EVERYTHING about Amir appears
masculine: his broad chest, muscled arms, the
dark full beard and deep voice. But, in fact,
Amir was a woman until four years ago, when, at
the age of 25, he underwent the first of a
series of operations that would change his life.
Since then he has had 20 surgical procedures
and expects another 4. And Amir, who as a woman
was married twice to men - his second husband
helped with the transition and remains a good
friend - is now engaged to marry a woman.
"I love my life and I'm happy, as long as no
one knows about my past identity," said Amir,
who asked that his full name not be
published.
"No one has been more helpful than the judge,
who was a cleric and issued the permit for my
operation."
After decades of repression, the Islamic
government is recognizing that some people want
to change their sex, and allowing them to have
operations and obtain new birth
certificates.
Before the Islamic Revolution in 1979, there
was no particular policy regarding transsexuals.
Iranians with the inclination, means and
connections could obtain the necessary medical
treatment and new identity documents. The new
religious government, however, classed
transsexuals and transvestites with gays and
lesbians, who were condemned by Islam and faced
the punishment of lashing under Iran's penal
code.
But these days, Iran's Muslim clerics, who
dominate the judiciary, are considerably better
informed about transsexuality. Some clerics now
even recommend sex-change operations to those
who are troubled about their gender. The issue
was discussed at a conference in Tehran in June
that drew officials from other Persian Gulf
countries.
One cleric, Muhammad Mehdi Kariminia, is
writing his thesis on transsexuality at the
religious seminary of Qum.
"All the clerics and researchers at the
seminary encouraged me to work on the subject,"
he said in an interview. "They said that my
research can help change the social stigma
attached to these people and clarify religious
decrees on the matter."
One early campaigner for transsexual rights
is Maryam Hatoon Molkara, who was formerly a man
known as Fereydoon. Before the revolution, under
the shah, he had longed to become a woman but
could not afford surgery.
Furthermore, he wanted religious guidance. In
1978, he wrote to Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini,
who was to become the leader of the revolution
but was still in exile, explaining his
situation.
The ayatollah replied that his case was
different from that of a homosexual and
therefore he had his blessing.
However, the revolution intervened and men
like himself or those who had already changed
their sex were harassed, even jailed and
tortured. "They made me stop wearing women's
clothes, which I had worn for many years and was
used to," Ms. Molkara recalled. "It was like
torture for me. They even made me take hormones
to look like a man.''
It took him eight years after the revolution,
in 1986, to get government permission to proceed
with surgery. But he could not afford the
surgery and did not have it until 1997, when he
underwent a sex-change operation in Bangkok. The
Iranian government covered the expenses.
Molkara established an organization to help
those with gender-identity problems. Co-founders
include Ali Razini, head of the Special Court of
Clergy, a branch of the judiciary that only
deals with clerics, and Zahra Shojai, Iran's
vice president for women's affairs. An Islamic
philanthropic group known as the Imam Khomeini
Charity Foundation has agreed to provide loans
equivalent to about $1,200 to help pay for
sex-change surgery.
To obtain legal permission for sex-change
operations and new birth certificates,
applicants must provide medical proof of
gender-identity disorder. The process can take
years.
It also involves considerable expense. In
Tehran, the initial male-to-female surgery runs
about $4,000. So far, Amir has spent $12,000 on
medical procedures.
The people who pursue this route come from
many different backgrounds.
Dr. Bahram Mir-djalali, one of Tehran's few
sex-reassignment surgeons, said one of his
patients had been a member of the Revolutionary
Guards who served five years in the war with
Iraq. His operation was paid for by a Muslim
cleric he had worked for as a secretary. After
the surgery, the man-turned-woman divorced, and
then married the cleric.
"When she came to see me years later, she was
wearing a chador," the doctor recalled,
referring to the black head-to-toe garb worn by
religious women.
"She took off the chador, and there was no
sign of the bearded man I had operated on."
But many who cannot deal with the legal and
financial obstacles to a surgical solution have
to deal with humiliation in their daily
lives.
One 27-year-old man said he ran away from
home at the age of 14 because he did not dare
tell his family of his urge to become a woman.
He wants to be known as Susan and wears women's
clothes at home but only emerges dressed that
way at night. He says the constant need for
secrecy has left him severely depressed, and he
has attempted suicide several times.
"I have suffered all my life,'' he said,
constantly adjusting his long curly hair to
cover his sideburns. "People treat me as though
I have come from Mars. Women pull my hair and
laugh at me on the street. Most men I am
attracted to reject me."
In a society where men enjoy a higher status
than women, the stigma against any man who wants
to be a woman is especially strong.
"They compliment a girl who behaves and
dresses like a man as a strong person, but they
look down at us and despise us," said Assal, who
was disowned by her father for having surgery to
become a woman.
Dr. Mir-djalali said he had to fight on many
fronts to help more than 200 patients who had
consulted him in the 12 years he had performed
sex-change operations. Even if Iran's Muslim
clerics are more understanding now of
transsexuals' needs, others lag behind.
"We have a problem even deciding at which
hospital to do the surgery because society
considers these people deviant," he said.
"Hospital officials have reacted negatively
because they say other patients do not like the
looks of my patients."
He said one patient's father pulled a knife
on him in his office, and threatened to kill him
if he touched his son. "What we really need to
help these people,'' Dr. Mir-djalali said, "is a
serious cultural campaign."
