Beneath A Drawn Veil

What does it mean when a comic book does a better job conveying the true predicament of Iran than the leaders of the free world and the best efforts of its free press? Perhaps it means that Marjane Satrapi, the author of the autobiography Persepolis (Jonathan Cape; 153 pages), is not distracted by the contradictions that riddle Iran. In black-and-white ink drawings, she presents the memories of her childhood — the repressive morality police marching the streets, the Iraqi F-14 jets streaking past the window panes, and the parties, intellectual debates and love stories carried on behind closed doors. Most importantly, she carefully records all the tiny ways that average people find to defy their oppressors — adults crushing grapes in bathtubs to make wine, teenagers trying to be hip though hip was against the law. She knows you will find these flashes of humanity familiar, even if you have never been forced to wear a veil and beat your breast twice a day in grade school.

Satrapi, 33, grew up in Iran during the Islamic revolution, and then the war with Iraq, before her parents sent her to Europe at 14 to save her from the punishment her curiosity attracted in Tehran. She now lives in Paris, and has been writing and illustrating children's books for years. But with Persepolis (named after Iran's ancient capital), she finally listened to her friends' advice and told her own story. She promised them, "If nobody wants it, I'll make copies and give it to all of you." The first three volumes, which began to be released in 2000, have sold nearly 150,000 combined copies in France, and have won critical acclaim. The story has been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish and Italian. The English edition came out in the U.S. last month and in the U.K. last week. Her timing was perfect. "I am part of the 'axis of evil,' you know," she likes to say.
[an error occurred while processing this directive]
Persepolis is told through the eyes of a child. And that is the ideal way for the uninitiated reader to absorb the whiplash of Iran's history. Wide-eyed, Satrapi as a young girl demands an explanation for the crimes of the Shah, and then for the violence of the revolution, and finally for the bombing of her neighborhood during the eight-year Iran-Iraq war. The country — and Satrapi and her family — career from one ideology to the next. She is taught from first grade on that God chose the Shah; every time his name is mentioned, all the students have to stand up. But after the Shah flees the revolution, her teacher instructs the class to rip his picture out of their textbooks. Her parents, upper-class leftists, risk their lives marching for the revolution — only to watch as it is hijacked by Islamic fundamentalists.

Satrapi herself tries on identities like costumes; first she is convinced she is a prophet and has regular consultations with God in her bedroom. Then, during the revolution, she demonstrates with her friends in the backyard, pretending to be Che Guevara. After the revolution is over, Satrapi listens as a family friend newly released from prison recounts how the nerves in the foot can be perfect torture receptacles. "My parents were so shocked that they forgot to spare me this experience," Satrapi writes.