Becoming a lion woman means risking everything. Staying quiet costs more than we admit.
Some books tell a story; others hold up a mirror and ask uncomfortable questions. The Lion Women of Tehran by Marjan Kamali does both, weaving real historical events into the lives of fictional women who feel anything but imagined. At its heart, this is a story about friendship, specifically Ellie and Homa, but it’s also about class, politics, womanhood, and the long shadow of the choices we make when we’re young.
The novel opens with Ellie in 1980s New York City, where she is keenly aware of appearances. The city feels like a place where you must look like you belong, and Ellie believes that means looking wealthy. That instinct doesn’t come out of nowhere. Her mother raised her to believe that appearances matter above almost everything else. In New York, that lesson sticks. Ellie doesn’t just want to fit in. She feels she must 'perform' belonging.
Kamali’s portrayal of Tehran during Ellie and Homa’s childhood resists romanticizing the city. Tehran is shown as a real place, with wealthy neighborhoods and poor ones, privilege and hardship existing side by side. Ellie grows up in affluence until her father’s death; Homa grows up with less material comfort. And yet Homa’s upbringing feels warmer, steadier, and more grounded. Ellie’s mother is perpetually dissatisfied: Complaining, posturing, and confiding her bitterness to her daughter far too early. Homa’s home, by contrast, feels lived-in and emotionally secure. The irony is hard to miss.
Ellie’s mother’s obsession with the evil eye is another way she explains the inexplicable. Humans have always invented systems (gods, myths, superstitions, etc.) to explain suffering. For Ellie’s mother, the evil eye becomes a convenient explanation for misfortune and, perhaps more importantly, a way to avoid responsibility. Bad things didn’t happen because of bad choices; they happened because someone wished them harm. That belief shapes Ellie in quieter but lasting ways, instilling in her an anxiety that good actions might somehow invite punishment.
Ellie spends much of her childhood idealizing her late father, placing him safely on a pedestal. Later, when her mother reveals his infidelity, that image cracks. Ellie is forced to reconcile the loving father she knew with a deeply flawed man. With that knowledge comes understanding. Her mother’s bitterness, her unhappiness, and even her willingness to marry her husband’s brother after his death begin to make sense. Divorce was not an option. Survival was. The revelation doesn’t absolve anyone, but it reframes everything.
As Ellie grows older, class consciousness tightens its grip. By the time she attends an upscale school in a wealthier neighborhood, she begins acting as though she belongs to that world and distancing herself from Homa. It’s painful to watch. Ellie is embarrassed by her oldest friend, and once again, her mother’s influence looms large. Respectability, status, and safety matter more than loyalty.
Politics, however, refuse to stay in the background. They are everywhere in this book, shaping choices, limiting futures, and determining who gets to speak and who must stay silent. In many ways, politics function as a character themselves. This is not just the story of two girls; it’s the story of Iranian women fighting, then and now, for autonomy, rights, and visibility. Homa engages with politics head-on. Ellie, cushioned by privilege, is more inclined not to rock the boat. And as the novel shows, fortune often favors those who already have it.
The idea of becoming “lion women” runs through the book like a quiet dare. To me, lion women are the ones who roar: The activists, the risk-takers, the women who refuse to shrink themselves to survive. Homa understands this instinctively. Ellie understands it intellectually, but struggles to live it. That tension feels painfully real because the truth is, women everywhere are still expected to be lion women. There is still a glass ceiling. It still needs to shatter. And stories like this remind us what it costs, personally and politically, when we choose silence over courage.
The Lion Women of Tehran is thoughtful, layered, and quietly powerful. It lingers not because of what it says loudly, but because of what it asks us to examine about ourselves.
The ManiScripts Book Club pick for the January meeting.
