Feminist protest in Iran busted up, but don't bomb them for it

A feminist protest in Tehran was violently busted up on June 12th, according to an "exclusive report" from the blog Direland.

Women protested for the "banning of polygamy; equal divorce rights: equal child custody rights for mothers and fathers; equal rights in marriage (the right to choose one's employment freely, and to travel abroad); an increase in the legal age to 18 years (currently 9 year old girls and 15 year-old boys are viewed as adults, making them eligible for trial as adults); equal right in testimony (currently a man's testimony is worth twice that of a woman's) and elimination of temporary work contracts which negatively impact women."



Look at that woman holding the baton. She thoroughly identifies with institutional political-moral authority. She is beaming domination out of her meaty face, it comes out of her being, channeled into enforcement. She might as well have flattened out her baton with a rolling pin (or another baton) and wrapped it around her hair, for all the spiritual meaning her hijaab carries. It is a curtain, but not a modest one. It's the kind of stiff dusty curtain that throttles the light and murders bugs in the window. This curtain shrouds the disappeared with decent invisibility and smothers small children bursting with unresolved questions. This hijaab, in living-conjunction with others, shifts and breaks on a movable clothesline of partition, broad soft cotton borders in finely printed florals, and absorbs the echoes of shuffling feet lined up beside other freshly washed naked feet, pointing towards an invisible monotheistic god who loves them in eroticized relation to one another, in boxes driftingly delineated in the soft cotton sheets, forestalling sex. The youth peep at crack-sized slices of skin, dark eyes and wayward bangs and are immediately seduced, searching later outside with that peculiar not-purely-biological mutual spacial sense of girl-father-car-velocity. Inside you waft in rooms like fabric softener playing roles, roles that require the tenth of you, or the misplacement of the one-sixteenth of you, or the splitting of fifty-fifty of you--the baton and the hijaab (and the incense), and THIS IS WHERE YOU GO, AND THAT IS WHAT YOU DO THERE--soft cotton smelling like summer, smelling like mother. Step up with your body to the partition and that woman's breast and belly will slowly emerge, the baton will slide out. (She will not get the irony).

It's better than pesticides, that hijaab. Try it--its a scorched earth policy.