As the American-born daughter of an Iranian father and English mother who left Iran during the revolution, I am entranced by the events unfolding in Iran right now. Although reports of the disbandment of the "morality police" were later challenged, this week's three-day general strike fills me with hope that my father's homeland, with its brilliant culture of art, music, food and literature, can abolish this regime and thrive again. But for all the breathless articles praising Iranian women for throwing off the shackles of oppression, few challenge what I consider a cornerstone of anti-Iranian propaganda: the depiction of Iranian men as misogynist.
My mother tells a story that when I was very little, she would sometimes give me a little ball of dough to play with while she was cooking. I did with it what kids will do: licked it, squished it in my dirty hands, and rolled it around on the floor, and when I tired of all that I would ask my mom to bake it. When my dad came home from work I would give him this biscuit. And although my mom warned him of how disgusting it had been, my dad would accept it gratefully and eat it. I believe he did this because he valued me and wanted me to know I was valued, that my love and generosity had been seen. He couldn't have been that hungry.
