Authors: Ramita Navai
‘Have you ever been lashed, sir, for doing something you shouldn’t have done?’ The judge looked up for the first time. Girls usually shouted back at him and caused a scene. He was not used to having his authority questioned in such a personal way. He studied Leyla. This bronzed, dyed-blonde beauty. And watched as she was marched away.
An office with a brown plywood desk and net curtains doubled as a whipping chamber. Leyla was told to sit on her knees, propped up against a wall.
The guidelines for flogging had been set by Ayatollah Mahmoud Hashemi Shahroudi, a politician and former head of the judiciary. Ayatollah Bayat Zanjani also issued a fatwa on flogging. Between them, they had the punishment well covered. Sexual contact without penetration called for more vigorous flogging than that for alcohol consumption. Pimping and giving false testimony got off more lightly, quite literally, with the severity of the lashes to be less than for boozing and heavy petting. The face, head and genitals are out of bounds. Men must be standing, women sitting down. The whipping must be done with a leather-bound whip, one metre long and no thicker than one and a half centimetres. Hands and feet can only be tied if they are going to get in the way and result in the genitals, head or face being accidentally whipped. The flogging must be done in moderate temperature – not too hot or too cold. Lashes must be evenly distributed.
The flogger had been ordered to whip Leyla with the Koran wedged under his armpit, to ensure he would not be able to raise his arm above his head and lash down with his full might. But he had a particular dislike for loose women, the scourge and ruin of the Islamic Republic. He had heard, often enough, clerics on the radio and the television blaming immoral women for the deterioration of society, for spreading adultery and even for earthquakes and the state of the economy. These women needed a good thrashing and, like many civil servants, he liked to bend the rules. He had devised a contraption to deal with situations like this: a sling. He had attached a small copy of the Koran to a sling that he strapped across his shoulder, satisfying his legal obligation while giving his arm full manoeuvring power. A weedy, sinewy man, he did not look like he would have much power in his skinny arms, but he did. As he thrashed the leather whip down on Leyla’s back, she could see from the corner of her eyes the Koran flailing around under his armpit, its pages flapping open.
Leyla had thought her two layers of clothing would provide protection, but the leather strap sliced open her skin like a razor blade. She could not lie supine for a week afterwards. The red, raw welts turned into black, crusty bruises that covered every inch of her back. It was bad for business.
It was not long before Leyla was back in the same building, in the same room before the same judge. This time she had refused to have sex with a policeman. When the cop had booked her she had threatened to lodge a complaint with the judge. The cop had laughed scathingly, making a show of putting on his Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. By now it was impossible to know what Leyla was thinking. She had learnt to disguise signs of laughter, hurt and fear on her face that would only expose her to abuse. Her stony countenance and her beauty worked against her as much as they protected her. The police would see her expressionless face as arrogance that should be knocked down. They needed to feel pity in order to show mercy. And if her looks did not soften them, they saw it as something to be used.
Leyla was not as scared as before. One of the working girls she knew had paid someone to take her lashes. Leyla had already struck a deal with an addict she found loitering outside the courtroom charging
2
,
000
tomans per lash; the addict was splitting the money fifty-fifty with the duty flogger.
‘Repeat offender. Ninety-nine lashes and a month in prison,’ said the judge.
‘I’ll tell you the real reason I’m here. I refused to have sex with a policeman. He wants to blackmail me and I won’t do it. How does that fit in with your laws?’
The judge gestured to his secretary, who then whispered to a group sitting on chairs at the back of the room to leave. The secretary closed the door behind them.
‘You know you can be punished for what you’re telling me.’ The judge’s tone was more relaxed now his audience was gone.
‘For telling you the truth? Yes, I know, funny isn’t it?’ Leyla shrugged her shoulders. The judge was silent for a while. Watching her. Leyla leant back in her chair.
‘I couldn’t lie on my back for weeks after I was flogged.’ She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head sideways. The judge raised an eyebrow.
‘I appreciate that you’ve been honest with me. You know I can help you,’ he said.
‘I’m assuming you don’t mean by bringing the policeman to justice?’ Leyla smiled. The judge flicked his head upwards, the Iranian nod for ‘no’.
‘I will have your file destroyed, so you don’t exist.’
That is how Leyla’s affair with the judge began.
Leyla was not working when Takht-e Tavous was raided again. This time it was the police, embarrassed that the
basijis
’ raid had exposed their indifference. They were determined to make a show of it, to prove they were doing their job. A few of the girls were imprisoned. One turned out to be only fourteen years old, forced onto the streets by her drug-addict parents. Her case was taken up by a human rights lawyer who managed to place her in the care of a charity that helped ‘runaway girls’. It was a never-ending cycle, a cat-and-mouse game between the authorities and prostitutes. The net would close in on the girls; a round of arrests and convictions would begin; all would go quiet. Then they would appear again, proliferating in the city as though nothing had happened. Most of the girls never returned to Takht-e Tavous after the police raid. They decamped four roads farther north, to a shopping mall on Gandhi Street. The girls were diversifying, and the police struggled to keep up.
The cyberpolice, launched in
2011
to fight Internet crimes and protect ‘national and religious identity’, are cottoning on to what many have known for years: Facebook is teeming with Iranian prostitutes. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of girls working through social network sites. They are easy enough to find; the user just has to pick a random Iranian girl’s name and add the word ‘whore’ after it. Maryam
jendeh
, Azadeh
jendeh
, Roxanna
jendeh…
they are all there. Pictures of the goods on sale beside lists of services offered in the ‘About me’ section: threesomes, anal and
lez
sex for women. There are step-by-step instructions on how to buy, which usually involve topping up pay-as-you-go phone credit before arranging a rendezvous.
Some of the girls in Leyla’s group were on Facebook, but were terrified after the head of the cyberpolice announced a crackdown on the Internet and Facebook pages that promoted pornography and prostitution. The girls had heard that undercover agents were posing as customers, and the customers had been scared off by rumours that some of the profiles were honey traps planted by the government. After news of the last raid, Leyla, like the other girls, stopped working on Takht-e Tavous and moved to the shopping mall. It was an ugly marble and stone building with boutique-lined arcades. The girls drank freshly squeezed melon juice in the basement next to the food stands where teenagers hung out. If they spotted men on the prowl, all it usually took was a look. Sometimes they picked out leather handbags and expensive clothes with their punters shuffling behind them, looking more like browbeaten boyfriends than seedy clients.
*
A middle-aged man with a paunch and spectacles opened the door; a heavy waft of frankincense floated out. At first Leyla thought he must be an assistant, as he looked more like a tired office worker than a sorcerer. She had booked an appointment to see a witch doctor who was a favourite of the ladies who frequented Parisa’s beauty salon. He was known for his potent spells and warding off the evil eye, working out of his apartment in a scruffy block in downtown Vali Asr. Leyla was not an observant Muslim, but she believed in God, the Prophet and the imams. That is why she feared holy retribution for what she was doing.
The man led Leyla to a living room decorated with multicoloured remnants of material draped over the windows, evil eyes hanging from the walls, a gigantic silver hand of Fatima next to the television, and joss sticks burning on every available surface. Past a dirty kitchen, Leyla could see a satellite dish propped up on a balcony blackened by pollution. The sorcerer sat at a small Indian hand-carved table, to his right a burning candle and a copy of the Koran, to his left a pestle and mortar and dozens of jars filled with coloured powders and herbs.
‘I’ve heard you cast spells for protection. I need protection because I’m a sinner.’
‘We are all sinners. You must tell me exactly who you need protecting against.’
‘God. I’m afraid of judgement day.’
‘God will forgive you. You need protection from people around you who wish you harm. Many people wish you harm, I can see it.’ He lit the candle and began grinding a potion together while uttering a prayer. He mixed in some water and told Leyla to drink. It tasted of turmeric and dust. He charged her
100
,
000
tomans.
‘I can only guarantee protection for six months,’ he said as he ushered her out of the door.
Leyla also enrolled in
erfan
, spirituality, classes in an office building one block north of the witch doctor. The teacher was a handsome, long-bearded Sufi scholar in a white kurta. His speciality was Gnosticism. Most of the students were uptowners and Leyla felt a little out of place, even though the teacher treated her no differently. They tackled metaphysical issues and read poetry. But Leyla could find no answers to her own questions and felt no nearer to being pardoned by God.
Word of her looks had spread and she was in demand. It was rare for a girl as pretty as Leyla to work in public for very long. She had amassed a dedicated following, enough never to work the streets or the shopping malls again. During her short time on Takht-e Tavous, Leyla had earned a year’s salary as a secretary, as well as a new wardrobe. She had moved out of Parisa’s flat and rented her own place a few roads away in Sa’adat Abad.
One of her first regular customers after the judge was the rich owner of an upmarket jewellery shop on Vali Asr. He had been referred to Leyla by a friend who had picked her up on Takht-e Tavous. He could not believe his luck. He kept Leyla to himself for as long as he could, without submitting to his impulse to show her off and share her. They would meet every Tuesday at three o’clock for half an hour at an empty office he owned on Fatemi Street. It was after one of these sessions that he told Leyla he had a new client for her, a very special man who required absolute discretion.
Leyla walked past a long row of Mercedes Benz cars and past two armed bodyguards as she entered the spectacular domed lobby of a high-rise apartment block in Kamranieh. This was prime north Tehran property, and at
15
,
000
US dollars a square metre it was bricks and mortar designed for businessmen, politicians and the moneyed upper classes. The latter preferred not to live here because of the proliferation of regime stooges and industrialists, whose chador-clad wives and whose habit of leaving their shoes outside the thick wood doors screamed
nouveau riche
. The building was a study in the kind of vulgarity only the rich can afford: an excess of marble and sparkling gold, faux Renaissance murals and columns topped with ornate Grecian flourishes. Residents included a foreign diplomat, the spoilt child of a famous politician and two members of parliament. But the bodyguards were not for them. They provided round-the-clock protection for a well-known cleric who also happened to be Leyla’s newest customer.
Leyla had not been given a name, only instructions to tell the liveried porter that the resident of the twenty-third floor was expecting her. The porter was an old, tiny, white-skinned
Rashti
northerner who was paid handsomely by at least half the residents of the block to keep his mouth shut.
‘Salaam Khanoum, you are as beautiful as I heard,’ said the cleric as he opened the door, bowing his head deferentially to Leyla. Everything about him was elegant; even now, dressed in the white
gabaa
undergarments worn beneath the robes, he looked refined (in his religious regalia he looked almost dapper). He was tall, with a lean body, and wore expensive spectacles. His beard was perfectly trimmed.
The cleric took Leyla’s
manteau
and headscarf and led her through an enormous reception room stuffed with imitation rococo furniture and intricately carved dark wooden chairs covered in gold brocade. In a bedroom with drawn curtains, they sat on the edge of the bed.
‘My dear, do you say your prayers?’
‘No sir, my family isn’t religious.’
‘Are you a believer?’
‘I love God and the Prophet,
God rest his soul
, with all my heart. I think the imams are amazing. I’m a very spiritual person, sir.’
‘Good, very good. But doing this kind of work you must take extra care to remain untainted in God’s eyes.’ Leyla nodded. This was not the first time she had been lectured by a customer, but instead of getting angry, she was listening intently.
‘Have you ever been temporarily married – done a
sigheh
?’
‘No, sir.’ Leyla was too ashamed to tell the cleric that in her handbag she always carried the fake
sigheh
paper she had bought from the bent mullah.
‘My girl, as long as relations between a man and a woman are sanctified in God’s eyes, they are not immoral. It is imperative that you learn the
sigheh
prayer. God is forgiving. It is not too late to save yourself.’
The cleric read out the words in Arabic and then translated them into Persian for her to understand:
I marry you for a specific amount of time and for a specific mehrieh.
Leyla and the cleric repeated the words in Arabic together, and then she uttered them one more time on her own.