By burning their headscarves, Iranian women are restoring their voices.

Among the viral videos of the protests in Iran, perhaps the most moving one features a young woman dressed in white. She is twirling amid a cheering crowd, raising her arms to the sky, before ceremoniously tossing her head scarf into a bonfire.

It is brave, because like Jina Amini, known due to government censorship as Mahsa – a Kurdish woman whose death while in custody of the Gasht-e Ershad (or “guidance police”) has sparked waves of protests across dozens of Iranian towns – the woman could be arrested for disobeying Iran’s state laws of mandatory hijab, which were established in 1983. But the crowd is creating a shield for her.

The crowd claps and chants natrism, ma hame ba ham hastim: “Let’s not be afraid. We’re united.” Headscarves turn into ashes. The smoke dances up to the night sky that bears witness to the determination of a nation that seems fed up with theocratic rules.

Amini died in unclear circumstances on Sept. 16, after being arrested for violating Islamic dress code in Tehran. Since then, at least 224 people have died in the unrest against Iran’s “morality police,” according to human rights groups.

The most recent wave of anti-hijab protests started in 2017, when Vida Movahed, a mother in her 30s, stepped onto a utility box in Tehran, raising a white headscarf aloft. She was identified and arrested, but her legacy has continued on large and small scales.

What seems different about these protests, other than their size and duration, is their feminist nature and the widespread support from men. Support of broader Iranian society is crucial. Previously, when women have risen up, their protests were easily quashed.

Headscarves have a long and complicated history in Iran. Over the years, they have represented contradictory ideas: both backwardness and progressiveness; both misogyny and anti-colonialism; both subversion and subservience. Over the last century, they have been both wholly banned and wholly mandated. Ultimately, the hijab doesn’t mean much in itself; it’s the wearer who imbues it with meaning.

Today, by burning their headscarves, Iranian women are providing meaning: They are breaking that voicelessness. Although Iranian women have been muffled, we learned long ago to unveil ourselves through the written word. It’s no coincidence that the first woman in contemporary Iranian history to publicly remove her headscarf was 19th-century poet Tahirih Qurratul-Ayn, who first liberated herself through the expression of her voice. When she bared her head at a men’s gathering in Mazandaran, she created an uproar.

Our voices are everything, and for decades, the voices of Iran’s women have been stifled. It is why I write; for me, the act of writing is a powerful way to undo the repression of mandatory veiling. When women in Iran put their lives on the line to fight for their rights, the least I can do is to be their voice. May we all do the same.

AVA HOMA is the author of the novel Daughters of Smoke and Fire. Her writing has appeared in The Globe and Mail, the BBC and elsewhere. She lives in Pacific Grove. She speaks on Tuesday, Nov. 15 at CSU Monterey Bay (see p. 34 for details).