Blue Polka Dot Silk

Negeen Zaman (Ellia’s mother) wearing the same blue polka dotted scarf in her Iranian passport photo.

“Woman, life, freedom.” The three-word slogan embodies Iran’s dawning awareness. 

It’s 2012. I am 8 years old. We arrive in Tehran. Sleepy eyes, messy curls and dragging my baby pink Hello Kitty bag across the aeroplane floor - my mother interrupts the series of childish, innocent thoughts running through my mind, to cover my head, reluctantly, with a blue polka dot scarf. 

At the time, it almost felt like dressing up. Now, my mother’s once perplexing urgency to put the headscarf on before even leaving the aircraft leaves a tacit sense of discomfort. 

Approaching Immigration, my mother was pulled to the side. Watching, panic and fear took over. My father held my hand firmly and we continued to queue. My mother, an acquiescent expression masking her irritation, adjusted her headscarf at the officer’s demand, and returned to us. Now, that irritation is shared–and unmasked.

It’s 2020. I am sixteen years old. My Iranian passport has expired. I make my way to Snappy Snaps for a new photo, scarf in hand. Begrudgingly, I cover my hair. “3, 2, 1.” The camera flashes. I remove the scarf straight away. At that moment, nothing felt natural. How can a simple accessory carry such a heavy weight?   

A question that often crosses my mind, particularly in my late teenage years, has been: “How different would life be if I was born in Iran?” Recent events confirm the answer: “Very.” 

It’s 2022. I am eighteen years old and protesting in Trafalgar Square following the brutal killing of Mahsa Amini, the latest victim of 43 years of oppression, especially for women. I am one of hundreds in a sea of green, red, and white, as waves of cardboard and desperate expressions push for changing tides. My eyes fixate on a young girl, her face covered in paint, her eyes brimming with pain, holding a poster with the image of four schoolgirls facing a blackboard, middle fingers raised to a photo of the current leader. 
When I was younger, I always used to say to my mother, “I’m English.” Her response: “You are Iranian. You were born in England.” 

If it wasn’t for the 1979 Revolution, I probably wouldn’t have been born and raised in England. My father fled as a teenager, unwillingly leaving his parents behind.

Contemporary revolution has led me to wrestle with my own feelings of impotence and cultural alienation. My middle finger rises to the notion that I am not Iranian or British enough; sometimes my self-sabotaging belief in this notion; to the leader.

The face paint girl, myself, and the photographed schoolgirls share anger towards a relentlessly murderous dictatorship. However, the latter are suffering, their lives being stripped from them. We protestors leverage our privilege by engaging in protest, even if it can feel somewhat futile from a continent away. At least the screaming is cathartic–releasing frustrations of reconciling my dualistic cultural identities as both British and Iranian, immigrant and citizen; hating something yet loving it so much; uncertain of what a changed Iran looks like; certain it needs to change. 

Through my eight year old eyes, Iran is my grandparents’ warmth–mouthwatering food, picking blackberries, a garden hammock for naps–I could go on endlessly, reminiscing on that period of bliss. Through my eighteen year old eyes, Iran was in a perpetual period of misery, and still is.

I now understand blue polka dotted silk holds the crushing weight of uncompromising obedience. My British side affords opportunity–my writing is my process of self-discovery and my political activism, enabled by the legality of even practising it as a woman. My Iranian side affords savvy gratitude for said opportunity, knowing its preciousness and underscoring artistic pursuits with appreciation and incorporation of my heritage.

In accepting that my aforementioned conundrum of cultural reconciliation is lifelong, I have the mediums to articulate, protest, and explore my emotions and countries while helping others do the same. 

“Woman, life, freedom.”