Now I’m in exile, seein’ you out

I interned at Human Rights in China while I was in law school. It was a dream position—writing and researching about the intersection of China, law and human rights, aka everything I cared about in 2010, and it was in the Empire State Building to boot. Three days a week, I’d walk through that sparkle of an art deco lobby, go up that escalator, scan a badge and work to hopefully improve people’s lives. Like I said: a dream position. And then the director pulled us interns aside and asked if we wanted our names included in the annual report or would we prefer to be listed as “anonymous.” 

I didn’t get it at first—why wouldn’t I want my name in? Why wouldn’t I want scholars and activists I admired to see “ANNA ANSARI” in print, proof that I’d somehow “made it” in a very niche field? And then I got it. The Chinese government would see that report, would see those names and, even though we were just law interns, might decide that our work on human rights meant that we were no longer welcome in China—visa applications could be denied—or worse, the government might decide that we were welcome in China, but maybe not welcome to leave once there. Sharon Hom, the Director of HRIC, hadn’t been welcome in mainland China for years. Others affiliated with HRIC and China-related rights work, like Andrew Nathan, hadn’t been welcomed in decades. What did I want to do? Name or no name? I chose the latter. I loved going to China so much; I had skin in the game. I’d rather be anonymous and silent; I’d rather not risk it. 

Was that the right move? I don’t know. How to decide? How to know when your work or words cross some sort of invisible line and you become persona non grata to a country, a government, a regime?

For my dad and Iran, it happened around the time I opted for anonymity. He gave a talk on ethnic rights in Iran at Johns Hopkins SAIS in Washington, DC, and almost immediately afterwards realized there was no way, no safe way for him to return to his native country again. Ever. Or at least not while Iran was governed by a cabal of bearded men determined to impose a heavy-handed system of supremacy under the guise of “religion.” That was over a decade ago, and he hasn’t been home since. He can’t go home again. He couldn’t go to his sister’s funeral. All because he dared to speak out, to speak up. He had skin in the game. And he let it rip. And now he’s a proper exile. 

 #CookforIran is more than food. It’s more than culture. It’s sharing culture through food. It’s sharing information, bringing awareness, putting a spotlight on issues that have been present in Iran for decades and, for better or worse, finally attracted international attention when a young woman dared show her hair in public. And lost her life as a result. 

I don’t get a penny for this. And I put in a lot of work. And my feet ache. And I don’t have skin in the game—I don’t care if I can never go to a country I’ve never been to—but I’m not anonymous this time around. And I’m not silent. And I shouldn’t be. And you shouldn’t be either. 

Pics from our supper club at Blackhorse Workshop Cafe on June 30th. Smashing success.