The display, first posted by a user on the social media platform X last week, showed a row of pads visible in see-through folders—an abrupt break from the longstanding norm of black plastic bags and whispered requests at the counter.
The post quickly surpassed one million views and gathered thousands of likes and shares. “From black plastic to product albums to help us choose better. What a path we’ve come, woman!” wrote one user, who reposted the image with commentary that resonated widely.
Others joined the conversation with similar stories of resisting the imposed shame around buying menstrual products in public.
The marketing choice—practical on its face—has gained symbolic weight in a country where women’s bodies are policed not just through law but through entrenched taboos.
“Seven years ago, when My Lady launched its maxi pads, we had to secretly open samples for customers,” wrote a user identifying as a company marketer. “The store manager scolded us, said it was shameless. So we made a discreet booklet with three samples stuck inside—like contraband.”
The move to make pads visibly accessible in stores echoes moments from the 2022 protests, when women were photographed covering surveillance cameras in Tehran’s subway with sanitary pads—turning a product once treated as unmentionable into a symbol of defiance.
That imagery reinforced a broader shift: menstruation was no longer something to be hidden, but something women could use—literally and figuratively—to resist.
In a post viewed more than 800 times, another X user described how, in smaller towns, buying pads still carries a strong social stigma. “I’d say put it in a regular bag, and I’d relish the look on the seller’s face,” she wrote. “You could see them thinking, ‘How shameless the new generation has become.’ It was deeply satisfying.”
That stigma, rooted in religious and patriarchal frameworks, frames menstruation as impure. Across various cultures with strong religious influences, menstruating women are often deemed unclean and barred from certain spaces. The expectation is silence—both about the blood and the discomfort.
In Iran, where the Islamic Republic’s laws tightly govern gender expression and public morality, that silence is rigorously enforced.
Still, the shift is underway. A handful of men have joined the conversation online, recalling how they were dispatched to buy pads to shield female relatives from embarrassment.
“I’d run home with the black bag, praying no one saw me,” one wrote. But others mocked the change, reflecting a lingering cultural divide. Of 84 replies under one widely shared post, 11 came from male accounts opposing the visibility initiative.
The company behind the display, My Lady, has previously drawn official backlash. In March, following the release of a video marking International Women’s Day—one that referenced women’s exclusion from stadiums and legal rights—their Instagram page was taken down. Still, the public rallied, citing the brand’s decade-long focus on education and taboo-breaking.
The rise of transparent packaging may not end the stigma, but its presence in plain sight signals a societal reckoning.
The journey from hushed exchanges to open acknowledgment continues, carried forward by a generation of women unwilling to be hidden.
