The big lie: What it’s like to ride illegally as a woman in Iran

The big lie: What it’s like to ride illegally as a woman in Iran

Ali Khamenei

The freedom to ride a bicycle is a simple pleasure most of us take for granted. For some females, though, it isn’t fairly so simple.

Iran may have fielded a national women’s cycling team for many years now, but take to the streets on two pedals and life can quickly get complicated. Peculiarly since manager Ayatollah Ali Khamenei questioned a fatwa in 2016 explicitly boycotting women from cycling in public. Enforcement has been patchy, with numerous rebelling against the despotic regulate, but not without penalty. A penalty that one Iranian female cyclist is determined to shine a light on.

The name of this article’s author has been withheld and some details have been altered to protect her from its full potential backlashes of speaking out. This is her story.

When I was little my father bought me a cherry-red bike. He ranged along with his hand on the back of the seat until I could travel freely without help. Then his pas mitt left, but his support and encouragement remained.

I was a girl in a country where the rules are so very different if you are female, though from him at least there was no telling me to stop doing the things that gave me joy. As other family members expressed concern about my rebellious upbringing, he would instead express pride at my abilities.

My father had wanted to become a sportsman when he was younger but because of poverty he had to go to work and couldn’t continue with sport. He craved things to be different for me; to remove the obstacles and gives people all the facilities, support and encouragement I needed to be successful.

It felt like anything was possible from the freedom and security of my childhood, when I had a father to watch over me and I could ride with the wind in my whisker and not worry about people staring. That is a freedom and sense of security I been in a position to simply look back on longingly.

When I grew up I lost it all.

“The chagrin of this family”

As I started to get older, even my father’s strong help trembled sometimes, as the challenges I would face because of my gender became ever more tangible. Worried about me, he initially objected when I decided to buy a bicycle to compete on. But by then my determination to ride and compete had been designated. Skimping on lunches and stashing my bus coin I unwaveringly saved for a year and a half to buy a bicycle to scoot on the track.

My parents came to see my first rivalry — parents are the only witness granted at the maidens’ line — and I can still hear their wails and applause as I overtook them each lap. From then my father would take me to instruct every day and even once sat on the back of the referee’s motorcycle during a period test, inspiring me the whole way as I razz to victory.

But then he got ill, gravely ill.

The doctor told us there wasn’t much we have been able to do, and he wouldn’t live for long. This left me thunderstruck for a moment, but then I realised the tables had turned. It was now my turn to offer a supporting side. I would give him an weapon to hold on to as he struggled to walk, I’d aid him chase very best treatments, and I’d be there for him, helping him not to give up or give in.

But in the end there was nothing we could do to keep him with us. He fell into a lethargy and died.

Life was lonely without my father, and even if they are I was 25 his overtake implied my grandfather was now my manager. A overseer who wanted to find me a husband as soon as possible and put an end to the cycling that in his utterances started me “the shame of this family”.

Stopping, though, wasn’t an option. The motorcycle was what gave me the calmness and ease I needed to go on. I’d croak very early in the morning and return home before anyone woke up, so my relatives didn’t realise I was absent.

Looking to the end of the road or the top of the hill as I go I would receive my father standing there. I would cycle with all my fortitude in order to achieve him, but he wasn’t there. Instead I would look up to the sky and talk to him.

In fact I’ve never stopped searching up and talking to him, saying: “Look at me, I’m still pushing. Help me from up there and be proud of me.”

Given what I have had to face I needed him on my slope.


Treated like a criminal just for riding a bike

I have cycled in Tehran’s streets for many years even though it was forbidden for maidens. Usually I would drill and repetition on the outskirts of the city where the police presence was far smaller, and I would be less likely to get into trouble. But I was caught by police on many occasions. I escaped most of the time.

The boy cyclists was just telling me, “you have good co-ordination “. I owe this skill to the police — I learnt it when they were shooting me in the car and I squandered my bicycle journeying to flee.

But there were durations when they caught me. It was as though they had caught a burglar. They would push me into their car, shouting, with several police girls policing me till we got to a police station. One day they even shed my bicycle in wall street — even then I adhere to my bicycle and wouldn’t let go of it. But there were four men and two women. Obviously, I had to give in and they made me to the police station.

God knows what one goes through. They shout at you, calling you bad names, propagandizing you in front of everybody. You don’t know where they’ll make you. You don’t know what they’ll do to you. It is frightening.

They wrote my reputation and identity on a grey council and establish me stand in front of wall that demonstrated my summit while they took a photograph of me.

They obstructed hollering at me the whole time, saying that I wasn’t abiding by the law and that I was a bad girlfriend. They took my signature and manufactured me predict not to travel my motorcycle again.

The large-scale lie

Society seemed to be just as strongly against me cycling as my granddad. Every time I was caught by police I was most worried about him what to tell him.

One time when the police caught me they took my merely ID card and didn’t establish it back to me until three years later. It was then that I became the most deplorable girl of the family and our region, at least in the eyes of others. From my point of view, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. That’s why, after 12 years, I’m still living this practice and riding my motorcycle.

But it hasn’t been easy.

It’s now more than a decade since my father’s death and I haven’t been determining him much at the top of the hill or in my dreams. I worry that maybe he is not proud. Perhaps he is as upset with me for continuing to ride as everyone else seems to be.

At one point recently doubts started to creep in. I became tired of fighting and caused in. I didn’t even look at my motorcycle let alone ride it.

My family praised me for my decision, tell people that I was ultimately been growing. I became ever more chilled and good-for-nothing established me glad until I again turned back to the bike.

I think to myself that maybe my biggest wish and desire is to have the common procedure life-style of a girl in Europe — cycling every day without worrying about police, her organization, the stares, or what the consequences will be of her mere proximity on the roads.

Iranian women and girls are being invited to the Iranian National team in order to show the world that we have no problem with maids’ sport in Iran. It’s a big lie! It’s not just cycling that’s forbidden for women — dancing, singing and playing music are forbidden too. That’s why I don’t feel happy and full of life. I feel like a dead person.

If simply I could go back to that feeling I had in my childhood. Cycling with no worries. Feeling my mane moving freely in the wind. Feeling that I’m still alive and that there is still someone up there who can hear me and see my dreams is true …

The post The big lie: What it’s like to go illegally as a woman in Iran emerged first on CyclingTips.

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