A Small Workshop in Isfahan

The compulsory hijab might be the most visible aspect of the vast, systematic discrimination that Iranian women face; but they have worse problems. The impoverishment of women in Iran is now on an alarming course, exacerbated by the Islamic republic’s persistence in policies of sexual segregation and its incompetent social support. While women make up the majority of the educated population, they suffer twice the rate of unemployment. Although it has been neglected or opposed by the state, there is a vast demand for social inclusion among Iranian women which they show by their involvement in every possible aspect of life in Iran.

Even more moderate and reformist governments, despite their promises, have failed to reach pre-revolutionary figures for women’s inclusion in the workplace. In the earliest years after the revolution, women were fired en masse, mostly as a result of their objection to the compulsory hijab or their protests against repressive policies.

Sexual segregation evolves from the Iranian civil code, which is based on sharia law. As an example, it recognises the man as the family head and considers him responsible “for providing for the wife”. Thus, payments such as child benefit are directed to men. State propaganda promotes the notion that a woman does not need to work outside the home to contribute to her family’s upkeep; her foremost role is to nurture her family. However, such messages, however nationally widespread and dominant, fade away in the face of the reality of a society in which high inflation, aggravated by international sanctions, predominantly targets the working class. Under such conditions, a family’s survival is precarious if the woman does not take a paid job.

Not surprisingly, an immense, unmeasured underground economy has grown up in Iran which according to some assessments accounts for between 8 and 36 per cent of total GDP. Considering the fact that only 7 per cent of the country’s workforce is protected by official contracts, one can assume that the most vulnerable employees are women. Approximately 50 per cent of Iranian women have no choice but to accept informal work arrangements that limit their access to social protection such as pensions and unemployment benefits.

In this harsh environment a growing number of women are starting their own businesses. Among them are women determined to question the official discrimination policy by founding their own democratic workplaces. This tendency is embodied in the co-operatives that function based on horizontal association. In these small enterprises, nobody is the boss. Apart from a portion of revenue which goes into the co-operative itself, the rest is evenly distributed.

There are numerous such co-operatives all over Iran, in cities and villages, often germinated from ties of friendship or kinship. Most of them hardly make ends meet, but some have managed to offer possibilities to their members without which their life would be hard to imagine. Some co-operatives are seeking to further their activities.

Isfahan, one of the biggest cities in Iran, renowned for its history and rich art traditions, is a good place to meet such women.

Naqsh-e Jahan (“picture of the world”) Square hosts the most important architectural buildings of the Islamic world. Locals old enough to remember the Pahlavis know it as Shah Square, and after the revolution its name was changed to Imam Square, but it has always been surrounded by an old bazaar that functions in the traditional way. The shops are filled with pieces of refined artwork. Every shopkeeper, to emphasise the exquisite intricacy of the handcrafts, stresses that they are made by women, since only the meticulous feminine aesthetic could generate such fine work. Only a few metres away from the main bazaars, in the labyrinthine back streets, numerous workshops are scattered in silence and shadow, unpretentiously feeding a massive handcraft market. Their large glass windows invite passers-by to look inside, where women sit around large tables, placing tiny pieces of turquoise on copper vases, hammering delicate patterns on silver-polished pots and enamelling metal plates.

It’s in one of these workshops that Azin works, a thirty-year-old artist who has decided not to sell her skills to a shopkeeper or wholesaler. She and seven other women have decided to manage their own work. This is how the experience of their co-operative, Toluo’ (“sunrise”) came into being.

“It all started two years ago,” says Azin. “Three friends and I decided to buy the raw material and work for ourselves.”

Promising initial results soon led to a more organised experience of self-management. All the members are between twenty-five and thirty years old; each holds a master’s or bachelor’s degree. Azin is a graduate at Shahrekord University of Art and the winner of a national art prize. The others are graduates of art or other schools who have always had a dedication to the fine arts. They produce one of the most famous handcrafts of Iran, mina, the feminised version of the word minoo, heaven. It’s the art of painting and decorating metal and tile with intricate details and patterns in shades of blue.

They are all sitting side by side in their little workshop, listening to peaceful music and painting imaginary gardens with miniature flowers. “It’s not only a job for us, it’s a place where we retrieve our belief in ourselves. We discuss our problems together and have created a small solidarity group,” Azin says as she carefully handles the plate she has just finished enamelling. “We were tired of being exploited by shop owners and wholesalers. Now we work for ourselves, and any female mina artist who feels the same way is welcome to join us.”

The woman sitting next to her adds that in their case a form of segregation is beneficial: “We wanted to create a women’s co-operative just like the art itself, purely feminine.”

Azin says that the relationship between the members is noticeably different from the usual workplace:

Most of us have paid some sort of a social price to be independent, to take responsibility for our lives. We have more or less the same problems and the same aims. So we get along quite easily.

The friendly atmosphere of the room supports her assertion.

Traditionally men have controlled the handcrafts market, owning the shops, the workshops and the product. The way they try to reduce the price by stifling creativity and lowering quality annoys Azin and her colleagues. “The traders and shop owners are the ones who are in contact with the customers and they dictate the fashions and tastes. They are business people after all, not artists,” says Azin as she points at the patterns her colleague is adroitly drawing, showing the difference between their works and the ordinary mina that can be found in most of the souvenir shops.

Once their co-operative reaches a level of sustainability, they intend to contribute their share in developing the art form. “For us, producing Mina is not a mere job, it is how we express ourselves,” says Azin.

Running a co-operative and keeping it clear of the exploitation of the market, especially in such a prolonged economic downturn, can be challenging. One of the women says:

We’re in a crucial time now. To cut our expenses and save money, we shared our workplace with another business owner. The savings will be spent on renting a proper place where we can open our own shop with a workshop annexed to it. It will be an important step forward. We hope we will even be able to support some young talents.

Some of these objectives have already been realised by an older co-operative that Azin knows, in one of the entrances of old bazaar, a few metres away from Naqsh-e Jahan Square. She often stops by and says hello. Niloufar-Abi (“Azure Lily”) women’s co-operative has not only maintained a stable income, but has also developed its products with novel geometric patterns and colour combinations. These innovations have been applauded and are registered under the name of the co-operative.

Every evening, Azin walks home along the river bank. She often takes a few minutes to listen to people singing popular songs under the arches of the Khaju Bridge. Such enthusiasm doesn’t exist in any karaoke bar or talent show around the world. People gather here simply to listen to each other sing. There is a respectful order among people who have never met before. The singers quietly await their turns, but sometimes the listeners encourage the singers with clapping or background singing.

The only thing that interrupts this spontaneous arrangement is the appearance of a police officer, with two duty soldiers behind him. People scatter; and a few minutes later, singing arises from a different place. This happens every five or ten minutes, every night. Isfahan is not just a centre for old-fashioned fine arts; Isfahanians cherish art in every possible way.

Azin’s success with the Toluo’ co-operative has rekindled her foremost enthusiasm, carpet designing. After she returns home she spends the rest of her day in her smallish room which serves as a second workshop. She lives with her mother and her sister. Amir, her older brother and her most ardent supporter, often comes to visit. “I think they’re doing what the handcraft market really lacks these days: authentic artworks coming from aspiration, not just material need,” he says as he pours cups of fragrant cinnamon tea.

To the house of this light-hearted family with an inexhaustible sense of humour, Ameneh also comes regularly. An old friend of Azin’s from university and her partner in her new project, Ameneh stays over a few times a week so they can work on designs and make samples until midnight. Ameneh shares Azin’s opinion about how an art business should look:

Exploitation might lead to a lucrative industry for a boss, but it ruins the art and the workers. So I find it hard to say which one is more important, to be creative or to work under fair conditions. Handcrafts cannot flourish under cruel conditions.

Azin and Ameneh have to research the market and inquire about the prices of wool, silk and other raw materials. Their savings, with some help from Amir, will provide the initial budget. Setting it all up seems a laborious process. But Azin is determined:

It used to be impossible for me to maintain a job. I couldn’t stand the mechanical relations out there and would always move from one employer to another. Now I have recovered my enthusiasm, and want to use my experience in our co-operative to found a carpet-weaving workshop.

Her small room is full of painting colours, brushes, rulers, paper rolls and so on. She takes her paintings and artworks out of the boxes and drawers with modest reluctance. The meticulously painted scenes from classic Persian literature show the hours of patience and assiduity that have gone into their creation. Over each painting Amir, Ameneh and Azin get into an animated conversation about history and mythology. “These artefacts encompass a major part of our visual culture. What Azin is trying to do, wherever it leads, plays a part in constructing and enhancing this culture,” Amir emphasises as he helps his sister put the paintings back in their boxes.

Azin also unrolls the carpet patterns she is working on. The myriad of colours in highly detailed shapes is breathtaking and not something you can scan in a hurry.

This design is going to be one of the first productions of a yet-unborn co-operative whose members will be only rural women. They are the ones who work under the hardest circumstances, yet none of their activities is valued as a proper job. Before the introduction of Persian carpets to global markets, carpet-weavers used to work freely and produce largely for their own use. Using their imagination, they would improvise stunning designs when their fingers could move through the colours freely without being chased by deadlines and having to satisfy market demands.

Now, most carpet merchants tend to hire rural housewives. The product and the conditions of work are not as good as before, since the laborious, monotonous job is based on no other motivation but material survival. The payments are also unfair. Azin notes: “The dealers don’t mind if carpet-making as an art is declining, since the cheap workforce makes the trade profitable anyway.”

She intends to go to one of the villages around Isfahan the next day and meet some potential members of her new co-operative. The fact that tomorrow is a national holiday, the anniversary of the 1979 revolution, doesn’t affect her plans. “They will be working. You barely find time to look at the calendar if you have to work constantly.”