the positive messages I receive from Muslim girls.
I’m still a Muslim and my family are proud of me, and I’m still in touch with many of my friends who I went to that fateful party with. One designs jewellery in New York, another designs luxurious hijabs and actually has a showroom in Iran. That night didn’t change us in a bad way – if anything, it spurred us on to be where we are today.
Mirror.co.uk
