My cultural awakening: Rihanna’s song showed me how to live as a gay man in Iran | culture

I He grew up in Tehran, under the law of the Ayatollah and the daily surveillance of the Basij – “Moral police.” My parents fell in love with the Islamic Revolution when I was a child, and welcomed life under its strict religious rules. The Ayatollah’s face stared from the walls of the house, a daily reminder of what was expected and what was forbidden. This included being gay, but by my teenage years I realized I was different from my peers, and began hiding my sexuality from my parents and the outside world.

The flip side of life under the regime was that there was little scope for celebration: happy events, even religious ones, came with an inherent guilt while trivial outside influences, including Western music, were considered dangerous. And so I was in my mid-twenties before I went to my first real party: a secret gathering that would become my gateway to hidden, gay Tehran.

In college, I had three gay friends who understood each other’s predicament and the complicated lies required to keep our secret. They told me about these parties, in the apartments of other gay men and trans women, who with sound systems, lights and homemade alcohol turned their homes into nightclubs behind closed doors. I longed for and dreaded an invitation, wondering if I was ready to break free with the largest circle of gay men I was among, anxious to see someone I knew, afraid of the morality police, and, most importantly, afraid of my parents finding out. There were a lot of layers forbidden – Prohibited behavior – What do I tell them?

When I finally got invited, I put on a tight-fitting shirt with the top buttons undone (fashionable even among straight men) and spent an hour styling my hair like the boy bands I watched on MTV after my parents went to bed. Music videos were popular in the Middle East. Friends might ask: “Have you seen the latest Britney or Rihanna show?” In fact, I envied the red latex that Britney uses in Oops! I did it again and heard Rihanna’s Umbrella, but my exposure to non-Iranian pop music was still limited.

I made the usual excuse to my parents—that I was going to dinner—and hopped into a friend’s car as Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music” was playing on the cassette tape. “That’s great,” I said. “Didn’t you hear that?” he asked. “It’s the new thing. You’ll definitely hear it tonight.”

When we arrived and entered the apartment, I was immediately blown away by the music. There came a moment of doubt, then euphoria. Sure enough, Rihanna’s song came up. The room bounced up and down, catching my friend’s attention and pinching myself. I was lost in a new world. On my way home, I listened again to regain myself.

Over the next few years, I immersed myself in this scene, partying once or twice every two weeks, each time leaving the house worrying about what my parents would think. Then I sat in my friend’s car, and the anxiety melted away. I had my own party, at my parents’ vacation house out of town, on a night my parents weren’t visiting. I rented a sound system and lights – and of course I made sure Rihanna was playing.

“Don’t Stop the Music” became a mainstay. Whenever the song came on, my gay friend and I would exchange a look that said, “It’s our song, let’s go.” Rihanna, Britney and Madonna were the sign of a good party.

After university, then compulsory military service, I knew I wanted to leave Iran. I moved to London, where I work as a doctor and have a partner. I never confirmed my sexuality to my parents; They know, but it remains unspoken. I wrote about gays in Tehran and the parties in a book about my life there, “The Ayatollah’s View,” Under my pseudonym; Revealing my identity would still be dangerous.

Maybe that will change soon for me – mostly for those who are still there. And now there is an all-out war. When the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah, was killed a week ago, the promise of regime change became real for many of us.

I sent a message to my gay friend who lives near the compound where Khamenei was beaten. I worry that he and others will be safe – but I also know the excitement they finally feel about the future we dreamed of. “Are you well?” I wrote while still being wary of sending anything anti-regime via WhatsApp. He replied: “Congratulations, he is finally dead.” “You have no idea how we feel!” I feel that way too: exhilarated and closer to the day when the parties we enjoyed together are no longer hidden.

A friend from those days lives in Europe and visits occasionally. Every time we heard Rihanna play — in a store, a club, a bar — he elbowed me, as if to say, “Do you remember your terrible dance to this?” That song showed me that gay life in Iran is possible, and I can’t forget it.