Pro-Palestinian protestors are spitting in the faces of Iranian women

It was 1972; a hot and humid summer in Karachi. The adults were asleep but we children could never nap this time of day. My younger cousin Ayesha and I played as quietly as six year olds could, the diaphanous red veil magical and mysterious to our childish hands. I placed the veil on her head and announced “now you have become a bride!” She smiled at me through the red gossamer scarf, at once transformed. I looked at her with my child’s imagination.