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3 hours ago
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I was raised in Tehran, under the Ayatollah’s sharia law and daily watch of Basij – the “morality police”. My parents fell in love with the Islamic Revolution when I was a baby and welcomed life under its strict religious rules. The Ayatollah’s face stared down from the walls at home, a daily reminder of what was expected and what was forbidden. This included being gay, but by my teenage years I knew I was different from my peers, and began hiding my sexuality from my parents and the world outside.
The other side of life under the regime was that there was little room for celebration: happy events, even religious ones, came with inherent guilt while frivolous outside influences, including western music, were considered dangerous. And so I was in my mid-20s before I went to my first real party: an underground gathering that would become my gateway to a hidden, gay Tehran.
At university, I had three gay friends who understood one another’s predicament and the intricate lies required to keep our secret. They told me about these parties, in the apartments of other gay men and trans women who transformed their homes with sound systems, lights and homemade alcohol into club nights behind closed doors. I longed for and dreaded an invite, wondering if I was ready to be let loose with the biggest circle of gay men I’d been among, worrying I’d see someone I knew, afraid of the morality police and, more so, my parents finding out. There were so many layers of haram – forbidden behaviour – what would I tell them?
When I eventually got an invite, I dressed in a tight shirt with the top buttons undone (trendy even among straight men) and spent an hour gelling my hair like the boybands I’d watched on MTV after my parents went to bed. Music videos were popular in the Middle East. Friends would ask: “Have you seen Britney or Rihanna’s latest ‘show’?” Indeed, I envied Britney’s red latex in Oops! I Did it Again and had heard Rihanna’s Umbrella, but my exposure to non-Iranian pop was still limited.
I made the usual excuse to my parents – that I was going to dinner – and got into a friend’s car where Rihanna’s Don’t Stop the Music was playing on cassette. “This is cool,” I said. “Have you not heard it?” he asked. “It’s the new thing. You’ll definitely hear it tonight.”
When we reached the apartment and entered, I was instantly enraptured by the music. A moment of doubt arrived, then euphoria. Sure enough, Rihanna’s song came on. The room bounced up and down, I caught my friend’s eye and pinched myself. I was lost in a new world. On the drive home, I listened again to take myself back.
Over the next few years, I immersed myself in that scene, partying once or twice a fortnight, each time leaving home feeling anxious about what my parents thought. Then I sat in my friend’s car, and the worry melted away. I threw my own party, in my father’s holiday home outside the city, on a night my parents wouldn’t be visiting. I hired a sound system and lights – and, of course, ensured Rihanna played.
Don’t Stop the Music became a mainstay. Whenever it came on, my best gay friend and I would exchange a look that said: “It’s our song, let’s go.” Rihanna, Britney and Madonna were the mark of a good party.
After university, then compulsory military service, I knew I wanted to leave Iran. I moved to London, where I work as a doctor and have a partner. I’ve never confirmed my sexuality to my parents; they know, but it remains unspoken. I’ve written about gay Tehran and the parties in a book about my life there, The Ayatollah’s Gaze, under my pen name; to reveal my identity would still be dangerous.
Maybe that will change soon for me – mostly, for those who are still there. Now, there is full-blown war. When the supreme leader, the Ayatollah, was killed a week ago, the promise of regime change became real for so many of us.
I messaged my best gay friend who lives not far from the compound where Khamenei was hit. I worry that he and others are safe – but I also know the excitement they finally feel for futures we have dreamed of. “Are you OK?” I wrote, cautious still of sending anything anti-regime on WhatsApp. “Congratulations, he is finally dead,” he replied. “You have no idea how we are feeling!” I feel it, too: jubilant and closer to a day where the parties we enjoyed together are no longer hidden.
A friend from those days lives in Europe and visits sometimes. Each time we’ve heard Rihanna play – in a shop, club or bar – he elbows me, as if to say: “Do you remember your terrible dance moves to this?” That song showed me that gay life in Iran was possible – I cannot forget it.
