For many Iranians, Khatami is seen as a new chance, a new hope for a society scarred by a revolution gone astray, the psychological wounds of a pariah state and a gradual but stunning fall from economic grace. By May 23, 1997, the day of Khatami's election victory, Iran was debt-ridden, demonized, sanctioned, war-ravaged, frustrated and humiliated. The situation was ripe for a military man on a white horse, or a chest-thumping demagogue with a bagful of promises--common figures in modern Iranian history. This time, however, fate proved kinder to Iran, presenting the country with a moderate, smiling cleric who called for freedom of expression and tolerance, who was seen as a protest vote and a moderate, and who won the presidency in a landslide election.

"The election of Khatami was a silent revolution," said Hamid Reza Jalaipour, publisher of Neshat. "It was a reflection of people's frustrations with the existing state of things," he said in an interview in the courtyard garden of the Teheran villa that houses his newspaper offices. The frustrations are still evident all over the country. Two years after the "silent revolution," there is a distinct scent of unrest in the air. It is evident most acutely among Iran's youth, who are daily waging a gallant and inspiring struggle for basic freedoms.

"I'm tired of high prices. I'm tired of all of this unemployment. I'm tired of someone telling me I can't dance or can't read this book or watch that movie. It's gone too far, and I'm ready to fight back," said Ali, a defiant 18-year-old with long, meticulously coifed black hair and blazing blue eyes. Ali, it should be noted, is from South Teheran, site of Iran's teeming slums and the mostazafin (the oppressed), in whose name the revolution was fought.

In the early days of the revolution, someone of Ali's class would have seen the revolution as empowering, a validation of his Islamic identity, a chance to share in the nation's bounty, which the rich and "cultivated" North Teheranis were enjoying. But today, Ali and his South Teheran friends just want the right to dance. In a public park during a massive outdoor picnic celebrating a pre-Islamic Zoroastrian holiday, Ali and his friends sang banned Iranian pop songs from Los Angeles, widely available on the Teheran black market, and invited giggling girls to dance with them.

"O beautiful girl, like a flower, please come to my side," Ali crooned, mimicking one of those songs, much to the delight of a large crowd that encircled him, clapping their hands to the beat. "One girl to dance with, that's all we need," Ali exhorted, continuing to push the bounds of "propriety" and, indeed, law, in the severe Islamic Republic of Iran, which punishes such public displays of gaiety.

Finally, one brave young girl, her brown scarf displaying dangerously large amounts of her chestnut-colored hair, accepted Ali's exhortations and joined the circle of boys dancing. It was a defiant moment, its importance not underestimated by the crowd, who gave the girl a rousing cheer for her courage. After all, Iran's morals police, the komiteh, could punish the offending dancers harshly for the sin of dancing in public and mixing with members of the opposite sex.

• « Previous
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• Next »

• Get The Nation at home (and online!) for 75 cents a week!
• If you like this article, consider making a donation to The Nation.