Fighting Against the Odds to Succeed: Gay, Female and Blind in Iran

As the 28th session of the UN Human Rights Council got underway in Geneva in March 2015, a group of activists and journalists gathered to hear two disabled Iranian women share their experiences about the challenges they face in their daily lives. The Austrian non-governmental group Südwind organized the Human Rights of People with Disabilities in Iran event, which ran parallel to the UN meeting.

I first became aware of the unique set of challenges disabled activists bring to human rights debates through the work of Iranian journalist Ehsan Adedi, who has written widely on the lives of disabled people. Since then, I have followed the work of people who directly challenge pre-conceptions and fears, and seek to redefine what it means to be “disabled.” So I was anxious to talk to Samaneh, one of the two guest speakers at the Südwind event. Samaneh, who is blind, has a degree in communications, which she completed without any government assistance or help from outside her family.

I spoke to her about what it was like to be an independent young disabled woman in Iran, and about why she has chosen to live outside Iran.

Can you describe your life?

I am a minority among minorities. First, I am woman, living with all the limitations that women have in this society. Next, I am blind, and have to deal with all the issues of a disabled person. Third, I am a lesbian.

I was born in a small town near Shiraz. Two of my brothers are also blind. Early in life I could see a little, but because of a genetic defect I gradually lost my sight. I now have something like five percent of my sight. I went through a very difficult time until I reached 18. I knew that I was losing my sight little by little. I was an ambitious person, but unfortunately I had very little room for personal independence —and little power to make decisions.

Did you study at a school for the visually impaired?

No. I studied with difficulty, without braille or audio renditions of the lessons. Then when I decided to go to Tehran to continue my education, my parents were adamantly against it. So, without my knowledge, they got my university acceptance transferred from Tehran to Jahrom [near Shiraz]. I fought them over the right to make my own decision and eventually succeeded in getting myself transferred back to a university in Tehran.

Convincing my family was a difficult task. They were a very traditional and observant family with financial challenges. My father was a farmer and naturally, after paying the expenses of nine children, three of whom were blind, he could not afford it. He tried his best, but it was not enough. Of the nine of us, eight have higher education.

You mentioned the limitations on women in Iran. Can you say more about this?

Yes. Look, my brother’s physical condition was like mine, but he was free to go out of the house with his friends. I was confined at home because I was a girl. He could go to out-of-province camps and had more independence with his pocket money. Men and women are in no way equal, especially in provincial towns, perhaps because of how the culture views the sexuality of men and women.

I was both blind and a girl. In my family’s views, these two, when put together, gave them the right to control me in every aspect of my life. A woman with a disability has a thousand times more problems than the average woman. A blind man is less subject to control, whereas everybody tries to control a blind woman, even if all they want to do is help.

Men have fewer problems socially. Blind young men have more choices and they can even marry better. I knew young blind men who went to small towns and chose partners for life from among a group of young women who did not have very high expectations. But a blind girl has no such possibilities. I know capable and accomplished young blind women who yearn for even a moment of love.

How does Iranian society view a person with a disability?

Horribly. When I traveled to my classes, I was the subject of curiosity, sorrow and pity. When I entered a secluded alley I was always so afraid that somebody would assault me, physically or sexually. There were those who would use the excuse of showing me the way by grabbing my hand instead of the walking stick to get a little sexual advantage. At first glance these might seem like small problems, but they hurt. Every day I felt that I was being violated.

Once I asked a woman to hail me a cab. Apparently she was in a hurry, so to get it done and over with, she hailed a passing car. It was not a taxi, but I did not know that. The driver was asking lots of questions along the way and when we reached my destination, he would not let me get of the car. That is why I say that even a simple event can become very difficult for a disabled person, especially for a woman.

Another time I went to an office looking for a job. The manager said he would give me job if I gave him “service”. He told me that I had a beautiful body. Because of my blindness I am in a position of weakness and some men want to take advantage of me, from a little kiss in an empty alleyway to groping your body. Whenever I am in a cab they want to know my name, why I am out by myself and what happened to me. Once I told a taxi driver, “If I were not carrying this walking stick, then you wouldn’t ask about my personal affairs. Only this stick and my physical defect has given you the right to snoop into my private life.”

What difficulties do you face in the urban environment?

Taking a simple walk is easy for you. We do not have sidewalks that accommodate people with disabilities in Iran. A physically disabled person cannot walk for five minutes on an ordinary sidewalk. Now apply walking, a basic right, to other ordinary demands of everyday life. In advanced countries, there are a lot of facilities for the blind, from monthly allowances and government-paid nurses to discounts for transportation, an abundance of educational opportunities at home, guide dogs and suitable outdoor areas. In Iran, even the capital lacks these facilities, let alone remote towns like the one where I grew up.

Let’s go back to your family, and their response to your sexual orientation? Have you talked to them about it?

My family could never accept my homosexuality. They are traditional and extremely religious. The idea of relations between two women is totally unacceptable to them. That is why I left Iran and now I am waiting in Turkey to find a host country.

At the event organized by Südwind, you were introduced as a successful blind woman. In your opinion, what it the definition of success?

For some perhaps success means a Ph.D., but this is a cliché. Success means endeavoring to realize your dreams. Contentment and serenity are not empty words for me; they are the truth of life.

Despite all the formidable obstacles that I have encountered, I have never stopped and have always fought back. With all the shortcomings of my life, I have kept the yearning for a good life. That is why when the school principal expelled me from I school, I resisted. I returned to school the next day and begged and cajoled until they let me back into the classroom. That is why I fought against the accepted traditions of family life and demanded independence and the right to decide for myself. This a sort of victory by itself.

I remember when I was looking to rent a house in Tehran’s Nezamabad neighborhood but nobody would rent to me. I persisted for several months. I told them I would not set their house on fire. I told them that I would pay the rent on time. I did not give up until I succeeded. I consider it a victory that I have been able to come to know myself with a sound mind, that I have been able to do kindness to others and that I have grabbed whatever I want from life.

I heard that you also received a medal in sports.

Yes, in 2005 I received a bronze medal at the country-level for track and field and throwing. I trained by myself and with my own money. I have tried bowling and other sports as well. My medal is small, but it was very valuable to me. It opened the doors to a world where a blind person can have something to say.