At Craigmillar Now – award winning photographer presents unseen work
A new exhibition opening on 31 May presents a selection of Laleh Sherkat's early work, taken during her studies at The University of Tehran and shortly after graduating.
Laleh Sherkat (b. 1963) is an Iranian photographer living in Craigmillar.
The photographs focus on the lives of women in Iran during the politically turbulent period that followed the Islamic Revolution in 1979. There are six series of work in the show: 'Women in Prison,' (1984); 'Women at Work,' taken in factories across Tehran between 1984-1988; 'Morgue Workers,' (1993), Bandari Women, (1993) and Nomad Women, (1988).
There is also a selection of work taken during the last few months of the Iran-Iraq war in 1988.
Laleh Sherkat said: 'I faced restrictions that my male counterparts did not, but I sought to transcend these limitations and enrich my personal and artistic experience. I have always been deeply committed to documenting the realities of women's lives and amplifying their voices—an enduring concern that lies at the heart of these bodies of work.'
As a woman Laleh was able to navigate women's spaces more easily and gain the trust of female subjects. This allowed Laleh to capture women and communities that might have otherwise remained undocumented.
These photographs have never been exhibited in the UK and offer audiences a rare glimpse into the life of women in Iran during the 1980s and early 90s.
Laleh Sherkat is a highly accomplished Iranian photographer living in Craigmillar. She graduated with a BA in photography from Tehran University in 1989 and has won various awards for her work, including the Golden Medal for the International Asahi Shinbone Competition in 1988.
Between 1991-99 Laleh held academic teaching posts at Alzahra University, Soureh University and the Faculty of Iranian Cultural Heritage. She is a member of the Press Photographers Society and Women Photographers Society in Iran.
Laleh's work has been published in several magazines and the war photography book 'A Growth at Dawn.' She has exhibited widely, with several solo shows in Iran and Edinburgh as well as participation in group shows in Paris and London.
Recent projects include collaborations with the Festival of Migration with Art27, the Scottish Mental Health Art Festival and Craigmillar and Niddrie Community Festival.
Craigmillar Now is a community-led organisation committed to supporting people living in the greater Craigmillar area to access the arts and local history. We do this through a wide-ranging programme of creative activities, which include free-to-access arts workshops, exhibitions, film screenings and events. We host a free, weekly hot meal, prepared by local chefs and are the caretakers of a thriving community garden.
Craigmillar Now also holds the local archives, which are cared for by a team of volunteers. We regularly take our collections to venues across greater Craigmillar and further afield, reaching new communities and championing local history.
This exhibition has been generously funded by Creative Scotland and Hope Scott Trust.
The exhibition runs from 31 May to 29 June 2025.
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Time Out Dubai
4 days ago
- Time Out Dubai
10 oldest restaurants in Dubai from Barasti to Fibber Magee's
While this city and its restaurants are known as some of the most modern in the world, the oldest restaurants in Dubai are not to be overlooked. If you've been here since the 80s and 90s you've seen this city evolve like no one else. And while new restaurants swing their doors open regularly each month, it's sometimes hard to keep up. That's why visiting (or revisiting) one of the city's absolute mainstays is always reassuring. Who doesn't love a little dose of nostalgia? From iconic eateries that have preserved their flavours to legendary bars that have witnessed Dubai's transformation. Here are the 10 oldest restaurants and bars in Dubai. Oldest restaurants and bars in Dubai Al Ustad Special Kabab The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Al Ustad Special Kabab. Credit: Al Ustad Special Kebab, a renowned Iranian kebab house on Mankhool Street in Bur Dubai, has been a local favourite since its opening in 1978. Celebrated for its yoghurt-marinated chicken and mutton kebabs, it is one of Dubai's oldest restaurants and continues to impress with its flavourful skewers. The family-run eatery, led by three brothers, is also known for its very funky interiors, featuring over 8,000 photos and memorabilia of celebrities and Dubai royalty. A highlight is the 'Special Kebab', marinated for hours and served with Iranian-style rice. Al Ustad offers authentic Iranian kebabs at affordable prices, making it a must-visit 46 years on. Open Sat-Thu 11am-1pm, Fri 6pm-1am. Al Mussallah Road, Deira (04 397 1933) Barasti The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: Barasti. Opening in its original form in 1995, Barasti is the city's original beach club, bar and pub, all in one. And it's still one of the most popular. Though when it opened Barasti was far from the sprawling venue it is today; back in the 90s, it was a swimming pool beside the beach with a hut where live musicians would play acoustic sets by the sunset. Today, the beach bar is open every day and attracts people from all walks of life. If you're looking for a laid-back bar to wear your flip-flops (or heels), Barasti is your go-to. Open daily from 9am-2am. Le Meridien Mina Seyahi Beach Resort & Marina, Al Sufouh Road (04 318 1313). Bu Qtair The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: Bu Qtair. Bu Qtair, to the uninitiated, may not look like a must-visit dining destination in Dubai but looks can be deceiving. Glitz and glamour are certainly off the menu at this fairly basic eatery, but turn up for a bite to eat and you will join a lengthy queue full of hungry hordes who know all about Bu Qtair's reputation for seafood excellence. The price depends on the type of fish and how much your order is, but satisfaction is pretty much guaranteed to follow, regardless of what you get. The family-run venue first opened in the early 1980s and is located just off Umm Suqeim Fishing Harbour. Try it for yourself. You'll be hooked. Open daily from 11.30am-11.30pm. Fishing Harbour 2, Umm Suqeim, Dubai (055 705 2130). Boardwalk The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: Boardwalk. One spot that's been around for decades is Boardwalk. At 30 years old, it has certainly aged well since opening its doors in 1994. With epic views over Dubai Creek and a food menu that still draws in crowds, if you haven't been yet, you need to add this to your list. The Mediterranean-themed menu is vast, including everything from fresh pizzas to an extensive fresh fish and seafood selection set out to reflect markets of the Med, which you can pick and have made to your preference. With an extensive grape menu and vantage point for some of the best sunsets in Dubai, this is one of the city's most famous restaurants for good reason. Open daily from 12pm-12am. Dubai Creek Resort, Deira (04 205 4647). Fibber Magee's The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: Fibber Magee's. Throwing open its doors back in 1996, this Irish pub has always prided itself on its authenticity. Though the bar touts itself as 'Dubai's best-kept secret' we don't know many people who haven't stepped through the doors here for the last 28 years at least once. With a simple, no-fuss menu (including hearty pies and stews), plus a variety of hops on draft, this is your go-to for a friendly night out – or great breakfast. Open daily from 8am-3am. Saeed Tower I, Sheikh Zayed Road (04 332 2400). Golden Dragon The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: Golden Dragon. Another blast from the very long-ago past. Founded in 1976, Golden Dragon in Oud Metha was the UAE's first-ever Chinese restaurant. Known for its Szechuan and Cantonese dishes, the restaurant's extensive menu also embraces a range of Asian influences from Malaysia to Thailand. Golden Dragon is especially celebrated for its dim sum and wok-tossed dishes. And 48 years later, it is a hot spot for Chinese food-lovers in the old-school neighbourhood. Open Mon-Sat from noon-midnight, Sun noon-11pm. Oud Metha Building, Umm Hurrair (04 357 7022). Miyako The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: Miyako. Opening its doors in 1987, Miyako is seen as one of Dubai's first Japanese restaurants. Sticking to its strict code of serving only Japanese cuisine, not diluting its menu with other Asian dishes and employing Japanese staff, Miyako is the place to check out if you want something super authentic. Although relatively small, this ambient, serene eatery feels open and expansive, yet intimate and warm at the same time. And while there's beauty aplenty in the decor, it's the food that underlines Miyako's brilliance 37 years later. Open daily from 12.30pm-3pm and 6pm-11.30pm. Hyatt Regency Dubai, Deira (04 209 6912) Ravi The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: Ravi Restaurant. This Pakistani restaurant is definitely a Dubai institution. The unassuming eatery, which has been open for 46 years now, may lack the glamour of newer dining destinations in this city, but here you will find excellent food that will transport your taste buds from the middle of Satwa to the dusty streets of Lahore. Thanks to its rich and flavour-packed affordable curries, dhals, biryanis and much more, Ravi has been right at the top of the Dubai food chain since 1978. Long may it reign. Open daily from 5am-2am. Satwa, Dubai (055 334 5481). Sind Punjab Founded in 1977, Sind Punjab is a well-known (and well-loved) Indian Mughlai restaurant in Dubai. It is one of the best spots in Deira for butter chicken, chicken tikka and amazing street-side snacks like paani puri and sev puri. Sind Punjab initially opened 47 years ago in Bur Dubai and now has branches in Karama and Dubai Internet City. Definitely worth checking out for a little bit of nostalgia and positive energy. Open daily from 8am-1.30am. Meena Bazaar, Bur Dubai (04 352 5058) The Irish Village The oldest restaurants in Dubai. Credit: The Irish Village Nestled under the Dubai Duty-Free Tennis Stadium, this sprawling pub was opened in 1996 to feed and water sports fans. 28 years later, this venue is still serving up good vibes year-round and not just to those watching the tennis. Known for its large garden, this is a crowd-pleasing venue that has a loyal (if not cult) following, so much so that it has its own gift shop. Open daily from 11am-2am. Garhoud (04 282 4750). Need a reservation in the meantime? 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Telegraph
29-05-2025
- Telegraph
I grew up gay in Tehran. Here's what the morality police didn't see
In northern Tehran, Madonna's Hung Up pulses through a flat which serves as a makeshift club for the night. Alcohol does the rounds as the disco tune's refrain, 'time goes by so slowly', fades into Rihanna's Don't Stop the Music and a vibrant underground party scene stirs into life. The pleasure-seekers are all men, their hair gelled and spiked like Western boy bands, religious beards trimmed to manicured stubble and bodies wrapped in tight white T-shirts and Versace shirts. It is the early 2000s and, in a country where morality police patrol the streets and homosexuality is punishable by death, this is gay life in Iran. For Majid Parsa*, a London doctor raised under the rule of Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC), this was his life, or at least half of a double existence. A gay man born in Sheffield to an Iranian father and a Shia Turkish mother (Shia being a branch of Islam distinct from the Sunni majority), his parents had come to the UK as students but 'fell in love' with Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini's 1979 Islamic Revolution and returned to Tehran with their two sons in 1981. Majid was still a baby. Inside the family home – as in Iranian society more broadly – daily life, behaviour, dress and socialising were all strictly governed by the Ayatollah's Sharia law. 'Dad grew a full beard, stopped smoking, and reinvented himself,' says Majid, now 44. 'Pictures of Ayatollah Khomeini decorated our walls and both of my parents devoted themselves to the new regime. Our country was steeped in culture, history, prayer and political unrest but among the chants of 'Death to America! Death to Israel!' the word gay was unheard.' 'It felt like entering Narnia – the Ayatollah's secret world' Having spent his teenage years attempting to wash away his own un-Islamic – haram – thoughts of men and secret school crushes, he came alive in his 20s, when he was introduced to a secret but thriving gay scene. Through hidden hatches and secret apartments he found himself part of a hedonistic party scene that he has now captured in an unflinching book, The Ayatollah's Gaze: A Memoir of the Forbidden and the Fabulous, out this week. 'It was like walking into Narnia,' he says of those days. 'I thought of us as the Ayatollah's gays. Murals of him watched over all of us, like they watched over everyone else.' In its earliest days, Khomeini's oppressive rule eliminated secular opposition, oversaw the hostage crisis in which 52 American embassy staff were held for 444 days and sent child soldiers to certain death during the 1980s Iran-Iraq war. His Sharia state outlawed alcohol and, for the last decade of Khomeini's life, Western music and film too. It lastingly revoked women's rights, enforcing segregation of the sexes and strict dress codes that are still in place today: women were to cover their hair, men not to wear shorts. The IRGC, the Gasht-e Ershad (morality police), and the Basij – a paramilitary volunteer militia – were established to uphold the integrity of the Islamic Republic. Being gay was considered a mental disorder, and being caught in a homosexual act was punishable by hanging. 'As I began to understand that I was gay, I didn't know much about the law or what could happen to me. That wasn't what I was afraid of,' Majid recalls, speaking from the smart London flat he shares with his British boyfriend of seven years and their two cats. Just home from his NHS clinic for our interview, Majid is warm, witty and candid about his life, his melodic Iranian accent still present as he speaks. 'What I was afraid of was God, of Allah and my religious upbringing. I knew all the Koran verses against homosexuality and how it should be punished. My earliest thoughts were how am I going to deal with the afterlife? How am I going to stop my parents being disappointed?' At 22, he visited a psychologist, unsubtly asking whether a 'friend' could rid himself of same-sex thoughts. He was handed a psychiatric diagnosis and prescribed antidepressants, which he never took. Meanwhile, coming of age at the cusp of the new millennium, Majid found himself rewatching Titanic on VHS, fixated on Leonardo DiCaprio; lusting after footballer Michael Owen while watching the Euros with his family, assuming they thought he was interested in the game; and wishing he were Britney Spears in the Oops!... I Did It Again music video. It was only later, in the throes of gay life, when talk turned to the real threat that accompanied being his full self, that he understood the harsh reality. But, in an Islamic country, it came as 'no shock': 'There was no moment where I thought 'Oh god, I might be hung from a crane because of this.' I didn't agree with it but I almost accepted it.' Parties were not a feature of Majid's upbringing: 'Any happy event or party, even for religious reason, was associated with an inherent sense of guilt. Shia Islam's mournful history didn't leave much room for celebrations.' That changed when he went to Tehran's university, to study medicine, and his gradual immersion into the city's gay underground began. It started with Yahoo chatrooms where, at first, he posed as a girl, superimposing a hijab on a picture of actress Natalie Portman to talk to boys. It did not take long for him to discover a local gay forum: 'It was full of gay men in Tehran bustling in and out like a busy train terminal. I couldn't believe my eyes. The shock of discovering so many others existed, all arranging dates with each other, quickly overcame any guilt I had about being there.' It was a new friend in real life 'with a strong gaydar', confidence and knowing winks who introduced him to the venues that they would party-hop together though Majid's 20s: 'He took me through the back alleys of underground gay life in Tehran. It was like another realm… North Tehran, where I lived, had a different scene from the south. In the south, people were more grounded and religious and so were its gay men. 'The north of the city was more upper class, the men mostly came from rich families, they were pretentious and bragged about trips to Dubai or Turkey, Europe and even America. When I went on dates with these men, I made sure I was in the latest look and didn't have a trace of my religious household on me.' 'We lived like chameleons, hiding in plain sight' The first house party he went to would become a mainstay of his secret life: a flat, entered through an escape hatch with a host whose gatherings, music and shisha earned him and his apartment the nickname Café Soosan: 'It was a hub, quite relaxed. If you went for one evening, you might see 20 people come and go over a few hours. Each time I arrived, I felt the relief of leaving my double life behind.' He discovered more and more hidden doors and bigger gatherings: 'People would turn their homes around; they turned them into nightclubs with homemade hooch and loud music.' There would be dozens of people at each event: 'You saw a lot of the same faces. There were a few queens and lots of gossip about how one party was better than the other, who was new or who had slept with whom.' The parties grew wilder and more jaw-dropping, none so much as one held by a trans woman and 'temporary bride' of a top-ranking member of the Revolutionary Guard. (The 'temporary marriage' – or Islamic sigheh – allows Shia men to take a second wife for a predetermined amount of time.) The guard put her up in a lavish penthouse, which turned into a party spot. Majid describes 20 other trans women dancing and taking drugs against a lavish backdrop including paintings of semi-naked women in gold frames, Romanesque statues and heavy velvet decor. 'Other than my friend and I, everyone there was trans, chatting, laughing and dancing to Western music.' The host wore a tight, golden leopard-print dress and long false fingernails painted gold while guests thrashed their bodies to house music, high on coke and ecstasy: 'I hadn't seen that before. I remember her telling me: 'It has not been easy for most of us, that's why some take drugs and need this escape'.' The more Majid immersed himself in the scene, the more comfortable and confident he became in his own sexuality, dating men and becoming a common feature of gay life. On party nights, close friends would often serve as decoys if his family asked about his plans and he would leave home in a white vest with a shirt over, removing it when he arrived. In Tehran's streets, the regime's grip had tightened again under a new president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who came to power in 2005. Majid remembers: 'More women were stopped on the street to fix their headscarves or remove make-up and more men were stopped because of their spiky hairstyles and tight T-shirts. Cars were held at random checkpoints to see if everyone inside was behaving in line with the Sharia.' Gay men were 'like chameleons', though, particularly in north Tehran where they blended in with the fashion-conscious crowd who looked to the West for cultural cues. And it was not them that the morality police were most concerned with. 'Their biggest concern was men and women being together,' says Majid. 'Premarital relationships and sex among defiant youth crawled under the skin of this religious society. Gay parties took place with much less hassle than those where men and women planned to mix. If the police dropped by, as long as they didn't find the alcohol stash, there was no grounds for arrest. The system inadvertently made being gay easier. 'All the worries and the threats floated somewhere in the distance. They didn't feel real. When you were part of gay life, it felt like there was no stopping any of it.' Majid's parents never found out about the parties. If they knew their son was gay, he says, 'It remained unspoken. It still is.' After graduating from university, he spent 18 months in compulsory military service – first in training, then as an officer completing mundane paperwork. By the time he finished in 2007, he knew he wanted to leave Iran. 'Not because of my sexuality alone. I was tired of the system. Having a beard or a prayer-stone mark on your forehead got you any job, any application processed sooner, or queue-jumped.' 'Escaping Iran meant losing everything, but gaining freedom' In 2009, amid the Green Movement protests demanding the removal of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and following a disputed election, he left Iran – leaving behind a boyfriend and his gay life – to begin a master's course in London. 'The moment I stepped off the plane, I knew my life had changed,' says Majid, then 29. 'There were more opportunities and many more gay men but mostly London gave me independence.' Telling stories from home to the friends he made here would ultimately inspire his book: 'The idea percolated for years. I used to retell stories about the military, the parties, normal daily life to me but their reaction was shock. The younger me would have been so much more hopeful and less lonely if I had seen stories like this, that there was life outside the religious world I was stuck in.' In his decade and a half in Britain, Iran has rarely left the headlines or the apex of geopolitical tensions: 'Each time I see news from home, there's a sense of 'here we go again'. It's not something that shocks me anymore but the repetition of stories about unrest or the regime is sometimes exhausting. I've seen it unfold in so many different ways and it always finishes the same way.' He adds: 'I often feel frustrated that all people here see is the negative. I sometimes think they forget that all the other days of the year, when they hear nothing from Iran, people are just living a life that is normal for them.' His dream for Iran's future is to see Pride in the streets of Tehran: 'But that is a dream,' he says, smiling. 'Iran has suffered in many ways and as much as I hate seeing the suffering, real and sustainable change comes slowly. It is already happening so, I am hopeful.' Leaving it behind was not as easy as people imagine: 'One thing I speak about with my gay friends [in Iran], who say they're never leaving, is the life that they've built there: the family, friends, networks, jobs. They are realising that leaving, being an immigrant, isn't necessarily fun, particularly for those I know who have had to seek asylum. The idea of being a free gay man in the West is the ideal but the reality is that being gay is only one part of my life here. 'I was an anomaly. I left the family home single, without a wife, and came to Britain for a career but I had to restart, alone, without friends and family and that has been hard.' He wouldn't change his journey but there is one part of Tehran that he misses most: gay life. 'I left this vibrant life and people; the loud music, alcohol, Madonna, house music and a party never ended without Persian dance music. I loved it. It was the best I could get and it's where I was happy.' He is smiling broadly now: 'I remember the thrill I used to get each time I left my religious household and stepped into a party: it was the feeling of stepping into potential – a new face, new date, everyone gossiping. I haven't experienced that since.' * Majid Parsa is a pseudonym. The Ayatollah's Gaze: A Memoir of the Forbidden and the Fabulous is published by Neem Tree Press on May 29
Scottish Sun
28-05-2025
- Scottish Sun
Kneecap PULL OUT of TRNSMT amid calls for rappers to be axed from line-up
'WE ARE SORRY' 'WE ARE SORRY' Kneecap PULL OUT of TRNSMT amid calls for rappers to be axed from line-up Click to share on X/Twitter (Opens in new window) Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) KNEECAP has pulled out of this year's TRNSMT line-up following calls for the group to be axed. The Irish hip-hop trio were due to perform at Glasgow Green in July. Sign up for the Entertainment newsletter Sign up 3 Irish hip-hop trio Kneecap will no longer perform at TRNSMT Credit: PA 3 TRNSMT festival returns to Glasgow Green this summer with a host of stars Credit: Roddy Scott But the Met Police confirmed rapper Liam O'Hanna, 27, from Belfast, was charged with allegedly displaying a flag in support of Hezbollah. O'Hanna, who performs under the moniker Mo Chara, has been charged with displaying a flag in support of the Iranian proxy force in Lebanon. The alleged incident unfolded on November 21 last year at the O2 Forum, in Kentish Town, London. Kneecap will instead play a gig at Glasgow's O2 Academy on Tuesday, July 8. Today's announcement follows growing calls for the group to be banned from playing the Glasgow Green event. They have faced backlash after videos emerged of the self-proclaimed "Repbulican hoods" urging fans to "kill your local MP" and chanting "The only good Tory is a dead Tory". In a statement on Facebook, the group wrote: "Due to concerns expressed by the police about safety at the event, Kneecap can no longer perform at TRNSMT. "To the thousands of people who bought tickets, flights and hotels to see us play, we are is out of our hands. "Glasgow has always been a huge city for us. We've played there many many times, with no issues - ever. Make of that what you will. "To try to make up for it, we will be at your O2 Academy on Tuesday July 8th. "Pre-sale is tomorrow at 10am in our WhatsApp channel. "General sale is 10am this coming Saturday." A Police Scotland spokesperson said: "Any decision on the line up at TRNSMT is for the organisers and there was no prior consultation with Police Scotland before acts were booked. "Officers have highlighted the potential reaction of such a large audience to this band would require a significant policing operation in order to support the delivery of a safe event. "We have also passed on information from the public around safety concerns to allow organisers to make an informed decision on the running of the festival." 3 Kneecap comprises Liam Og O Hannaidh, Naoise O Caireallain and JJ O Dochartaigh Credit: Peadar Ó Goill A spokesperson for TRNSMT said: 'Due to concerns expressed by the Police about safety at the event, Kneecap will no longer perform at TRNSMT on Friday, 11 July. We thank fans for their understanding." First Minister John Swinney recently waded into the row saying it was 'unacceptable' for them to perform at TRNSMT. Some have also called for the group's Glastonbury slot to be axed and their music removed from streaming sites in the Commons. It comes after they were dropped from a festival line-up in Cornwall. Kneecap first came under fire after ending their Coachella performance with a pro-Palestinian message. A message reading "F*** Israel, Free Palestine" appeared on the screen behind them at the end of their set. Sharon Osbourne, whose father was Jewish, slammed them on Instagram and demanded their US visas be revoked. It also emerged the Coachella gig led to the band receiving death threats. When asked about the threats, their manager Daniel Lambert told Irish broadcaster RTÉ: "It would be too severe to tell you on the radio at this time of day but you could probably imagine the things yourself." When asked if the messages specifically included death threats, he said: "They have yes." He added: "If somebody is hurt by the truth, that's something for them to be hurt by, but it's really important to speak truth. "Thankfully the lads are not afraid to do that." A film about the band was also released in 2024 and saw the director Rich Peppiatt win a BAFTA for Outstanding Debut. Last year Kneecap won their action challenging the withdrawal of arts funding by the previous Tory government.
