I am slowly, thoughtfully digesting the non-fiction book, Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi, a woman now residing in the United States who lived through the Islamic Revolution in Iran. She learned that the way to survive, to ensure her body’s continued physical existence, was to allow herself to become invisible. Invisibility was a woman’s only defense in a society that executed randomly, on any pretext, with questionable proof of the alleged transgression. And yet the invisibility, like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, could be removed—whenever a small group of women gathered in Nafisi’s home to discuss the banned, immoral books of Western Civilization.

I am struck by the courage of these Iranian women, mostly younger but diverse in backgrounds and personalities. They enter their former professor’s house, an action likely to raise eyebrows: this Nafisi woman was suspect, having been fired from teaching at the University of Tehran for refusing to wear the veil. They remove dark, shapeless outer garments, the chadors they are forced to wear lest they tempt some unsuspecting Islamic male into sinful thoughts or actions. And with this disrobing, the shedding of shadows of a misogynistic revolution, they become. They are vibrant and female, in jeans and colorful tee-shirts with big golden earrings swaying with long blonde hair, or flowery dresses with pale pink lipstick contrasting with kinky dark hair against alabaster skin. They are young and deprived, a generation denied everyday freedoms: strolling a street wearing clothing of their choice, attending films and plays, perusing the shelves of a bookstore filled with the world’s literature.

Yesterday, reading a section about one particular woman, I grieved for all the women who’ve lost so much, but especially for those who cannot even know how much they’ve missed because they’ve never known freedom. They have nothing for comparison. And yet, they feel this deep existential hole in their lives where beauty and creativity should be thriving.

I grieved for Razieh, this student of Professor Nafisi’s, who did not survive the revolution. The author remembers her as one of her brightest, a slight, dark, serious girl respected by classmates from both ideological extremes and one with a thirst for beauty. Growing up in poverty, she had to sneak into movie houses and steal books —and she loved those books, particularly the work of Henry James. I picture Razieh as an activist, garbed in baggy khaki pants carrying protest signs at the beginning of the revolt, after the Shah’s downfall, but perhaps that wasn’t the case at all. Nafisi describes her as a “member of the Mujahideen, but this didn’t keep her from being suspicious of their cant.” A discerning woman with opinions and hopes and dreams—cause for execution in that fundamentalist society.

The clearest indication of who Razieh was, and the woman she could become, shows up in the author’s telling of one incident that took place early in her teaching career, at the all-girls Alzahrah University. It was within her first year of returning to Iran from the States, and she was teaching two courses at Alzahrah while also on faculty at the University of Tehran. As she graded midterm exams, Nafisi realized she was reviewing rote responses, almost word-for-word recitations of her lectures. Not an independent thought among them. She was furious and ranted that she’d rather they have cheated than to repeat her own words, that at least cheating would show a little imagination.

The class remained silent during her tirade. After an early dismissal, several women stayed behind to plead their cases and to apologize. They had always been told to memorize, their opinions were not important.

Razieh waited to speak until the rest had left. She was angry. She’d always thought this professor cared. When the teacher defended herself, saying she was angry because she cared, the younger woman said she should have known better: “…you must think about where we are coming from. Most of these girls have never had anyone praise them for anything. They have never been told that they are any good or that they should think independently. Now you come in and confront them, accusing them of betraying principles they have never been taught to value.” These women had been made invisible—and invisibility also bears no Voice.

As I continue into Reading Lolita in Tehran, I struggle to transform my grief for Razieh and women like her into some kind of celebration for the progress made in women’s and human rights in many parts of the globe. I celebrate that I can walk into a bookstore or a library and reverently finger the spines of any book, from radical politics to the wildest erotic fantasy to a basic how-to-do-anything volume—even as I worry that huge conglomerates threaten to oversee what gets published, what makes its way into the chain stores and into our hands, which kinds of entertainment make it to the big screens of movie houses and smaller screens at home. And I am grateful I can bring these volumes home to enjoy, to reference in my writing and workshops, to share with friends and family—even as I fear that someone, some organization might be tracking my purchases, my reading curiosities, with the intent of determining if I am too liberal, a potential threat to national security.

I often complain that there will never be enough time to read all that I want to read—the “So Many Books, So Little Time” syndrome. But I have learned from Razieh, who was executed by the Islamic government on some pretext or other, when in fact the true reason was that she was a woman, expendable and useful only as a violent reminder of their power. Knowing that this courageous young woman will never again read her beloved James, I am aware that I have enough time, whatever is allotted—and that I must value every moment, guard every freedom and be thankful for every chance given, and every opportunity taken, to make my Voice heard.