Reading Lolita in Tehran_ A Memoir in Books - Azar Nafisi [68]
The whispers and titters in the back rows had become more audible. Mr. Farzan was too inept a judge to pay attention, but one of Mr. Nyazi’s friends cried out: “Your Honor, could you please instruct the gentlemen and ladies in the back to respect the court and the prosecutor?”
“So be it,” said Mr. Farzan, irrelevantly.
“Our poets and writers in this battle against the Great Satan,” Nyazi continued, “play the same role as our faithful soldiers, and they will be accorded the same reward in heaven. We students, as the future guardians of culture, have a heavy task ahead of us. Today we have planted Islam’s flag of victory inside the nest of spies on our own soil. Our task, as our Imam has stated, is to purge the country of the decadent Western culture and . . .”
At this point Zarrin stood up. “Objection, Your Honor!” she cried out.
Mr. Farzan looked at her in some surprise. “What do you object to?”
“This is supposed to be about The Great Gatsby,” said Zarrin. “The prosecutor has taken up fifteen precious minutes of our time without saying a single word about the defendant. Where is this all going?”
For a few seconds both Mr. Farzan and Mr. Nyazi looked at her in wonder. Then Mr. Nyazi said, without looking at Zarrin, “This is an Islamic court, not Perry Mason. I can present my case the way I want to, and I am setting the context. I want to say that as a Muslim I cannot accept Gatsby.”
Mr. Farzan, attempting to rise up to his role, said, “Well, please move on then.”
Zarrin’s interruptions had upset Mr. Nyazi, who after a short pause lifted his head from his paper and said with some excitement, “You are right, it is not worth it . . .”
We were left to wonder what was not worth it for a few seconds, until he continued. “I don’t have to read from a paper, and I don’t need to talk about Islam. I have enough evidence—every page, every single page,” he cried out, “of this book is its own condemnation.” He turned to Zarrin and one look at her indifferent expression was enough to transform him. “All through this revolution we have talked about the fact that the West is our enemy, it is the Great Satan, not because of its military might, not because of its economic power, but because of, because of”—another pause—“because of its sinister assault on the very roots of our culture. What our Imam calls cultural aggression. This I would call a rape of our culture,” Mr. Nyazi stated, using a term that later became the hallmark of the Islamic Republic’s critique of the West. “And if you want to see cultural rape, you need go no further than this very book.” He picked his Gatsby up from beneath the pile of papers and started waving it in our direction.
Zarrin rose again to her feet. “Your Honor,” she said with barely disguised contempt, “these are all baseless allegations, falsehoods . . .”
Mr. Nyazi did not allow his honor to respond. He half rose from his seat and cried out: “Will you let me finish? You will get your turn! I will tell you why, I will tell you why . . .” And then he turned to me and in a softer voice said, “Ma’am, no offense meant to you.”
I, who had by now begun to enjoy the game, said, “Go ahead, please, and remember I am here in the role of the book. I will have my say in the end.”
“Maybe during the reign of the corrupt Pahlavi regime,” Nyazi continued, “adultery was