Leili Forat, Civil Rights Activist – June 12, 2020 – BBC Persian
"We don’t have Black people in Iran, but if we did, you’d see racism because of skin color."
Even this sentence is inherently racist because it entirely ignores a small group of Iranians in the south of the country and denies their identity and distinctiveness. To those who, seemingly out of goodwill, claim the absence of Black people in Iran has prevented racist tendencies from surfacing, one must ask: have you ever traveled to southern Iran?
In southern Iran, there is an indigenous minority whose darker skin tone physically distinguishes them from other Iranians, who mostly have lighter or olive skin. This minority has had bitter experiences with crude language and racist slurs from some of their fellow citizens and has suffered from being called offensive names like kaka siyah (blackie), siyah sambo, and others.
But beyond this bitter experience—an experience we lighter-skinned Iranians do not directly comprehend—other forms of xenophobic behavior that often include explicitly racist elements are rampant in Iran. Within the framework of cultural racism, it doesn't matter whether your skin is black or white, whether you're Lur or Arab, Baluch or Kurd—because when it comes to humiliation, exclusion, and denial, your cultural traits or those attributed to you can be enough to justify racial discrimination.
In this framework, racist and xenophobic behavior isn't limited to dominant ethnic groups; even minority groups can and do discriminate against each other. In some cases, minorities themselves may target each other with hostile language, derogatory discourse, or discriminatory behavior. Sometimes this abuse even happens within a single minority group—which, while harder to classify as xenophobia, inflicts just as much harm.
But what I want to focus on here is the blatant anti-Arab racism that targets Iranian Arab citizens and reduces them to outsiders or second-class citizens in their own country.
I am an Arab Iranian woman. My father is Arab, and my mother is a Bakhtiari Lur. My name isn't Arabic; I don’t have a particular accent when I speak Persian that reveals my Arab identity, and I don’t wear traditional Arab clothing. Yet what often results from this absence of overt markers is a deep emotional injury that attacks my identity and dignity.
Many times, after a conversation—long or short—or in everyday interactions at work or in my community, once it comes up by chance or in passing that I’m Arab, the other person looks at me in surprise and says, “You don’t look Arab at all.”
What does it mean to "look Arab"? What appearance or behavior doesn't match me? Could a statement be more insulting?
But anti-Arab racism doesn’t stop there. The other person—even someone who claims to care about me—when they see my hurt and reaction to their words, instead of apologizing or acknowledging the ugliness of what they said, replies: “You’re one of the cultured Arabs. That’s why I didn’t think you were Arab.”
They refuse to accept that someone they respect or love belongs to a group they perceive as uncivilized.
Thus, the assumption of “Arabs being uncultured,” however one defines “culture,” is taken for granted. And I am “lucky” enough to have distanced myself from that and become “cultured” by resembling the image my interlocutor holds of “civilization.”
Could racism be any more direct and blatant than this?
I was born and live in Khuzestan. I have a university education, run my own business, and am socially active enough to say that, in my experience, every time a problem arises here, the first reaction is: “Well, they’re Arabs, after all.”
Do you know how this racist discourse targets and wounds our identity, dignity, and pride?
In Gilan, a father murders his 13-year-old daughter, Romina, in a horrific way. In Khuzestan, the first reaction we hear from non-Arab compatriots is: "This is just everyday behavior for Arabs."
In Khuzestan, COVID-19 is raging, and the first response is: "Arabs don’t stay home anyway."
Naturally, this anti-Arab view is either incapable of understanding—or perhaps willfully ignores—the simple fact that Arabs in Khuzestan are more visible in the streets and markets during the pandemic not because of irresponsibility, but because they are the poorest social group in the province. Without insurance, income, unemployment benefits, or paid leave, they have no choice but to work during even the worst days of the pandemic just to feed their families.
Only those who have food at home and money to spend can afford to stay home during a crisis or a pandemic. Of course, the visible presence of Khuzestani Arabs during the Eid al-Fitr celebration—which for them is not just a religious but also a national holiday (much like Nowruz is for non-Arab Iranians)—is a different issue, and it is valid to criticize public gatherings during a pandemic. But just as one can and should object to the general neglect of COVID-19 precautions across the entire country—including weddings, funerals, and religious ceremonies—the critique should be universal, not selectively targeted.
But why is the unemployment rate and school dropout rate so high among Khuzestani Arabs? Why does misogyny remain one of the major social issues within the Arab communities of Khuzestan?
The answer to these questions does not require racist assumptions. A basic understanding of how the vicious cycle of poverty and deprivation works—which Khuzestani Arabs are trapped in—makes things clear.
In addition to the problem of a monolingual national education system, which causes Arab students—many of whom don’t initially speak Persian at all—to fall behind in school, there is the issue of low employment and poor family income, which forces children to work and help support their households in the absence of any effective social welfare or public services. This is the same closed and vicious cycle of poverty and underdevelopment.
A child who grows up on the streets with very limited literacy—how can they possibly engage with the kinds of concerns that are considered important to the privileged?
An Arab child who’s “lucky” enough to endure a harsh school experience—often in a multi-ethnic environment where anti-Arab racism is part of the dominant culture—and manages to finish their education: how likely is it that they will find a job and break the vicious cycle of poverty?
The painful truth is that an Arab Iranian citizen often has to distance themselves from their Arab identity, language, and culture in order to access employment that matches their qualifications. And if they insist on staying true to their Arab identity, they mostly lose that opportunity.
Most Arabs in Iran—at least those who have had to interact with formal institutions at some point—have, at some stage, been forced to hide or distance themselves from their Arab identity to protect themselves from the harm of racist, anti-Arab attitudes.
This concealment even extends to children—when an Arab child doesn’t want anyone at school to know they’re Arab, and if they must say their parent’s Arabic name, they whisper it in the teacher’s ear to avoid being mocked.
I, an Arab Iranian citizen—one of those very children who once hid her Arab identity out of fear of ridicule and humiliation—have, for years now, come to embrace that identity with pride. I refuse to let racism force me to censor or suppress my identity.
I know that my community, my people, face many cultural challenges, but these are the consequences of poverty, neglect, repression, and denial.
For me, the first step toward overcoming this situation is to ask a fundamental question: Why must these people—who sit atop a sea of oil—be so poor? Why is there no real effort to break the cycle of poverty they are trapped in?
Why is it that these very same Arabs, when they leave Khuzestan, often lead successful lives, but as long as they remain in Khuzestan, they are shackled by invisible chains?
A person who feels like an outsider—who is humiliated and denied for their identity, and who, despite living in a rich province, is drowning in poverty—will naturally seek escape.
Some give in to fate. Others pack up their lives and leave. And yet others begin to think politically—some even start to believe that separating Khuzestan from Iran is the solution.
But that only leads to a chain of prison, repression, and violence. And in my view, it is not a solution—because in a country with such ethnic diversity, land cannot be the basis of politics. We must think differently.
I am an Arab Iranian woman, and I am proud of my rich Arab culture. I hold my head high wherever I go and say with pride: I am Arab. I am deeply in love with Arabic music and poetry.
As an Arab, hospitality is part of who I am: the best part of my home belongs to you, my guest. The best food is yours. Respect for others and for the elders who’ve added meaning to my life is ingrained in me.
I, an Arab Iranian woman, do not want much. I only want to be fully accepted as an Iranian. I want to be able to work like every other Iranian, to express my capabilities, to study, and to receive respect for my culture and language.
I only want to be accepted as an Iranian—an Arab Iranian, an Iranian Arab.
An Arab—not merely “Arabic-speaking.”
Original Persian Article:
عربستیزی در ایران؛ آدمهایی که نمیبینیم
🔗 https://www.bbc.com/persian/blog-viewpoints-53014673