The internal revolution
by Hossein Noushazar — 7June2024
Suzi Ehtesham-Zadeh is an Iranian-American writer, educator, and editor who lives in Woodstock, Georgia. Her work has appeared in The Georgia Review, Fiction International, Glassworks Magazine, Quiddity International Literary Journal, Hektoen International Journal, Narrative Northeast, Mobius Journal for Social Change, and elsewhere. Zan, a collection of her stories, was awarded the 2022 Dzanc Short Story Collection Prize and will be released on June 11, 2024.
We talked to her about the internal revolution of the female characters in this book.
Ms. Ehtesham-Zadeh, you have spent some of your life in Iran and, now in America, you work as an English-language writer. Living in two countries with two different cultures has been likened to standing between two trees or sitting between two chairs. On which chair are you sitting now? Is your emotional language English or Persian?
I was not familiar with this analogy, but it is a truly beautiful one! I think it’s a perfect way to describe what life is like for those of us who have two countries and two cultures, but no real home. The best answer I can give is that I flit back and forth beneath the two trees, and I never stay seated for long in either of the chairs. As soon as I begin to grow comfortable in either place, the other one beckons to me. I am a hopeless culture-straddler.
Although it can be bewildering at times, culture-straddling is not a curse. On the contrary, I regard it as one of the greatest gifts I have received as a writer, and one that continues to open deep wells of inspiration for me. It can sometimes feel like there is a civil war raging inside me, especially given the ongoing hostilities between Iran and the United States. It doesn’t help, of course, that my two countries are quite literally on opposite sides of the planet. At the same time, having roots on both sides of the globe has deepened my cross-cultural understanding and given me a profound appreciation for the human family, which is the family to which I most want to belong.
As for which chair I’m sitting in now, I suppose it’s a good old-fashioned American one — the kind one might find on a front porch in Georgia, where I currently live. I have occupied this chair for over two decades now, and I find I am able to relax in it long enough to take a nap. But when I drift into dreams from this American chair, my dreams are often of Iran. Every single day of my life in the United States, something touches off a memory of my former life in my beloved homeland.
Although my Farsi has grown somewhat rusty after so many years abroad, my emotional language is most definitely Persian. In my opinion it is a far more poetic language than English, and one that has a richer and more nuanced vocabulary for capturing the emotional landscape. I write in English, but my thoughts and feelings often flow into my mind in Farsi, and I find myself needing to translate them before writing them down.
In your stories women experience liberation from internalized expectations and societal norms. But not completely. For example, in the story “Venus Furtiva” with the influential character of Venus. Do you think this internal revolution has also happened to Iranian women?
The protagonists of my stories are all Iranian women, and all of them struggle to liberate themselves from internalized expectations and societal norms. Although the external challenges are markedly different for those who live in Iran and those who live abroad, their internal struggles are similar. No matter where they live, Iranian women must all deal with shifting ideals and colliding narratives, and they must all find a way to put the shifts and collisions into perspective. This, indeed, results in a kind of “internal revolution.” In some ways, the internal revolution is harder than the external one.
In some of my stories, the protagonists openly flout societal norms, even when it puts them in danger. Saghi, the protagonist of the story “Stealthy Freedom,” is an example of this, as is Minoo, the protagonist of “Aab.” In other stories, the protagonists violate norms in more subtle or secretive ways. In the story “Venus Furtiva,” Zohreh/Venus engages in this secret form of rebellion. In both instances, the women are aware that their behavior stands in stark contrast to the expectations and standards that were ingrained in them from birth. They know they run the risk, not only of raising eyebrows, but of shocking and hurting the people they love. They internalize all of this, and it hurts.
I think the internal revolution Iranian women are undergoing today comes with a measure of guilt. This is true of both Iranian women who live in Iran and Iranian women who have settled in the United States. Iranian women living here in America often suffer from what has been called immigrant guilt: guilt for failing to fulfill their parents’ expectations, guilt for defying cherished cultural norms, and guilt for not adequately repaying their parents for their sacrifices. This is compounded by their feelings of guilt for not being present to stand beside their brave sisters in Iran.
Iranian women who continue to live in the Islamic Republic deal with a different tangle of emotions, but guilt is still part of the tangle. In addition to facing daily oppression and the potential for physical harm, Iranian women who live in Iran must also grapple with the huge contrast between the definition of womanhood their society has foisted upon them and the more progressive or liberated way they are choosing to define themselves as women. This can only result in internal turmoil and intense feelings of guilt.
Guilt is not a healthy emotion, and I hope I have made it clear that my protagonists find ways to overcome it, just as Iranian women all over the world are doing. Like all revolutions, the internal revolution causes some pain — but it is just a growing pain, and it won’t last forever.
In the story “Coming Out, Going Under,” the conflict with the deceitful father adds depth to the narrative. Based on our understanding, awareness of deception is the catalyst for Leila’s liberation. However, in this case, liberation does not come to fruition. The weaving of the story should take shape in our minds. What perspective do you see for the liberation of Iranian women?
“Coming Out, Going Under” certainly doesn’t have a “happy ending,” but I meant to inject a ray of hope for readers to walk away with. It remains unclear whether Leila will choose to connect with other queer Iranians through the website or not — but this doesn’t really matter. She experiences a powerful epiphany when she suddenly remembers who she is, realizes she is not alone, and sees a viable path forward. Although her devotion to her father is so deep as to be nearly crippling, I tried to make it clear that she will not allow herself to remain his prisoner. Eventually, her liberation will come to fruition.
I hasten to add that while he is clearly deceitful, Leila’s father is also deeply devoted to her. He is genuinely concerned about her welfare and happiness, even if he is clueless as to how he can help her achieve it. The abiding love between father and daughter is an important part of the story’s meaning and message, and I think it’s what makes the story a bit heartbreaking.
“Coming Out, Going Under” touches on many different topics: gender identity, generational misunderstanding, filial piety, patriarchy, and more. Beneath it all lies the age-old taboo in Iranian culture around the issue of homosexuality — a taboo that still exists today, especially among older Iranians. While Leila and her father love each other fiercely, neither of them can find a way to bridge the chasm caused by that taboo. But they will eventually do so, and their love for each will endure.
I have tremendous hope for the liberation of Iranian women. Despite the repression and oppression they have endured throughout their history, they remain feisty, determined, self-aware, and, most importantly, astonishingly courageous. I am convinced that they are unstoppable. My late father, an obstetrician-gynecologist who treated Iranian women for many decades, predicted that it would be Iranian women who would rise up to topple the Islamic Republic. The Zan, Zendegi, Azadi movement might appear to have fizzled out, but I am certain it is far from over.
In American literature, works by immigrant authors such as Amy Tan have explored the family structures of immigrants. Is the groundwork laid for writers like yourself? Do American readers embrace these works?
I have tremendous respect for the work of American immigrant writers — not only Amy Tan, but also Jhumpa Lahiri, Ha Jin, Viet Thanh Nguyen, Ayad Akhtar, Ya Gyasi, and many others. One of the best books I have read recently is Martyr, by the Iranian-American poet/novelist Kaveh Akbar. These authors have enjoyed great success in the United States, and their work has opened many windows for American readers. In addition to introducing readers to other cultures, they also give readers an understanding of what it is like to be an immigrant in America. It goes without saying that immigrant authors have laid the groundwork and paved the way for writers like me. I continue to learn from their work, and I owe them an immeasurable debt.
There are many recent studies that point to a decline in adult reading in the United States, and this trend is naturally very disturbing. There is also an alarming trend in the US toward the rejection of immigrants in general, especially those who come from Muslim countries. It may seem idealistic, but I still believe that immigrant literature is one of the best vehicles we have for fighting against those trends, and I know there are still many readers out there who agree. Even if fewer people are reading, those who do read have a growing hunger for books that will broaden their horizons and deepen their world views — books that present a counterweight to the prevailing narratives they have grown weary of. These readers are drawn to the work of diasporan and immigrant writers, and the understanding they gain from these books has a ripple effect. Immigrant writers continue to be relevant, and our work continues to matter. In fact, it might be said that it matters more now than ever.
