Counting the Chadors (Neri Pozza 2026, pp. 192, also e-book) is a book with an important merit: that of giving us back the image of a non-stereotyped Iran, crushed by the stories of propaganda for or against the Ayatollahs' regime .
A living, vibrant, and diverse Iran that the book's author, journalist Paola Dezza, knew as a child, in Tehran during the final years of the Shah , on the eve of the revolution that would change the face of the country forever. As soon as she arrived in the Iranian capital from Milan in the 1970s, that little girl pressed her nose against the car window and began counting the women wrapped in chadors. Once she reached one hundred, she began again. Those dark figures seemed like ghosts crossing the capital. It was her first encounter with an unknown world that she could not understand, but only count. Starting from this image , Paola Dezza, with her novel, takes us into a Tehran seen through the eyes of a child . A large, chaotic city of shared taxis soaked in sweat, onions, and mutton, bazaars where spices, petals, and dried fruit pile up in colorful mountains, swimming pools guarded by wolf dogs, international hotels... The story unfolds through episodes of the new Iranian life, such as the terror of missing the school bus and being left alone faced with incomprehensible numbers.
The contradictions of an ancient, modernizing society, however, are not merely a contrast of colors. Against the backdrop of the metropolis, at the foot of the Elborz Mountains, tension and fear creep in. Protesters shout slogans against the Shah and America. A curfew becomes everyday life, soldiers patrol the streets, and banks are set on fire. Rumors of violence begin to circulate, and foreigners leave. The revolution breaks its banks, and preparations are made for Ayatollah Khomeini's return from exile in Paris. A protected childhood crumbles, and the tale of an arrival turns into the anticipation of a departure.
We asked Paola Dezza to return to the initial image of her book, to tell us what the chador meant to her as a child:
When I arrived in Tehran, the chador was my first encounter with the country. I had never seen one before. In Iran, it was a part of everyday life, but only in certain areas of the city. It didn't yet have the political and symbolic significance I would come to attribute to it over the years. It was the first element that made me understand cultural differences, but I didn't yet have the tools to grasp their full implications.
What struck you about Iran at the time?
Many different elements. First, the ability to build community abroad among acquaintances, parents at school, and colleagues. Then, what struck me most were the smells, the colors, and the human dimension of the people. I remember Iran through the colors of the carpets and majolica, the sounds of the bazaars, the scents of spices, mint and saffron tea, and the cuisine, varied and very good but little known in the world today. Colors and flavors are a powerful form of memory. The bazaar was a very different place from our markets; it wasn't just a place to shop, but a space for relationships, encounters, exchanges, and social ties. In the novel, I wanted to convey a living Iran, made up of people, flavors, traditions, and contradictions, not just political events.
What was it like living through the days of the Khomeini revolution?
As a child, I was fortunate to experience less of the panic the situation created. It was a huge change that, precisely because I was a child, I couldn't fully comprehend, but I could sense the signs and the growing tension. The revolution wasn't just in the streets; it entered everyday life and changed habits. I especially remember the climate of uncertainty, the difficulty in obtaining information, the feeling that it was necessary to prepare to flee at any moment. When history bursts into a family's life, everything changes: what seemed familiar is no longer, and the future ceases to be predictable. It is this personal dimension of the revolution that I wanted to portray.
On the back cover of the book, we read that Iran is the country closest to your heart. Why?
Paris, where I lived after returning from Tehran, also remains in my heart, but Iran is the country that has left me with images, smells, tastes, encounters, and questions that continue to resurface over time. It has always burst into my life thanks to so many unexpected acquaintances. And it fascinated my parents so much that it has always remained in our stories. But it was also an open wound because we had to leave the country by force, in an escape we hadn't planned. Iran remains a place of contrasts that cannot be encapsulated in a single definition. Its history, its millennia-old traditions, its extraordinary culture coexist with political isolation, economic hardship, and restrictions on freedom. Even today, Iran seems caught between a desire for openness and obscurantism.
What do chadors represent for you today?
I don't think it's right to attribute a single meaning to a garment: it can be a personal choice, a religious or cultural expression, but it can also become the symbol of imposition. In Iran, controlling how women dress is a restriction on freedom; checking whether their headscarves are worn 'correctly', according to the morality police, is an imposition. We all remember the tragedy of Mahsa Amini just four years ago. Women's clothing has thus become part of a broader battle for rights and self-determination.