Page 18 of The Mismatch

‘I have my reasons, Maman,’ Neda began. ‘If you don’t like it, talk to Allah, not me.’

Maman’s mouth was wide open. But because there was nothing she could say, all she did was scowl. It was at that point Maman and Neda finally stopped even trying to understand each other.

Maman couldn’t ask her daughter to take her hijab off. Her family classed themselves as Muslim despite Neda being the only one to wear a hijab and pray five times a day. They prayed even if they were not stringent about when and how many times a day, whereas prayer time had always kept Neda sane and calm. It gave her something to work towards. And in times of hardship, it gave her something to hold on to.

Her family, however, liked Western ideas, the ones the Shah had introduced, though admittedly not the way these had escalated. It was the cause of many heated discussions during family parties. There were those who appreciated how the Shah had transformed Iran into a modern country, and those who saw the spreading slums, the widening gap between the rich and poor. What they all wanted was democracy and modernity, whilst upholding Persian culture – an impossible combination, it seemed.

Neda was unsure where she fitted in to all this. Her reason for wearing a hijab was twofold: she would become closer to Allah, and she would protect herself from those around her. She tried to explain this to her friends: that it wasn’t going against the Shah’s regime; it wasn’t a political statement as such, but a personal one. But conversations withothers were much the same as with her Maman and best friend; they didn’t understand her way of liberating herself. Instead they turned defensive because they saw Neda’s hijab as a reminder that as Muslim women they too should be covering themselves, and they didn’t want to.

And so, Neda became one of only four girls at her university to wear a hijab.

CHAPTER 8

Soraya

Brighton, 2014

Soraya was guilt-tripped into going back to Brighton every other weekend. All her mum had to say was either, ‘We miss you,’ or ‘Family is important,’ and she would make arrangements to travel down. Soraya’s already nervous disposition meant her mum’s hidden messages dug deep inside of her. They translated to: appreciate your time with us because one day we’ll be gone. Rich when her mum herself had left Iran over thirty years ago and rarely went back to visit her own mother.

The four-storey Nazari house was mismatched and embarrassingly cluttered. It might have been a nice place to be had they known how to decorate it. The basement, which would be a separate flat in London, was where Parvin stayed, when she wasn’t living and working in Bahrain. Amir occupied the farthest room on the ground floor, with his own back entrance, all the better for sneaking girls in. On the second floor were their mum’s and dad’s separate rooms. They were well beyond the two-beds-in-one-room stage, and in the past year had chosen to keep to separate spaces. However, this was not a welcome transition. Her dad hadmoved into the room none of the family had gone into for over a decade, and claimed it as his own.

Soraya resided in the attic, which had an abundance of natural light, something she missed in her London flat. Being in this bedroom in the daytime, with the sun shining on her face, was enough to lift her mood. It was curious how similar to houseplants humans were. How sunlight could lift you up when you were perilously close to drooping.

Soraya sat on her bed, the sheets cold against her legs. Her laptop was open and she sat working on an illustration.

When her anxiety was heightened drawing helped calm her, it gave her hands and mind something to focus on. Friends sometimes asked her to draw for their zines, or she posted photos on her Instagram, developing a portfolio for herself, though she’d never tell anyone that was what she was doing. If she said it aloud and enough people knew about it, that meant if she failed everyone would know. Then her shortcomings would become abundantly clear to all.

She heard the staircase creak under the soft footsteps that were making their way up to her room.

‘Soraya!’ Parvin called, in a voice an octave too high.

‘Yeah?’ Soraya was always aware of how low and moany her own voice sounded in comparison to her sister’s.

‘What you doing?’ Parvin plopped her small body down onto Soraya’s bed. She was wearing leggings and a baggy jumper, yet somehow still looked chic. Soraya looked at her own outfit: black jeans and a tucked-in white T-shirt. She could see a small roll of belly fat. When she straightened up it flattened.

Quickly, she closed her laptop. ‘Nothing—’

Soraya wasn’t given the opportunity to finish as Parvin spoke over her. ‘Oh, God, I have to tell you something!’

‘OK …’

‘Amir snuck a girl in last night.’

Soraya was irritated but not surprised. One rule for men and another for women was the running theme in their family.

‘Really? The girl you were talking about on the phone?’

‘No, someone different. This one is loud, a bit classless too. Terrible hair.’ Her sister shook her head.

‘His type then,’ Soraya muttered. Parvin nodded. ‘If he snuck her in, how did you see her?’

‘I heard them laughing outside the back of the house, and saw them out of my window. He doesn’t even try to be inconspicuous, but hey, that’s Amir.’ She paused. ‘Wait, are you going tocry?’ Parvin asked.

Soraya hadn’t realised her irritation at these double standards was so plain to see on her face. If she was about to cry, though, she doubted Parvin laughing in her face would help.

‘No, I’m just tired.’ During the silence that followed, Soraya picked at the skin around her nails. The dry, hard pieces were best, and when she found it she yanked hard. The act stung ever so slightly. ‘You know what though,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘Imagine, just imagine, if we ever brought a boy home.’

Parvin laughed, a high-pitched girly sound. ‘They would kill us, not invite the boys round for baghali polo.’