(Photo by Taymaz Valley via Wikimedia Commons/CC BY 2.0)
Portions of the included interview have been edited for brevity and clarity.
This second article and interview serve as a continuation of Understanding Gender Apartheid: Voices from the Iranian Diaspora (Part 1).
An expert on Iran, Hanieh Ziaei teaches and gives lectures on contemporary Iran, focusing on its history, politics, and society, and regularly provides commentary on Iranian affairs in Quebec, French, and Belgian media outlets.
Drawing on her multicultural background shaped by her life in Canada, Belgium, and Iran, Hanieh Ziaei fosters intercultural dialogue between diverse identities.
How do you personally define “gender apartheid,” and how has your experience in Iran (if applicable) or abroad shaped that understanding?
Ziaei: I was immersed in it from the beginning. I lived it in my own flesh. It is a generational issue, rooted in a country where patriarchy was institutionalized by the regime. I was part of a patriarchal system from the start.
There was segregation: no mixed schools. Primary education was gendered. We communicated with boys through walls and social constructs imposed on us. Since 1979, we have only known this regime. Segregation defined both public and social spaces. The question of the veil began as early as age five. Even in 40-degree heat, children were forced to wear coats and hijabs. Their bodies were controlled before puberty even began. I struggled with the uniform and rejected the style, the dark colours, the severe control. Gender apartheid begins with schooling.
I came from a secular family, where there was no segregation. However, the school uniform, the Maghnaeh, covering from the forehead to the chest, allowed for no individuality. Lipstick was forbidden. Eyebrows were policed. If your veil was loose, you were labelled as unruly and uncontrollable. You couldn’t be expected to be “okay” because you weren’t. There was intense physical and verbal violence. I was slapped in the schoolyard and thrown to the ground at age six.
That trauma follows us into the diaspora, through violence, codes of conduct, and war. It affects daily life, relationships with authority, with men, and with the masculine ego. It’s deeply problematic, debilitating, both professionally and personally.
Trauma is passed between generations — a phenomenon sociologists like Bourdieu describe as ‘transgenerational trauma. Trauma can be transmitted. We carry social trauma. It is passed down. We must work to undo it. The brain is like a hard drive; what happens in a person’s formative years stays with them for life.
What are concrete examples of gender-based restrictions or discrimination you experienced in Iran that you now recognize as part of a systemic structure?
Ziaei: I have conducted research in Iran, maintaining a connection to my country of origin. There is an illusion of public space. Women have fought to gain access to football stadiums, which have historically remained inaccessible. I was a tomboy, climbing trees, surrounded by male friends. There were “girl sports” and “boy sports.” Pink was for girls, blue for boys. Iran is deeply patriarchal. These stereotypes also exist elsewhere, but in Iran, they are particularly rigid. I hated dresses. We had no say. We could only go places with our mothers.
Even passports were gendered, issued through the father or mother. We didn’t have personal passports at first. Even names were controlled. My Persian name, Assal, was considered sensual and associated with honey in Iranian wedding rituals. My name, Hanieh, was Quranic. My father was afraid to show my birth certificate to my mother, afraid of her judgment. We didn’t even have the freedom to choose our names. That is discrimination.
At age 8 or 9, I saw how girls were torn from childhood, and we were forced into womanhood at a very young age. It can start earlier with your name. These are different forms of oppression. My research focuses on trauma. My core value is justice. This is both a personal and societal story. These are collective traumas that connect us to a larger group.
How has your perception of gender rights and freedoms evolved over time? Have you encountered any unexpected challenges as an Iranian woman in the diaspora?
Ziaei: My understanding of equality and democracy has evolved into values I fiercely defend. Secularism is tied to collective trauma. I am now more aware of these issues. My engagement is visceral. The return of Sharia law is traumatic for women. We cannot allow Sharia to influence legal jurisdictions. It provokes a deep sense of revolt and activism. We are shaped by trauma. Women carry these sensitivities.
Western narratives about Iranian women often emphasize resistance. Do you feel these representations reflect reality, or do they lack nuances that only Iranian women can grasp?
Ziaei: Societies are highly polarized, as seen in the comparison between Europe and North America, for example. Public debates are often confusing. We are still far from a resolution. There is little nuance, little time. Canada offers much more space for dialogue than Europe (especially Belgium), which feels closed. There is a lot of systemic racism. Even the word “Iran” evokes fear. I have never encountered this reaction in Quebec or France, but in Belgium, it is a problem. There are many prejudices. The phrase “Women, Life, Freedom” changes perceptions.
What forms of advocacy feel most meaningful today, within the diaspora and globally, as Iranian women continue to face gender-based oppression?
Ziaei: Through writing, education, and culture. I worked at the Georges-Vanier Cultural Center in Montreal. My academic career focuses on research and public engagement. I lead cultural projects. I am also a musician, trained in Iranian classical music, and an herbalist, exploring Iran’s botanical architecture. These efforts go beyond geopolitics. As women, our weapon is knowledge. Our tools are education and the arts. We must erase borders to build something new—find common ground through creativity and critical thinking. This is part of my life’s quest. It is not always easy. People expected a “Mr. Director,” not a “Madam Director.” My body language surprises them. I often face contempt more than racism.
Contempt destroys a person. It’s deeply damaging. It reminds you of your “place.” At the end of a conference, someone once said, “You seem very Westernized.” It wasn’t an insult, but it was shocking. What does that even mean? I don’t fit the cliché of the Iranian woman. Photos of Iranian artists challenge those stereotypes. It hurts. People want me to conform.
How can women in the diaspora and those living in Iran play complementary roles in advancing awareness of gender apartheid and human rights violations?
Ziaei: There are fantasies, but nothing replaces lived experience. There is a fantasy about the West as paradise. But not everything is perfect. Privilege is tied to social class. We are all shaped by imagination and fantasy. It’s hard to build a shared identity. Nostalgia for pre-revolution Iran isn’t always healthy. There were many problems even before.
One key issue, highlighted in the debate, is the Nobel Peace Prize awarded to Narges Mohammadi. Gender apartheid is central to her fight. It is part of the international conversation. Her message is universal.
Women like her in Iran face institutionalized gender apartheid. Change is difficult; it’s deeply embedded in the system. It’s frozen in institutional structures.
Closing Thoughts from the Writer and Interviewer
As the voices of Iranian women across both articles on gender apartheid make clear, knowledge is not just power – it is resistance. Time and again, the most resonant message is that for women, especially under regimes built on systemic oppression, knowledge becomes a weapon of defiance. To understand the mechanisms of injustice is to begin dismantling them. To share that understanding is to ignite a movement. One voice becomes many. One story becomes a chorus.
What is particularly powerful is how this knowledge endures across generations and borders. Iranian women carry with them the weight and wisdom of culture, language, memory, and struggle. In the diaspora, this inheritance becomes even more vital. Far from home, they remain tethered to it—not just through nostalgia, but through a fierce sense of purpose. They are archivists of a lived experience, educators of history that refuses to be erased, and agents of change who turn personal memory into collective action.
In the face of gender apartheid, their continued transmission of knowledge is not just cultural preservation—it is political resistance. And it is through this shared knowledge, multiplied voice by voice, that the movement for justice lives on.
Edited by Atena Abbaspourbenis
