Rihanna's Anthem: A Gay Man's Secret Liberation in Iran's Underground Scene
In Tehran, under the Ayatollah's sharia law and the constant surveillance of the Basij morality police, I was raised in a household that embraced the Islamic Revolution. My parents welcomed its strict religious rules, with the Ayatollah's portrait on our walls serving as a daily reminder of what was permitted and what was forbidden. Being gay fell squarely into the latter category, but by my teenage years, I knew I was different from my peers and began concealing my sexuality from my family and the outside world.
The Hidden World of Gay Tehran
Life under the regime offered little room for celebration, with even religious events tinged with guilt, and western music deemed dangerous. It wasn't until my mid-20s that I attended my first real party—an underground gathering that became my gateway to a clandestine, gay Tehran. At university, I had three gay friends who understood our shared predicament and the intricate lies needed to keep our secret. They introduced me to these parties, held in the apartments of other gay men and trans women who transformed their homes with sound systems, lights, and homemade alcohol into vibrant club nights behind closed doors.
I both longed for and dreaded an invitation, wondering if I was ready to be among the largest circle of gay men I'd ever encountered. Fears of being recognized, the morality police, and my parents discovering the truth weighed heavily on me. The layers of haram, or forbidden behavior, were overwhelming—what excuse could I possibly give?
A Cultural Awakening Through Music
When I finally received an invite, I dressed in a tight shirt with the top buttons undone—a trendy style even among straight men—and spent an hour gelling my hair like the boybands I'd secretly watched on MTV after my parents went to bed. Music videos were popular in the Middle East, with friends often asking, "Have you seen Britney or Rihanna's latest 'show'?" I had envied Britney Spears' red latex in "Oops! I Did It Again" and heard Rihanna's "Umbrella," but my exposure to non-Iranian pop was still limited.
I told my parents I was going to dinner—a usual excuse—and got into a friend's car, where Rihanna's "Don't Stop the Music" played on cassette. "This is cool," I said. "Have you not heard it?" he asked. "It's the new thing. You'll definitely hear it tonight." Upon entering the apartment, I was instantly enraptured by the music. A moment of doubt gave way to euphoria, and sure enough, Rihanna's song came on. The room bounced up and down, I caught my friend's eye, and pinched myself, lost in a new world. On the drive home, I listened again to relive the experience.
Building a Secret Life
Over the next few years, I immersed myself in that scene, partying once or twice a fortnight. Each time, I left home anxious about my parents' perceptions, but the worry melted away in my friend's car. I even threw my own party at my father's holiday home outside the city on a night my parents wouldn't visit, hiring a sound system and lights—and, of course, ensuring Rihanna played.
"Don't Stop the Music" became a mainstay. Whenever it came on, my best gay friend and I would exchange a look that said, "It's our song, let's go." Rihanna, Britney Spears, and Madonna became the mark of a good party, symbolizing the freedom we found in those hidden spaces.
Escape and Hope for Change
After university and compulsory military service, I knew I wanted to leave Iran. I moved to London, where I now work as a doctor and have a partner. I've never explicitly confirmed my sexuality to my parents; they know, but it remains unspoken. Under a pen name, I've written about gay Tehran and the parties in a book, The Ayatollah's Gaze—revealing my identity would still be dangerous.
Maybe that will change soon, especially for those still in Iran. With the recent killing of the supreme leader, the Ayatollah, a week ago, the promise of regime change has become real for many of us. I messaged my best gay friend, who lives near the compound where Khamenei was hit, cautious about sending anti-regime messages on WhatsApp. "Are you OK?" I wrote. "Congratulations, he is finally dead," he replied. "You have no idea how we are feeling!" I share that jubilation, feeling closer to a day when the parties we enjoyed together are no longer hidden.
A friend from those days now lives in Europe and visits sometimes. Whenever we hear Rihanna play—in a shop, club, or bar—he elbows me, as if to say, "Do you remember your terrible dance moves to this?" That song showed me that gay life in Iran was possible, and I cannot forget it.
