Sara could be a Brazilian.
Brunette, medium height, greenish-brown eyes.
Long dark hair locks that fluttered as the hijab fell.
We are in Iran, where the 1979 Islamic Revolution transformed many customs.
The precise location is Bandar Abbas, on the southern coast, Persian Gulf, also known as the Arabian Gulf, depending only on your interests or which flag you defend.
Sara didn’t agree with the system.
She felt trapped by a piece of cloth. She felt suffocated by a society that demands her marriage, her children, her care.
She wanted more than that. She wanted her independence. She pulsed to live.
She left home with consensus but thoughtfulness.
A new phase had to begin elsewhere.
She lived alone in a small apartment away from the harbor.
She had her residence, her rules.
She taught Arabic as a profession. She accepted travelers under her roof for satisfaction.
I don’t know if you understand, but many taboos are broken when Sara, a single woman in her thirties, greeted me with a smile on her face and curiosity in her eyes.
We talked about places. We discussed different languages. We cook together.
So I decided to do the dishes.
She started to laugh. To guffaw. Hiccups on the verge.
Almost in tears, she asked me:
-Do you know how to do the dishes?
I was thoughtful.
What should I answer?
I think so, right?
No one has ever evaluated my performance on this, but I think I know.
-It’s just that I’ve never seen a man doing the dishes in my life.
Proportions and environments apart, Sara could well be a Brazilian.