There is one picture in my mind that I can never forget. I took it during my visit to Iran four years ago. We were at the national cemetery, the biggest one where almost everyone gets buried. I visited the grave of my grandfather and his beloved children who were killed during the revolution. I looked at the cold tombstones, those lonely, sad tombs that were drenched in dust. My grandmother watered them, placed flowers on each stone, then touched them with her wrinkled hands and mourned inside. Moments later my brother took me to the other side of the graveyard where the sinners and counterrevolutionaries were buried, their tombs destroyed and abandoned, almost unidentifiable. A woman in a black chador that signified not Islam but power was among the tombs, hidden in between the tall, yellow grasses. She was still, kneeling down, silently grieving. We shot a picture of her. The day was peaceful, quiet, yet fogged with a heavy air, like a dusty cover of a book that has been neglected by its owner. Was she crying? For whom was she mourning? How many had she lost? And what had been their crimes or did that even matter? In a country of contradictions where rules never make it into books, nothing has to be defined. Not even the reason of your death. We left the scene as quietly and inconspicuously as we had arrived. My mind was still on her. She had been betrayed by the land that promised her protection against Satan and the forces of evil, but not against inhumanity or the depravation of her individuality. With that veil and the silent tears, had she become the ideal woman and could she cover her injuries, her wounded heart as perfectly as she covered her body with the veil?