Stranger No MoreНамуна

In Iran, there are two types of women. Some are weak. They accept everything that happens to them, act out of fear, and allow themselves to be ruled by the men. Almost from the moment, these women are born they look to their father and their brother for security. Once they marry they place all their trust in their husband, and so spend their entire lives under the thumb of men. My mother was not one of these.
 

Though my own father and brother were sources of love and security for me,   my mother was one of the main reasons why I knew I was never going to grow up weak and timid. My mother belonged to the other type of Iranian woman—the sort that is strong, independent, and courageous. While the weaker women in Iran allow themselves to be dominated by men and religion—much like so many women from the Arab countries to the west of my homeland—my mother saw herself as a Persian woman, the sort who valued education and refused to let a man treat her as property.
 

Almost a thousand years before my homeland was turned to Islam, Iran was the heart of the Persian Empire. From the snow-capped mountains in the North to the wide sandy plains of the South, ancient rulers like Cyrus and   Nebuchadnezzar oversaw a glorious time in our history. Throughout their territories that often stretched as far as Europe and Africa, women were treated not as second-class citizens, nor were they hidden from view. In fact, in ancient Persia women could own property, be economically independent, and travel.
 

So, like everyone else I knew, my Persian history was far more important to me than stories of Islam. Those tales felt like secondhand memories to me.   All I really knew of Mohammed was that he was the reason I kept my eyes down at the ground as I walked through the mosque. All I really knew of God was that he was far, far away.