Falling in Love in Iran by Kamin Mohammadi

The first time I met Bijan was at my cousin's wedding, in Saqqez, a town in Iranian Kurdistan. I don't know what we talked about because I was only five-years-old, and Bijan was seven.

That was before the mullahs overran Iran. In the chaos immediately following the 1979 revolution, our neighbours would disappear in the night, never to be seen again. When we heard that my father's name had been carved on a gravestone, we took the hint and departed for a new life in England. Over the next 20 years, I grew up thoroughly westernised. At school in London I learned not only about classic literature but also about boys, nightclubs and illegal substances. By 30, as a contributing editor on the Erotic Review, I was leading a life that could hardly have pleased the mullahs.

In 1999, I returned for the first time to Tehran. Staying with my Kurdish family, I learned all over again the ancient courtesies, as well as strict new laws enforced by the Islamic Republic's notorious moral police. When Bijan arrived from Kurdistan for a brief visit, I knew that a young unmarried woman should not shake hands on being introduced to a man - polite nodding would do.

But, one afternoon, as the rest of the family took their siesta, I called Bijan out to the sun-drenched courtyard. He sat beside me and talked of his life and his beloved Kurdistan - a land he insisted I belonged to, too. His words, combined with the heat of the sun and the scent of jasmine, worked on me like magic.

So, a few weeks later, when my aunt invited me to travel with her from Tehran to Kurdistan, I leapt at the chance. Bijan's father would collect us, and I knew Bijan would come, too. When they arrived, I went to greet them, never expecting the flurry of nerves that overcame me when I saw him. Unable to look at him, stolen sidelong glances told me that he was experiencing the same regression. Our eyes were fixed on the floor but neither of us seemed capable of controlling our smiles, wide as the watermelon slices we were being offered. I was shocked but also thrilled; I hadn't felt like a teenager for a long time.

From their home in Saqqez, we ventured far into the mountainous countryside every day. The small Paykan was filled with delicious picnics. Bijan sat up front alongside his father, while I squeezed onto the backseat with my aunt, Bijan's mother, and his eight-year old brother. Though never left alone in the house, on these excursions we were able to wander off together. Gradually, we fell in love. How could I be sure? In the West there is a pattern to such things; but here there was no privacy, so nothing could be said. With young people's virtue strictly guarded, I had no idea whether Bijan had even kissed a girl.

But I grew sensitive to nuance. Like a character in a Jane Austen novel, I used a currency of blushes and fleeting expressions, shot with the precision of an arrow. Every gesture was fraught with meaning. I felt sure I wasn't misreading Bijan. As we wove along squigly mountain roads, sitting behind him in the car I would place a hand on his seat to steady myself. My hand would come to rest right behind his shoulder and as soon as he felt the brush of my fingers, he would lean back deliberately, his weight against my hand. I would press into his shoulder and he would press right back. This was our only physical contact.

By night, back at the house, we lounged on the terrace on Persian carpets. Jasmine, honeysuckle and Iran's highly-scented rose - my namesake the Mohammadi flower - wafted their scents towards us on the gentle breeze. We talked without tiring and slowly the people around us excused themselves. His mother would place a bowl of bright red cherries or shiny pistachios before us and we picked at the food as we chatted lazily. Hanging between us was the kiss we longed to share, but convention held us in place. I was an Iranian girl, newly modest, and Bijan an Iranian boy, too respectful to reach out. And at all times his father sat just inside, trying hard not to fall asleep over his book.

As the week drew to an end, Bijan made his feelings clear. We ventured out alone - taking the risk that the quiet backwater of Saqqez was outside the searchlight gaze of the moral police. In the park, Bijan took a deep breath and asked if I would ever consider living in Iran again. I knew he was asking me whether there was any point in pursuing the relationship - any hope of a conventional conclusion. I smiled sadly and said I didn't think I could: I was too much in love with western freedom. He nodded furiously and we moved on.

In saying goodbye, I wanted to let him know that, though I love freedom, I also loved him. Since we couldn't share a kiss, I plucked a flower from the bush of Mohammadi roses in his garden, a beautiful pink bloom with a scent so rich it would fill the whole room and I ran upstairs. I slipped the rose under his pillow. I was sure he would understand what it meant.