The Last Word:
Azar Nafisi |
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Finding Fact
Through Fiction |
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NEWSWEEK
INTERNATIONAL |
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May 5 issue —
For two years in the 1990s, Azar Nafisi taught Western novels
frowned on by the Iranian regime to a group of six women students in
Tehran. From this experience, Nafisi, now a professor at Johns Hopkins
University in Washington, D.C., drew the inspiration for “Reading Lolita
in Tehran,” an account of the secret home-schooling sessions during which
the group discussed Jane Austen, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Mark Twain, Vladimir
Nabokov and others. |
BOTH AN INTIMATE portrait of life in the Islamic Republic of Iran and
an exploration of the act of reading as rebellion, Nafisi’s book is a moving
tribute to the power of fiction in the face of fascism. She spoke to NEWSWEEK’s
Carla Power last week about reading, repression and Iran under the mullahs.
Excerpts:
NEWSWEEK: Why was “Lolita,” in particular, such a crucial book for your
class?
NAFISI: Of all the novels we
read, “Lolita” was the most metaphorical of the situation in Iran. I felt the
regime was imposing its dream on us. As women, it confiscated our reality. It
said, “Don’t be like this, be the way we think you should be.” In Humbert’s
mind, Lolita had a precedent, a girl he meets when he’s younger—Annabel Leigh.
Every girl he sees, he imposes his dream of Anna- bel on the reality of Lolita.
The poignancy is that, as Humbert says, “Every night she had to run back to my
arms, because she had nowhere else to go.” My girls, in the Islamic Republic,
where else did they have to go?
There’s that great description by one of your students of
feeling that she was leaving her cell of reality behind as she approached your
door. Can you talk a bit about what fiction meant to you in Iran?
The everyday things—things that you think of as real or
concrete—are taken away from you. The way you dress and the way you walk out of
the door, all this becomes public. The way we dressed was to put on a face—as
Eliot says, “To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.” And you do
things indoors that in other places you would ordinarily do out of doors: you
take off your makeup to go out, and you come inside to put your makeup on.
Reality—everyday living—had become unreal. Fiction became real.
How can fiction and the
imagination assert order under a totalitarian regime?
When a revolution happens, you lose control of reality. Everything
you take for granted is taken away from you. Through fiction, you reassert your
control over reality. You tell it your way. Everyone talks about the political
repression of the Islamic Republic. But for me, the confiscation of ordinary
life was what mattered. When they come into your bedroom, when they tell you how
to hold hands, what to watch, what lipstick to wear, you become obsessed with
the people intruding into your life. You go back more and more to the sense of
uniqueness and the individuality that’s in each of us. Fiction reasserts that
individuality.
One of the things you hear most here in the West about young people in Iran
is that they’re caught between two traditions—between East and West. Can fiction
help bridge this gap?
One of the problems
with the regime is that its control is so total—it even controls the discourses
that are used to describe it! [What holds sway in Iran today] are not “Eastern”
traditions. It’s rather crude and insulting to say that our traditions were
stoning women, or reducing the age of marriage for women from 18 to 9. Just as
in the West, “tradition” isn’t merely witch hunting and slavery and
Hitler.
If the
authorities use the concept of tradition this way, how do they use
religion?
In the Islamic Republic, they use
religion as an ideology, and Islam is the first victim. These people use the
issue of religion the same way that Marxists use Marxism: to legitimize their
rule. My grandmother was forced not to wear the veil during the brief period
that Reza Shah forced women to appear publicly unveiled. Then, under the Islamic
Republic, I was forced to put it on. Now the veil has a political role: it’s an
issue of choice, not of being Islamic vs. being
un-Islamic.
How did you get your Iranian students to empathize with
Fitzgerald’s American millionaire Jay Gatsby?
Some of my Muslim students were absolutely disgusted by him, thinking he
represented everything decadent about America. Great works of fiction always go
against the prejudices of their own author. Fitzgerald may have loved the rich,
and may have ruined his life in courting them. But in the book, Tom and Daisy
Buchanan are, as Fitzgerald says, careless people. And this points up the
similarities to the Islamic Republic: tyrants become careless people. They
become people who don’t see others.
You’ve said in the past that you’re grateful to the
regime. Why?
That’s partly ironic, of course.
[ Laughs ] The Islamic Republic took away everything I’d taken for granted. It
made me appreciate the feel of the wind on my skin. How lovely the sun feels on
your hair. How free you feel when you can lick ice cream in the streets. And a
lot of my women students, when they went abroad and came back, said the same
thing.