alborz

Chile, Trauma, Memory

2011-07-13T17:47:00.006-04:00

Recently, in three different occasions, I watched three different movies from Chile. Three completely different styles; a drama, a documentary, and a very experimental feature without considerable storyline. And again, quite by chance, all three had a word in common: Nostalgia.

Nostalgic as Iranians are, I fell for them. Aimlessly, I started to patch the films together, all three of them along with a little I know about Chile. The first film, a poetic documentary called Nostalgia de la luz (Nostalgia for the light), soars in the skies by faraway telescopes, planted in the world’s dries land, Atacama desert; while looking down to the ground at the same time, searching for abundant human remains, aged but untouched, reigning the blankness of the desert since the military coup of 1973. The film travels deep into the chagrin of old women coming for the search of bodies of their loved ones for over 25 years. In that respect, the film is a journey into time and space, from the distant stars to distant lands, from the modern world to the archaeological observations, from the past to the future.

The second film, Lucía, is simply the daily life of a worker, Lucía, with no extraordinary chapter, filmed partly with stop-motion technique. The death of the ex-dictator of Chile, Augusto Pinochet weighs over the film when Lucía watches his funeral on the television. She lives with her father who is an old man, disconnected from this world with odd reactions to her daughter’s affection.

I tend to believe the huge impact of the military coup of 1973 on Chile and Chileans. A period which lasted for 25 years and overshadowed, destroyed, and permanently altered lives of countless people. 21 years have passed since the Dictator ceased the power, but the trauma is still seen among the survivors. Just like Franco’s period in Spain that keeps bringing up old wounds amongst Spaniards. And to this, I would add, similar to the Iranian Islamic Revolution of 1979. I am certain that Iranians will inherit the same fracture in time and sense the trauma of the post-revolution period for decades. Once the period is over, there will be time to remember and there will be more room for nostalgia.

The third film, La vida de los peces (The Life of Fish) follows the last night of an expatriate’s visit of his homeland and friends. A sharp contrast is formed between the festive night and the departure melancholy; and in between, there is a memory of an old and unaccomplished love. The story wanders from room to room, inhaling each second of those last hours. Once again, nostalgia comes in.

Watching this one, I constantly thought what would happen if I returned to Iran. How would I feel among my old friends and their own circle of friends? I would be a familiar stranger to them. So are they to me. How would I re-enter the current of life back there, as I once quit being part of it? And the current went on incessantly. How would I overcome the loss of memory of the span of my absence? As says Isabel Allende in “My Invented Country”:

“Those of us who have moved on many times develop tough skin out of necessity. Since we lack roots or corroboration of who we are, we must put our trust in memory to give continuity to our lives.” (p. 79)

Death, past, nostalgia

2010-07-13T18:38:00.002-04:00

Nostalgia is a noticeable part of the group memory of every Iranian. It amazes me to see how profoundly it is radicated in our culture. Telling and retelling old anecdotes and sweet memories of our past experiences and events is an inevitable part of our identity; in parties, in long telephone calls, etc. We have always been amazed by the past, our past. It is as if we want to taste over and over the good experiences. Sometimes they are not even ours but memories of others' memories. We like to think of some thousand years back and imagine ourselves as a glorious empire yet we are a weak and wicked country of the twenty first century that has been crowned by the title of the one that induces the worst image in the people of the world's minds. We tend to fill this distance, between the farthest past and the present, between the glory and the defeat, between the beautiful and the ugly, the past and the death, by nostalgia.

Back to our personal lives, bubbles of nostalgia soar around us; they are the attachments to our roots. And here comes death, tearing the strings and trying to liberate itself from us; yet it is woven in every direction to our lives; just like a Persian carpet, a complex mysterious texture of memories. It tries in vain to enter the sacred temple of our past; it remains alive and present with us forever.

Obscure memories

2010-02-21T16:34:00.002-05:00

These days I am working on a series of poems. First, it was supposed to be only one but then I decided to split it into a few poems reflecting myself in this period of time. I faced the tension in Tehran during my short trip this winter. Things have changed a lot in the three-and-a-half years of my absence.
One thing that influenced me a lot was a book which had been published 10 years ago and soon after, became banned and illegal: The Red Eminence and the Eminences Grises. It talks in detail about the secret assassination of people who were considered dangerous for the government. A series of these assassinations made a great scandal 10 years ago. But the book also talks about the assassinations occurred years before that. By reading that book, which looks like detective stories that you can not put it down before finishing it, I suddenly faced my obscure memories of childhood that I have forgotten for a long time. I remember well how people talked about that in secret visits and the risks and the people in risk (there were few of them in my parents' circle of friends). I remember every time we returned from a visit of one of these friends, I was so scared in the car, checking all time to make sure if somebody was chasing us; the sound of motorcycles or any "suspicious" car scared me to death. I was about 8.
And there I was, after a long time, back in Tehran, and reading that book. I started hallucinating the sound of motorcycles; I expected all the time that somebody knocks on our door to arrest us, etc. I lived again my dark memories of childhood after 20 years.

Resemblance

2009-11-12T17:32:00.004-05:00

There is a young guy in my Film Aesthetics course who took my attention few weeks ago. I had seen him a couple times during the class before. But that week, I just felt that I knew him, and tried to dig into my memory to see from where I know him. The answer was astonishing though; he strangely resembles me at about his current age. He has smaller lips, but his hair color and style, his face, most of all his big round eyes look like mine when I was about 17.

Now, whenever I go to that course, I see him and can't stop thinking of a younger "me" sitting there as well. There should be a 10 year difference between us. I could imagine myself ten years ago sitting in the same class and leading a completely different life. I am trying to catch up the lost years but a strange feeling fills me each time I see him.

some news

2009-09-08T22:51:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow I have my first day at school as a fine art student! It seems really nice, at least that's what I have wanted for such a long time. I am so excited.

The web site is getting prepared. I have been working on it for quite a while. I am satisfied with the result, though it was not 100 percent what I have expected. I should upload the complete version one of these days.

That's all for now.

petite note

2009-08-07T10:23:00.003-04:00

Les jours passent, et chaque instant je descends encore plus cette pente; et chaque instant ça devient plus difficile d’arrêter et d’essayer de remonter. Je plonge à une vitesse basse et je vois que les choses s’envolent lentement autour de moi et disparaissent. Je vois mes rêves brûler sans bruits comme des cendres oranges brillantes cachées sous le calme gris; sans pouvoir les toucher. Je grandis mais je n’arrête pas d’être cet enfant qui veut tout à tout prix.

Encore beaucoup de route avant d’arriver au fond de l’océan.

Brief notes after a coup d'état

2009-07-02T09:00:00.000-04:00

Almost three weeks have passed. Three weeks with an extent of a life time; I would say they were out of time scales. Now, when I look back I don’t see but the horror of these weeks. It seems my memory is affected by the dark events of this boundless portion of time and their shadow hides all other memories.

It has been three weeks since we gathered, after a long time. It has been three weeks that we bear an unbearable weight of a coup d’état who tries to break us to dispersed broken window glasses. I am thousands kilometers away, yet shocked and stressed, follow every minute of an unjust quarrel. Every means of communication is shot by the demons of the coup d’état: telephone, sms, news, … everything. They have surrounded the people like a group of savage dogs chasing a lone deer. The survivor is the virtual world of internet; since it doesn’t physically exist. They tried to cut this too but they weren’t able.

In the absence of the human contacts, the news agencies, and the journalists, all we could get at the other corner of the world were brief footages and photos of the violence of sacred dirty dogs and the hope and beauty of people who bear them with open arms; the real documents of the people assassinations, beating, blood, and blood, and blood. How many fixed open eyes we have seen, who don’t bear a life anymore? Our media became the mobile phones capturing realtime all this violence by ordinary heros.

On the other side, I am here, at the other end of the world; thousands of kilometers away from them. I feel myself weak. I go to work every day, but instead of working I refresh the news page every 15 minutes; I am afraid not to miss a single second; I fight in my way. I have never felt any belonging to a group or in big words a nation before these three weeks. Now I am a part of it, though I am far, I do exist; just like the dark memory of these three weeks, it seems this feeling has been with me forever.

attente et rien d'autre

2009-04-21T10:49:00.001-04:00

Je suis pratiquement paralysé. J’attends la réponse de l’école du cinéma pour savoir si je suis admit pour l’automne ou non. J’essaye d’organiser mes affaires mais il y a tellement d’incertitudes dans cette étape de la vie qui m’empêchent de bouger; les études, le travail et la profession,…. Littéralement je suis dans une période d’attente. Je pense que ça va être plus claire dans quelques mois. Mais pour le moment je ne peux pas m’empêcher de compter les gouttes qui tombent.
une seconde
deux
trois
.
.
.

une décision

2009-04-01T11:24:00.000-04:00

Ça fait un bout que j’ai constaté que d’avoir un blog est pratique pour différentes raisons. J’ai commencé ce blog en ayant cette idée d’exprimer moi-même et mes pensées. Avec un peu de temps sa forme a changé; j’ai commencé à publié mes textes et récemment mon premier court-métrage. Ce qui arrive c’est que j’ai totalement oublié mes buts principaux de penser à voix haute et dans la forme des mots. On dirait que j’avais un peu mal de mettre mes textes à côté de mes pensées; car mes textes sont les résultats de beaucoup de réflexions et purifications des sujets, des mots et des phrases; au contraire, mes pensées sont brutes et moins chargées.

En ce moment, j’ai ressent fortement le besoin de penser librement et d’exprimer ça plus clairement, pour moi-même d’abord où simplement pour un interlocuteur inconnu. Je pense à créer un site web pour mettre mes textes, mes photos, mes films,… et garder cet espace simplement pour réfléchir. Le projet de site web doit commencer dans quelques semaines et se terminerait cette été. Alors je publiera mes choses toujours sur ce blog avant que mon site soit préparé; mais en même temps, je commence à penser dans mon blog; une juxtaposition bizarre!! On va voir ce qu’elle donne.

these images called world

2009-03-22T18:04:00.003-04:00

Sometimes the vision of the man limits him to the picture of the world he has sketched in his mind. What is real, the one he lives or the one we see him through?

Post-revolution notes

2009-02-27T13:32:00.007-05:00

I am fine now. It has been for some months that I have not left home; I cannot see people walking. I cannot see buildings taking new lives; I have my curtains closed. Even the daylight hurts my eyes. My body is healing little by little; there is almost no more wound. My head aches though, sometimes. I hardly speak to somebody; I don’t let anybody in. I suppose I have the same tone of voice.

I live my days trying to recall all the details. I do no remember the last time I had those little girlish fingers; in my eyes, they have been rough and cracked forever. I started working at very early age. People were all poor and hungry. They exploited us with minimum of rights; they raped women and killed men; the children died too, of hunger or of illness.

They seem fine now, living a rather quiet life. On my side, life seems to be calm too, but no. Who is aware of all the flames burning me inside? I constantly hear voices screaming; they do not let me sleep; the distant cries of my brother while they break his fingers, one after another; when they pour a harvest of oil on him and others and set them on fire. I still smell the flames, the hot melting flesh.

I live my nights trying to forget all my seconds. Yet I am, all the time, captured by my mother’s face bearing the worst pain, with mouth half open, but silent; her weak body after all that violence, raping, breaking; they put her out, below a withered tree so that the animals help disappearing her little existence. They let nobody approach her until she was all gone.

I cannot forget how people were united, determined to send out these half human half wolf creatures. After all, those were our lands, people said. I was thirteen and already had seen the misery and felt the pain. So we fought and fought for years. Within this time, I grew up losing lots of brothers and sisters, my father, my own brother, and my mother. The long roots of hatred and enmity in my body turned me to a rough young woman.

I try to forget the frightened looks of the people who hid me, wherever I went. At the time, I was one of the leaders of the revolution. Now, they are somewhere out there, not far.

I do not let them in. I cannot see the saplings of life outside; the old tree inside me withered short after the peace arrived. We got the rights we longed for, happy and proud. Then, when the life took the normal pace, when little children started going to schools, I felt this deep loss; all that nourished me all those years were gone. Within the course of time, my aim changed to fight rather than a beautiful future. I am lost amongst all those seconds I suffered, the people I lost and some broken roots of love in my body. I am lost amongst those I want to remember and those I want to forget. Without a fight, I am dead.

City in utopia

2009-02-27T13:32:00.001-05:00

There was a city in utopia with diverse people of different eyes and different looks. They lived in peace. They did not hate each other; nor did they love each other. I was passing by in a brilliantly beautiful day.

Amazed by what I saw, I asked the sun: “what is the secret of this city?” He did not answer; he turned up his lanterns and my eyes drowned in the gold glazing rays.

I walked through the clean streets. I saw people smiling at me and passing. I heard them talking different languages, different accents. They talked to me too, but I did not understand. From the tone of their voices, I guessed they were telling something nice to me. I did not see any open door. They crawled in and shot the doors behind.

I was tired by the night. I sat on the pavement, leaning against an old tall wall. There was nobody else but the moon.

I asked the moon: “what is the secret of this city?” he looked at me with his kind eyes and said: “there is no home in this city.”
“But they are all home now!” I said.
“There is no home in this city” he repeated and a thin lace of cloud hid his old blotched face.

I stood up, eyes half open, feet tired; I finished this short trip and walked to an unknown destination.

l'ombre: les couleurs

2008-12-19T10:28:00.002-05:00

Les années passeront.
Son visage avec des plis, portant les traces des touchers du soleil, et la fatigue qui le rend humble et calme; son corps léger, loin de ses mouvements rebelles; il ne danse plus. Sa voix devenue plus grave par des années d’emprisonnement dans sa gorge.
Ici on ne parle pas.
Il est assis. Bientôt, les premières lueurs du matin vont blanchir son regard. La petite ombre est assise aussi, derrière lui. Il ne respire pas; un petit souffle perturbe cet air.
Le soleil se lève lentement; l’ombre aussi, avec lui.
Là il peut voir les couleurs pâles derrière le blanc du matin. Cela dérange ses yeux, plus fort que le projecteur de la scène d’autrefois.
L’ombre rampe sur terre; chaque instant, elle s’approche plus de lui.
La lumière est forte, il doit fermer ses yeux. Mais avant, il lui reste quelque chose à faire. Brusquement, il prend toutes ces couleurs, chacun des moments de la vie. Il colorie cette ombre; rouge, bleu, vert, or, …un mélange de couleurs, un mélange de tous les signes de vie.
Les mélodies, la plainte de flamenco, son passé voyagent toujours avec le vent; et le vent se lève au loin. Par ici, il n’y a que le silence et l’air immobile.
Il reprend son souffle. Il n’y a plus rien à perturber. L’ombre est déjà loin. Elle se libère.

Courage

2008-09-17T10:12:00.006-04:00

Il y a quelques jours, tout par hasard, j’ai trouvé cette photo sur internet.On n’aura jamais assez de courage de le faire, même d’y penser. Lui, il pense pas, il rêve; et cela lui permet d’expérimenter. C’est ça qui nous manque; et c'est ici la joie de vivre.

S.O.S Fire

2007-08-28T01:00:00.003-04:00

Greece is burning.

Greece is on fire. People die while trying to escape, in cars, in villages, surrounded by sharp olive branches. Other countries are helping. But the wind is so hot and so dry that takes the flames everywhere.
Greece is burning. Not for the first time but like its old history, when Athena burnt and even the golden statue of the Acropolis did not protect it.
The government claims the fire was intentional. Then they thought of terrorist acts. The opposition says the government is incompetence. The people protest in the streets of Athena.Yes, it would be easy to find some people to blame. It has always been like that; to manage the catastrophe with few human names. I see no sign of the old wisdom of a great past.
After all, Greece is on fire.

l'ombre: l'instant présent

2007-08-07T00:57:00.005-04:00

Dans une petite chambre, avec une fenêtre vue sur le soir, après une journée chaude, une journée de soleil où tout brillait, ils sont ensemble dans un lit; le drap est froid; leurs corps se serrent; les doigts se touchent.
Dans un instant, il s’arrête. Immobile, ses pupilles bougent rapidement. Il se rappelle qu’il tient un morceau de chair dans ses bras; un être étranger.
Il n’y a aucun bruit; aucun mot dans l’air.
Les doigts se touchent encore, lentement.
Mais lui, il n’est pas présent. Il veut s’éloigner de ce lit froid et le silence l’aide. Plus il se noie dans le silence, plus il s’éloigne de cet instant. Il voulait que le silence grandisse et dévore cette ambiance lourde.
Soudain, une voix sublime envahit la quiétude des instants lointains, en lui demandant quelque chose, n’importe quoi, pour alléger le poids de l'air.
Subitement, il se retrouve sur le lit. Il cherche une réponse, mais après quelques mots sa voix meurt.
Comme c’est agréable de voyager dans ce silence, de se plonger dans le néant et oublier sa présence.
Il se souvient de la plainte de flamenco, si basse, si loin au fond de sa mémoire.

Le thème : l’ombre

2007-06-29T00:36:00.004-04:00

Je voyais un gamin de douze ans qui dansait le flamenco seul sur la scène. Il y avait un projecteur en haut et le garçon, noyé dans la lumière en bas, dansait seul. Je me suis dit : « mieux danser seul qu’être mal accompagné ». Il chercherait sans doute son partenaire, puisque la danse, seul, n’avait aucun sens. Le projecteur, qui allumait de haut, lui faisait une petite ombre sur le plancher. J’ai remarqué les mouvements de cette ombre; le tout en une belle harmonie. Leurs pieds se rejoignaient sur terre ; leurs corps s’éloignaient. Ils dansaient. Mais le gamin, oubliant sous ses pieds, ne pensait qu’à son partenaire.
Je le vois toujours. Il est dans une rue abandonnée, dans une petite ville. Il n’est plus un gamin. Il y a toujours la plainte de flamenco dans l’air et le vent le suit et lui apporte tout son passé.
Il marche. Parfois il s’arrête ; le vent le dépasse. Le visage mort de la Terre, pâli par le baiser de la lune ; il est toujours là ; il danse et la petite ombre le suit. Une belle harmonie. Ils dansent ensemble ; ils marchent ensemble ; ils s’unissent; ils ne sont plus qu’une seule ombre.

Un petit souvenir

2007-05-17T22:35:00.004-04:00

Tu te souviens mon ami ? Il était un jour de septembre, tes derniers jours ici ; il avait commencé à faire un peu froid, pas trop. On était tout au début de l’automne. Ils étaient toujours verts, les arbres, la petite montagne ! Il faisait sombre, je me rappelle bien que j’avais peur un peu, je n’avais jamais connu la nuit de montagne auparavant. Et puis on est arrivés au sommet et voici la vue unique de la ville : la lumière partout, les bâtiments, et au loin le fleuve noir. Ce sont les dernières images de l’été qui sont restées dans ma tête.
Deux saisons ont passé. Ici on est au début du printemps tardif. J’y suis allé après quelques mois. Je pouvais voir la verdure, très jeune ; mais de loin il me semblait encore gris. J’ai pris cette photo tout en pensant à ce jour de fin d’été et tout pour toi. Deux jours après, tous les arbres sont devenus verts ! Comme c’est court le printemps de ce pays.

El primer poema en espagnol!

2007-05-17T21:30:00.001-04:00

Dans les premiers cours d’espagnol la prof nous a demandé d’écrire un petit poème sur le thème de la chanson cubaine: Guantanamera. Voici mon chef d’œuvre !!! Verde

Yo soy un hombre bueno
De donde se olvida el calor
Y antes de morir quiero tocar la hoja verde de la primavera

πάντα ο ήλιος θα βγαίνει

2007-04-28T01:02:00.000-04:00

(The sun shall always rise)

I kick-start my bike;
I’ll leave again; everything is familiar.
I unfold one more truth:
deep in my heart less is not enough.

I ride out of town, the roads wide open.
Let’s see once more what is to happen.
I lay my souland all I carry in my purse
is some light and water for the road.

And the farther I travel the more I get it:
the sun shall always rise without
wondering whether I’ll make it or not
or whether you’ll ever come to find me.

My mind is blank,
I haven’t found any solutions yet; everything is open.
I unfold one more truth:
one cannot love out of habit.

The road is speeding and you’re before my eyes;
my heart crosses new bridges,
seeking a frontier to let the light in;
our traces are to be lost one way or another.

Du sang et du sourire

2007-04-28T00:51:00.003-04:00

Ça fait longtemps. Sim est parti. Il a préféré ses livres. Coco aussi, il est parti, comme toujours avec un sourire sur ses lèvres, mais cette fois-ci plus sombre et vivant. Il ne m’a laissé qu’une trace de sang dans l’œil. Une tache rouge qui m’a empêché depuis de voir les autres comme avant. Soudain ma vie s’est arrêtée. Je l’ai reprise après des jours. Je pensais souvent à un sourire mensonger. « Souris Al, souris ! », « mais je n’y peux pas quand je suis triste Coco. Je ne peux pas sourire avec la gorge serrée». Il a dit « t’as raison » et il a sourit.
J’ai fermé les yeux. Puis j’ai essayé de les laver. Mais la tache est restée là, dans mon œil. Elle a aimé sa nouvelle maison. Maintenant elle est un peu plus pâle mais elle est là et elle y restera. Hélas ! Je ne verrais plus la beauté et la pureté d’un sourire. Mieux dire les sourires me feront peur.
Désormais je porte un sourire sur mes lèvres, c’est vrai, j’essaye de les vider de tous les mensonges et de toutes les vérités; j’essaye de fermer mon esprit. Car ce n’est pas important d’avoir un grand cœur ; l’essentiel est d’avoir un sourire charmant sur les lèvres.

quote of the day

2007-02-06T11:00:00.000-05:00

La mort ne fait pas du mal, c’est la vie qui fait souffrir.

de "La vie est un miracle"

De la nuit

2007-01-05T00:31:00.003-05:00

Comme la nuit est longue, seul. Le rideau levé ; la lumière qui entre et qui envahit les yeux fermés qui ne sont pas présents. Pas de bruits doux de respiration qui calme ; pas de souffle qui touche la peau nue ; pas de touche qui anime.
Moi, la poitrine serrée ; étouffé de mon souffle ; non plus capable de respirer ; anxieux ; impatient ; en gardant cette absence dans les bras ; en fermant les yeux ; en l’embrassant ; je m’endors.
Comme la nuit est longue, seul.

bodas de sangre

2006-02-18T19:30:00.000-05:00

"Aquí. Aquí quiero estar. Y tranquila. Ya todos están muertos. A medianoche dormiré, dormiré sin que ya me aterren la escopeta o el cuchillo. Otras madres se asomarán a las ventanas, azotadas por la lluvia, para ver el rostro de sus hijos. Yo, no. Yo haré con mi sueño una fría paloma de marfil que lleve camelias de escarcha sobre el camposanto. Pero no; camposanto, no, camposanto, no; lecho de tierra, cama que los cobija y que los mece por el cielo."

Federico García Lorca

2006-02-07T12:54:00.000-05:00

2006-01-26T09:29:00.001-05:00

Me voilà! Je commence en ce moment, 9h32, jeudi, 26 janv.-06. le premier hiver à Montréal.