By Maik Grossekathöfer
Part 2: ‘They Should Stick to Washing Machines’
The car racing stadium in Tehran is in Asadi Park, next to the football stadium. The steel tubing of the stands is rusted, the wooden benches are greasy and the roof leaks. Eight long-distance races are held here every year, with nine categories per race, always on Fridays. Prize money is awarded in the first three categories, with the winner taking home up to €2,700 ($3,900). Anywhere from 15 to 22 drivers compete in each race, and the races consist of 10 rounds around the track.
Two small cars are tearing down the track in an informal race. The smell of burnt rubber is in the air. A couple of bearded men in windbreakers stand on the sidelines, chain-smoking. One of them, who is also a racecar driver but prefers to remain anonymous, says: “If Laleh and Zohreh so desperately want to operate a machine, then they should stick to washing machines.” Then he spits onto the asphalt.
During a rally through Iran’s eastern Lut Desert, Vatankhah was leading in the first stage when someone smashed the windshield of her Toyota at night. The next morning, a wooden club lay on the driver’s seat like a threat.
Seddigh placed third in her first race. Not unexpectedly, none of her competitors congratulated her. When she waved to her female fans, who had climbed up on the fences, screaming, the management ordered her to behave properly. She had to wear a black coat over her overalls during the awards ceremony.
A year later, when she won the championship in her engine class (smaller than 1,600 cc), there was no mention of her victory in the media. Even today, the television networks suspend live coverage whenever she receives a trophy. The newspapers print her name the next day, but without any photos.
During the penultimate race of the 2006 season, the stadium announcer called out Seddigh’s name, ordering her to appear at the starting line, but guards refused to allow her through the gate, citing orders from above. She was later told that the head of the racing association had decided that she would never be allowed to race again.
He was afraid of the new president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, a conservative extremist. “They wanted to prevent me from capturing the championship again,” says Seddigh.
She sits in the hotel lobby in a yellow armchair, laughing between sentences, fluttering her painted eyelashes. Her espresso has been cold for a while.
Then she tells the story of how she and her father went to see an ayatollah in Tehran. They asked him for a fatwa, and the cleric complied and issued a religious ruling stating that there are no religious reasons to prevent women from competing in races against men. The only condition was that the Islamic dress code had to be adhered to.
The drivers wear a fireproof suit, gloves, a hood and a helmet. When the race begins, not even their eyes are visible behind their visors. They couldn’t possibly be covered up any further. This explains why women were allowed to race.
Nevertheless, the religious fanatics routinely pull them out of circulation. At times, they must feel like the characters in a puppet theater, controlled by invisible strings.
Seddigh is currently barred from racing because she supposedly broke the rules in her last race. “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” she insists.
The office of the national racing association is hidden away on the second floor of a squat building with dark corridors. The vice president, a somewhat heavy-set man with a lot of gel in his hair, sits bent over his desk. Hossein Shahriahi claims Seddigh was driving an unregistered car.
How do you know this? the journalist asks.
“Everyone has his little spies.”
He serves up an improbable story about a broken engine seal, car numbers that were moved, mechanics who repainted the car and a hidden camera that recorded the whole thing.
Can he show us the pictures, we ask?
“No.”
Why not?
“Must there be a reason for everything?”
Did you discuss the case with Laleh Seddigh?
“No.”
Why not?
“I don’t like your questions.”
He informs us that the interview is over, and that his time is, regrettably, precious. The next day the paramilitary Basij, the group that was on the front lines of the revolution, celebrates its anniversary. Thousands of young men and women march through the streets, staring rigidly ahead, carrying assault rifles and dressed in camouflage uniforms or the chador.
Vatankhah bought gasoline on the black market that morning. Iranians are only permitted to buy three liters a day legally — not enough for her Corolla. Then she drove the car to a shop for an oil change.
She has competed in 37 rallies so far, and has stood on the podium 27 times. She has been a professional racecar driver for 15 months. She has a corporate sponsor that pays her €5,000 a year. It paid for the Toyota, and it pays the costs of spare parts, repairs and travel to races. If she needs more money she asks her father, who owns a marble and granite business. “He helps me, so that I can live the way I think I should live. He doesn’t want me to have to hide myself.”
She dreams of racing in other countries like Seddigh, who has raced in the Formula 3 in Italy, at the Autodroma Nazionale in Monza, and has been to California for trials. To race abroad, Vatankhah would have to take a special examination in Dubai, at a cost of $1,000. But the Iranian racing association turned down her application — and sent 11 men to the Persian Gulf instead.
Now she is trying to make her own arrangements to go to Dubai. She has obtained a visa and has asked the examination committee in Dubai whether it will allow her to attend the driving school without the racing association’s sponsorship. She is still waiting for a response.
She goes to a party that evening, wearing brown, skin-tight trousers, black leather boots and a black top. Of the 40 or so guests, more than half are women. None of them is wearing a headscarf.
There is dancing and necking. A text message makes the rounds: “Why does Ahmadinejad wear his hair parted on the side? So that he can separate the male lice from the female lice.”
Vatankhah chain-smokes Winstons and eats potato salad with pine nuts. She drinks shots of vodka from bottles smuggled into the country. There are five bottles of Smirnoff — at $30 a bottle on the black market. Isn’t she worried about the police?
“That’s not a problem. If they show up we’ll buy our way out of it. Each of us pays $80 to make the problem go away.”
She takes a taxi home at 2 a.m. She’s tipsy. The next morning, she plans to go to the gym after breakfast, to get in shape for her next rally, a 350-kilometer (218-mile) race from Tehran to Sari. But first she checks her emails.
She’s received an answer from Dubai. The officials write that she is welcome to come and that there is nothing to prevent her from taking the examination. They add that they are looking forward to meeting her.
It’s only a partial victory — but an important one.
