By Judy Stone
Silman-James Press
In the year 2000 I went to see Abbas Kiarostami receive the Akira Kurosawa award at the San Francisco International Film Festival. The famed director thanked the organizers, then surprised everyone by giving away his prize to veteran Iranian actor Behrooz vossoghi. Six years later while reading Judy Stones new book Not Quite a Memoir I was thrilled to see this small yet extraordinary event preserved in writing. For over four decades it seems whenever there has been a quality International film, Judy Stone has been there to create portraits of the artists that created those works of art.
In her treasury of interviews with the world’s leading writers and filmmakers, Stone devotes a dozen or so chapters to Iranian artists. Though the pieces are independent and have been written at different times, the chapters read like the different scenes in a single movie, each contributing to an overall picture of the state of the arts in Iran. One theme in this “movie” dominates all others: censorship.
For instance, among Stone’s stories we find that Bahman Farmanara, director of Smell of Camphor, Fragrance of Jasmine suffered a massive depression after censors turned down his tenth script.
Director Tahmineh Milani was thrown in prison after her political drama, Hidden Half, offended some fundamentalists. Her case as described in Stone’s exclusive interview with the director and her husband, sheds light on the odd complexities of Iranian factional politics. For instance, Hidden Half continued to be screened even after Milani was jailed. President Khatami expressed surprise at the arrest, and when a judge realized Milani had not broken any laws she was released immediately. So who ordered her arrest? And if Milani was cleared of charges, why was her home invaded and her property confiscated after her release?
Dariush Mehrjui, director of Cow, has his own tragicomic experience with censorship . In his interview with the author he mentions that the only movie of his that Khomeini ever saw was Cow, and the late Ayatollah liked it very much. So despite the fact that Mehrjui is a strong critic of the condition of women in Iran, the censors have called him in only once or twice, treating him politely.
Abbas Kiarostami on the other hand has developed a more subtle relationship with the Islamic regime’s censorship. He incorporates the reality of censorship right into his art. Stone quotes him, “We can’t hide ourselves and say, ‘I would have made a fabulous masterpiece if I didn’t have all the limitations.’ We have to accept responsibility for what we create and not make it sound as if it would have been very different had it not been for outside elements such as censorship. I strongly believe that choice is what we have.”
In the chapter on Kiarostami we learn that a cow-milking scene has kept the artist’s The Wind Will Carry Us from receiving theatrical distribution in Iran. This scene is perhaps Kiarostami’s brilliant joke on the clerical regime. By goading the authorities into making an erotic connection between milking a cow and ejaculation, these guardians of public morality have effectively admitted to having dirty minds. Thus the director makes a harsh artistic statement through the very process of banishment.
Besides censorship there are also many intriguing sub-themes in Not Quite a Memoir . There is passion, perseverance and humor. Majid Majidi, director of Children of Heaven and The Color of Paradise told his father he was going to engineering school when in fact he was studying drama. Rakhshan Bani-Etemad, director of The May Lady experienced the death of her father when she was only nine years old. Bahman Ghobadi director of A Time for Drunken Horses attributes his love for movies to the sandwich and a Coca-Cola shack that sat next to the ramshackle theater in his hometown.
And there is heartbreak . Kiarostamis’ wife left him for another man. “I’m not sure if a good marriage is when you break it and let the other person have freedom or if it’s when you try to stay together,” the genius wonders from behind his ever-present dark glasses.
Not Quite a Memoir flies around the world to Spain’s Carlos Saura, Chile’s Isabel Allende, India’s Satyajit Ray. At every landing Stone creates a portrait of the artist as a force for social change. Intriguingly, the author backs up her portrait in words by capturing--with unassuming genius—astonishingly insightful photographs of her interview subjects.
No one at the San Francisco International Film Festival in the year 2000 saw Abbas Kiarostami’s eyes when he gave away his Akira Kurosawa award to Behrooz Vosooghi. For medical reasons Kiarostami never takes off those enigmatic sunglasses. Yet in Not Quite a Memoir Judy Stone’s camera flash cleverly shines right through the artist’s dark glasses to give us the first glimpse of eyes that revolutionized filmmaking with how they saw the world. Her short interviews, like that brief camera flash, are just as clever and penetrating.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Love Iranian-American Style
Directed by Tanaz Eshaghian.
It’s been a long time since American documentaries haven't been reality shows. These days even the respected PBS science series NOVA occasionally airs like an unscripted drama. To create the documentary film Love Iranian-American Style director Tanaz Eshaghian recorded over the years her family’s quixotic quest to find her a suitable husband. The result has the charming humor of My Big Fat Greek Wedding layered over the educational substance of a college course in sociology.
Early in the filmmaker's interviews with the politely distraught Eshaghian clan, we find out that Tanaz, unlike other women in her Jewish-Iranian family, has no use for the strictures of traditional matrimony. She won't marry this doctor or that businessman and have children in her early twenties. She was raised in America and she wants to marry for love.
Realistic about Iranian men's fondness for marrying younger women, the family is worried that if their Tanaz delays much longer her suitors will disappear. In one scene a matchmaker offers to find Eshaghian an excellent Jewish-Iranian husband for $10,000. The director retorts that if she can't find a husband on her own in the next five years then maybe they could do business. “By then it would cost you $100,000,” sighs the matchmaker to roaring laughter from the theater audience.
Eshaghian’s comedy is dark. Throughout we are laughing at pain. The pain of guilt and embarrassment for disappointing her clan, and the pain of a traditional family seeing how Western individualism has contaminated their daughter’s psyche with dissatisfaction. She can no longer look at a rich, handsome suitor from her own social class and think “I could grow to like him.” Having breathed American egalitarianism most of her life, she can only see him as a loser too sissy to ask, “who am I, and what do I really want?”
In answering that question about herself Eshaghian scores her artistic victory in this film. To our surprize we find out that she has also documented her failures in finding love outside of tradition. In a moving display of honesty, she interviews ex-lovers about why the relationship didn't go anywhere. Ironically, her previous boyfriends were turned off by her push for commitment and her mental checklist of qualifications they felt they had to meet. One of them even thought he wasn't rich enough for her. All this time she thought she was running away from the traditions of her clan, she was really just circling back to familiar territory.
In a work of fiction this realization would resolve the plot, setting off the events towards a happy ending. But this is real life. New understanding takes a long time to catch up with who we have become. In Eshaghian’s childhood pictures we see a stubborn looking, rebellious little girl whose wide eyes are brimming with inquisitiveness. She has grown up to be a tall beauty with the same inquisitive eyes. But years of saying “Not good enough for me,” have left on her face--like a watermark—a subtle expression of haughty disapproval, as though the Universe is a cheap sale item she is about to throw back in the bin.
After the screening of her movie, I was introduced to Eshaghian and I told her I would be writing about her movie. “Oh,” she said, “Who do you write for?” That expression on her face made me feel embarrassed I couldn't say, "The New York Times.”
It’s been a long time since American documentaries haven't been reality shows. These days even the respected PBS science series NOVA occasionally airs like an unscripted drama. To create the documentary film Love Iranian-American Style director Tanaz Eshaghian recorded over the years her family’s quixotic quest to find her a suitable husband. The result has the charming humor of My Big Fat Greek Wedding layered over the educational substance of a college course in sociology.
Early in the filmmaker's interviews with the politely distraught Eshaghian clan, we find out that Tanaz, unlike other women in her Jewish-Iranian family, has no use for the strictures of traditional matrimony. She won't marry this doctor or that businessman and have children in her early twenties. She was raised in America and she wants to marry for love.
Realistic about Iranian men's fondness for marrying younger women, the family is worried that if their Tanaz delays much longer her suitors will disappear. In one scene a matchmaker offers to find Eshaghian an excellent Jewish-Iranian husband for $10,000. The director retorts that if she can't find a husband on her own in the next five years then maybe they could do business. “By then it would cost you $100,000,” sighs the matchmaker to roaring laughter from the theater audience.
Eshaghian’s comedy is dark. Throughout we are laughing at pain. The pain of guilt and embarrassment for disappointing her clan, and the pain of a traditional family seeing how Western individualism has contaminated their daughter’s psyche with dissatisfaction. She can no longer look at a rich, handsome suitor from her own social class and think “I could grow to like him.” Having breathed American egalitarianism most of her life, she can only see him as a loser too sissy to ask, “who am I, and what do I really want?”
In answering that question about herself Eshaghian scores her artistic victory in this film. To our surprize we find out that she has also documented her failures in finding love outside of tradition. In a moving display of honesty, she interviews ex-lovers about why the relationship didn't go anywhere. Ironically, her previous boyfriends were turned off by her push for commitment and her mental checklist of qualifications they felt they had to meet. One of them even thought he wasn't rich enough for her. All this time she thought she was running away from the traditions of her clan, she was really just circling back to familiar territory.
In a work of fiction this realization would resolve the plot, setting off the events towards a happy ending. But this is real life. New understanding takes a long time to catch up with who we have become. In Eshaghian’s childhood pictures we see a stubborn looking, rebellious little girl whose wide eyes are brimming with inquisitiveness. She has grown up to be a tall beauty with the same inquisitive eyes. But years of saying “Not good enough for me,” have left on her face--like a watermark—a subtle expression of haughty disapproval, as though the Universe is a cheap sale item she is about to throw back in the bin.
After the screening of her movie, I was introduced to Eshaghian and I told her I would be writing about her movie. “Oh,” she said, “Who do you write for?” That expression on her face made me feel embarrassed I couldn't say, "The New York Times.”
Monday, July 17, 2006
Ceasefire
Directed by Tahmineh Milani
The Iranian box office comedy hit, Ceasefire, shows a man and woman in bed together, but the movie still nominally obeys the Iranian film decency code. The feuding husband and wife have sawed the bed in half. Similarly, a bed sheet always magically wraps itself around the actress’s head like a chador. Male and female actors touch each other but only in fight scenes, shoving each other around. These ploys outline an unspoken rapprochement between internationally-acclaimed filmmaker Tahmineh Milani and Iranian cultural authorities. In return for some liberties, Milani moderates her criticism of Iranian society. No more despotic fathers-in-law as in The Fifth Reaction, no more thugs throwing acid at women’s faces as in Two Women. In previous films Milani attacked relentlessly. In Ceasefire… well, it’s an honest title.
Milani aficionados will long for the foreboding air of menace that was her trademark. They will miss that unbearable fury she used to summon against the unjust. What remains, however, is her signature shrillness and over-the-top dramatization. Scene after scene we watch the quarrelling couple play childish pranks on each other. They smash each other’s favorite glassware, dump dirt on each other’s heads, destroy clothing, sabotage dinner parties, all juvenile antics akin to tying shoelaces together. Originality or suggestiveness--such as grapefruit in the face--would have broken the tedium, but innovation has also declared a ceasefire.
Milani has never engaged in the poetic explorations that make Iranian film a worldwide phenomenon. She does not pretend to be a Makhmalbaaf or a Kiarostami. Her plots demand little of the audience, her characters are readily fathomable. She makes no apologies for this earthiness. Usually she makes up for it by extracting unforgettable performances from her actors. This time she has not been as careful with her casting. Ceasefire has no actors on a par with Gohar Kheirandish, whose lion-hearted Zir Madineh stole the show in The Fifth Reaction.
One wonders why Milani has softened her militancy. Some Iranian women artists are catching on to the way the West uses their work as a propaganda tool against Iran, their fame a pact with the Devil. But an earlier Milani film, Two Women, offers a more introverted motivation. In one of her most moving scenes Niki Karimi’s character pleads with her tyrannical husband to become her friend. Ceasefire looks like an olive branch held out in desperation by a woman artist towards her patriarchal society. In this comedy we glimpse the director’s sad spark of hope that the subjugation of women in Iran can be analyzed rationally and resolved to the satisfaction of both men and women.
To start fresh Milani airs out the stench of misogyny from her sets, and perfumes with comedy what odor remains. The sets are colorful and well lit. The successful husband and wife drive expensive European cars and live in a house with modern furniture and a state-of-the-art home entertainment center. The in-laws are supportive, the neighbors are friendly. The couple don’t seem to have any needs other than the need to grow up. This is the most serious problem with the movie. Aside from their good looks there is nothing there to make us like this ever squabbling couple. In Star Wars, the bickering Han Solo and Princess Leia were endearing because the lovers were in deep trouble with the Evil Empire. Their trivial banter stood in ironic contrast to their noble purpose. In Ceasefire, however, the Evil Empire has been cut out of the plot altogether, leaving us with nothing but pettiness.
A curious gay character stiffens the soggy plot with some physical comedy. Judging by audience laughter this character’s dandified manner is a big hit with Iranians. Americans have little room for indignation here--Eddie Murphy, Robin Williams and Will Ferrell also draw laughs with this stereotype. In an Iranian movie, however, the appearance of a gay man may telegraph a loosening of Iran’s rigid codes of public conduct. Here Milani as an artist is participating in social reform. Cultures that disengage their sexuality from their morality tend to replace the old taboos with more humane ones, such as eliminating the death penalty.
Unfortunately, Milani gets so caught up in improving her society that she neglects her primary role as director and screenwriter. As a result she does too much preaching and not enough story telling. The intriguing plot-character interactions that enlightened us with their irony, have been replaced by a tiresome therapist character, lecturing about our inner child, telling us what to think and feel.
The fact that Ceasefire has shattered box office records in Iran is understandable. The movie is comic relief in a nation starved for optimism and lightheartedness. Also, the social messages in the movie offer safe and entertaining activism, a luxury previously available mostly in the West. Having lightened her load, Milani now operates as a reformer, patiently taking small, practical steps. As a filmmaker, however, she has fallen out of the saddle. It may take tough competition and demanding critics to put this director back on her high horse.
The Iranian box office comedy hit, Ceasefire, shows a man and woman in bed together, but the movie still nominally obeys the Iranian film decency code. The feuding husband and wife have sawed the bed in half. Similarly, a bed sheet always magically wraps itself around the actress’s head like a chador. Male and female actors touch each other but only in fight scenes, shoving each other around. These ploys outline an unspoken rapprochement between internationally-acclaimed filmmaker Tahmineh Milani and Iranian cultural authorities. In return for some liberties, Milani moderates her criticism of Iranian society. No more despotic fathers-in-law as in The Fifth Reaction, no more thugs throwing acid at women’s faces as in Two Women. In previous films Milani attacked relentlessly. In Ceasefire… well, it’s an honest title.
Milani aficionados will long for the foreboding air of menace that was her trademark. They will miss that unbearable fury she used to summon against the unjust. What remains, however, is her signature shrillness and over-the-top dramatization. Scene after scene we watch the quarrelling couple play childish pranks on each other. They smash each other’s favorite glassware, dump dirt on each other’s heads, destroy clothing, sabotage dinner parties, all juvenile antics akin to tying shoelaces together. Originality or suggestiveness--such as grapefruit in the face--would have broken the tedium, but innovation has also declared a ceasefire.
Milani has never engaged in the poetic explorations that make Iranian film a worldwide phenomenon. She does not pretend to be a Makhmalbaaf or a Kiarostami. Her plots demand little of the audience, her characters are readily fathomable. She makes no apologies for this earthiness. Usually she makes up for it by extracting unforgettable performances from her actors. This time she has not been as careful with her casting. Ceasefire has no actors on a par with Gohar Kheirandish, whose lion-hearted Zir Madineh stole the show in The Fifth Reaction.
One wonders why Milani has softened her militancy. Some Iranian women artists are catching on to the way the West uses their work as a propaganda tool against Iran, their fame a pact with the Devil. But an earlier Milani film, Two Women, offers a more introverted motivation. In one of her most moving scenes Niki Karimi’s character pleads with her tyrannical husband to become her friend. Ceasefire looks like an olive branch held out in desperation by a woman artist towards her patriarchal society. In this comedy we glimpse the director’s sad spark of hope that the subjugation of women in Iran can be analyzed rationally and resolved to the satisfaction of both men and women.
To start fresh Milani airs out the stench of misogyny from her sets, and perfumes with comedy what odor remains. The sets are colorful and well lit. The successful husband and wife drive expensive European cars and live in a house with modern furniture and a state-of-the-art home entertainment center. The in-laws are supportive, the neighbors are friendly. The couple don’t seem to have any needs other than the need to grow up. This is the most serious problem with the movie. Aside from their good looks there is nothing there to make us like this ever squabbling couple. In Star Wars, the bickering Han Solo and Princess Leia were endearing because the lovers were in deep trouble with the Evil Empire. Their trivial banter stood in ironic contrast to their noble purpose. In Ceasefire, however, the Evil Empire has been cut out of the plot altogether, leaving us with nothing but pettiness.
A curious gay character stiffens the soggy plot with some physical comedy. Judging by audience laughter this character’s dandified manner is a big hit with Iranians. Americans have little room for indignation here--Eddie Murphy, Robin Williams and Will Ferrell also draw laughs with this stereotype. In an Iranian movie, however, the appearance of a gay man may telegraph a loosening of Iran’s rigid codes of public conduct. Here Milani as an artist is participating in social reform. Cultures that disengage their sexuality from their morality tend to replace the old taboos with more humane ones, such as eliminating the death penalty.
Unfortunately, Milani gets so caught up in improving her society that she neglects her primary role as director and screenwriter. As a result she does too much preaching and not enough story telling. The intriguing plot-character interactions that enlightened us with their irony, have been replaced by a tiresome therapist character, lecturing about our inner child, telling us what to think and feel.
The fact that Ceasefire has shattered box office records in Iran is understandable. The movie is comic relief in a nation starved for optimism and lightheartedness. Also, the social messages in the movie offer safe and entertaining activism, a luxury previously available mostly in the West. Having lightened her load, Milani now operates as a reformer, patiently taking small, practical steps. As a filmmaker, however, she has fallen out of the saddle. It may take tough competition and demanding critics to put this director back on her high horse.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
A Hunger Strike
Starting tomorrow July 14 there will be a 3 day worldwide hunger strike to protest the Islamic Republic’s crackdowns against Iranians who insist on their human rights. The hunger strike has been organized around the feisty investigative journalist Akbar Ganji who nearly died last year after a prison hunger strike lasting several weeks.
A hunger strike is a powerful political tool. The tactic was used by the pre-Christian Irish as an effective way of demanding justice. There would be tremendous loss of prestige and therefore power for a lord who allowed a plaintiff to die of hunger at his gate. Ghandi used the tactic against the British, winning independence for India, and the IRA used it effectively to win sympathy for its cause. Ironically Bobby Sands street in Iran is named after an IRA activist who died during a hunger strike in a British prison.
We feel hunger as simple organisms in need of fuel. But in resisting hunger we become aware of our own complexity as humans. When other people are fasting with us, empathy and solidarity hugely expand this awareness so that the metaphoric hunger for freedom becomes as powerful as the physical craving for life sustaining food. Akbar Ganji understands this better than most, which is why he has called for this particular way of protesting.
Ganji gained notoriety during the relatively liberal Presidency of Khatami when he was allowed to publicly criticize Khatami’s political enemies. The journalist went for the jugular, tracking the murderers of several of Iran’s influential intellectuals. A few of the killers were tried and executed, but Ganji, never got his chance to fully connect the murders to the ruling Islamic elite. He was sentenced to Jail.
A former member of the Revolutionary Guard Ganji had been assigned to “Doctrine and Politics.” His job as an intellectual was to encourage revolutionary values in Iranians. In a way this is still his job. Disillusioned by the Islamic regime’s stewardship of the Iranian revolution, Ganji has been calling for a more democratic, more tolerant and less misogynistic rule in Iran. He believes religion and state should be separated and has asked the all powerful Supreme Leader to step down.
With his past in the Revolutionary Guard it is difficult to embrace Ganji politically, but he has shown the courage of his faith and he has helped bring murderers to justice. In a democratic Iran he would make a worthy opposition. Meanwhile I stand with him in this hunger strike .
Here’s some where-and-when info on this worldwide protest.
A hunger strike is a powerful political tool. The tactic was used by the pre-Christian Irish as an effective way of demanding justice. There would be tremendous loss of prestige and therefore power for a lord who allowed a plaintiff to die of hunger at his gate. Ghandi used the tactic against the British, winning independence for India, and the IRA used it effectively to win sympathy for its cause. Ironically Bobby Sands street in Iran is named after an IRA activist who died during a hunger strike in a British prison.
We feel hunger as simple organisms in need of fuel. But in resisting hunger we become aware of our own complexity as humans. When other people are fasting with us, empathy and solidarity hugely expand this awareness so that the metaphoric hunger for freedom becomes as powerful as the physical craving for life sustaining food. Akbar Ganji understands this better than most, which is why he has called for this particular way of protesting.
Ganji gained notoriety during the relatively liberal Presidency of Khatami when he was allowed to publicly criticize Khatami’s political enemies. The journalist went for the jugular, tracking the murderers of several of Iran’s influential intellectuals. A few of the killers were tried and executed, but Ganji, never got his chance to fully connect the murders to the ruling Islamic elite. He was sentenced to Jail.
A former member of the Revolutionary Guard Ganji had been assigned to “Doctrine and Politics.” His job as an intellectual was to encourage revolutionary values in Iranians. In a way this is still his job. Disillusioned by the Islamic regime’s stewardship of the Iranian revolution, Ganji has been calling for a more democratic, more tolerant and less misogynistic rule in Iran. He believes religion and state should be separated and has asked the all powerful Supreme Leader to step down.
With his past in the Revolutionary Guard it is difficult to embrace Ganji politically, but he has shown the courage of his faith and he has helped bring murderers to justice. In a democratic Iran he would make a worthy opposition. Meanwhile I stand with him in this hunger strike .
Here’s some where-and-when info on this worldwide protest.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
An Ancient Heritage Threatened
American tourist Diana Campuzano was having lunch on a Jerusalem sidewalk when a Hamas suicide bomber struck. Now a US court has ruled that since Iran supports Hamas financially, ancient Iranian artifacts housed at the University of Chicago may be auctioned to compensate Ms. Campuzano for her injuries. Here’s how court records describe the victim’s physical condition after the attack:
A team of doctors performed a five-hour craniotomy on Ms. Campuzano to remove multiple bone fragments, repair the ruptures in her brain coverings, and repair her anterior skull base fracture with mini plates, bone cement , and her own harvested tissue…Ms. Campuzano’s permanent injuries include impaired vision, damage to the retina of her right eye, cataracts in both eyes, destroyed left ear drum.
Ms. Campuzano, one of eight plaintiffs sharing the 300 million dollar award had this to say after Israel assassinated Hamas leader Sheik Ahmed Yassin. ”I'm so happy they killed that son of a bitch. I was so excited, so excited. I hate them. They changed my life. As far as I'm concerned, they can kill them all."
As if all this pain and anger was not enough, Ms. Campuzano’s monetary award carries with it a tragic irony . Having converted to Judaism after the incident, her court victory is about to inflict serious damage to this ancient heritage. The Achaemenid artifacts about to be auctioned off are nothing to Islam and everything to Judaism.
1200 years before Islam, the Achaemenid king Cyrus freed the Jews from their Babylonian captivity. An unnamed prophet in the book of Isaiah says: Thus said the Lord to Cyrus, His anointed one…I call you by name. I hail you by title though you have not known Me (Isaiah 45). About the rebuilding of the Second Temple the book of Ezra says “Thus said King Cyrus of Persia: The Lord God of Heaven, has given me all the kingdoms of earth and has charged me with building him a house in Jerusalem. (Ezra 1). There are verses in Ezra about the rebuilding of the temple that hint at undiscovered stories reminiscent of the support of some modern Diapora Jews for the state of Israel. “All their neighbors [Jews who preferred to stay in the Achaemenid empire rather than move to Jerusalem] supported them with silver vessels, with gold, with goods, with livestock, and with precious objects…”
Who were the Jews who stayed behind? Clues to their stories are somewhere in Achaemenid archeology. The bible follows only a few. Esther became a beloved queen to the Achaemenid king Xerxes. Her uncle Mordechai became the prime minister to the Achamenid empire. An Achaemenid Disraeli. What about the important Iranian Jews that the bible does not mention? Fragments of their lives may have survived in those tablets. The Jewish festival of Purim began with Achaemenid Jews. This festival commemorates a palace intrigue full of political rivalry, romantic seduction, gratuitous violence, and in an outdated sense, justice. What are the juicy historical facts behind Purim? The answers may be encoded somewhere in those ten thousand Achaemenid tablets and artifacts about to be auctioned to private collectors.
It would be misleading to claim that this particular set of Achamenian artifacts contain the history of Achaemenid Judaism. But tiny clues can unravel big mysteries. A seal here, a symbol there, the clues may be in the meaning of the inscriptions, in the chemical composition of the tablet, on a bit of reed or a strand of hair stuck in the clay. Less dramatically, each bit of knowledge contributes to the critical mass needed for the chain reaction of understanding.
The details of the legal tragedy are complicated. Basically the Islamic Republic of Iran did not bother to show up as a defendant, and the plaintiffs won by default. The issue has caused the executive branch and the Judicial branch to lock legal horns so that at this point an act of congress is the most promising way to save these artifacts. Elected officials however do not wish to appear to be taking the side of Iran. To make the job more attractive congress needs to know that there is public support for it. In a predominantly Judeo-Christian nation, emphasizing the connection of these artifacts to the bible would make it more likely for congress to act.
On the International front, Iran has threatened to retaliate if the artifacts are auctioned. Retaliate how? One may worry. By further destroying humanity’s common heritage? Iran must make it clear that this is not the content of its threat. By taking a morally strong position Iran would make it easier to gain public support for the cause of keeping these artifacts where they belong, in universities and museums.
The state of Israel is paying Diana Campuzano’s medical bills. To add farsightedness to generosity Israel should do what it can to help save these Achaemenid artifacts from being cast into the winds of commerce. Not only are the artifacts relevant to her own history, Israel should keep in mind that Iran may not stay a radical Islamic Republic. When the time comes for Iran to reassess her policy towards Israel, the Achaemenid Cyrus would be pleased that the nation he once freed from slavery remembered him and returned his favor.
Refrences:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyrus_in_the_Judeo-Christian_tradition
Esther’s Children A portrait of Iranian Jews.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purim
A team of doctors performed a five-hour craniotomy on Ms. Campuzano to remove multiple bone fragments, repair the ruptures in her brain coverings, and repair her anterior skull base fracture with mini plates, bone cement , and her own harvested tissue…Ms. Campuzano’s permanent injuries include impaired vision, damage to the retina of her right eye, cataracts in both eyes, destroyed left ear drum.
Ms. Campuzano, one of eight plaintiffs sharing the 300 million dollar award had this to say after Israel assassinated Hamas leader Sheik Ahmed Yassin. ”I'm so happy they killed that son of a bitch. I was so excited, so excited. I hate them. They changed my life. As far as I'm concerned, they can kill them all."
As if all this pain and anger was not enough, Ms. Campuzano’s monetary award carries with it a tragic irony . Having converted to Judaism after the incident, her court victory is about to inflict serious damage to this ancient heritage. The Achaemenid artifacts about to be auctioned off are nothing to Islam and everything to Judaism.
1200 years before Islam, the Achaemenid king Cyrus freed the Jews from their Babylonian captivity. An unnamed prophet in the book of Isaiah says: Thus said the Lord to Cyrus, His anointed one…I call you by name. I hail you by title though you have not known Me (Isaiah 45). About the rebuilding of the Second Temple the book of Ezra says “Thus said King Cyrus of Persia: The Lord God of Heaven, has given me all the kingdoms of earth and has charged me with building him a house in Jerusalem. (Ezra 1). There are verses in Ezra about the rebuilding of the temple that hint at undiscovered stories reminiscent of the support of some modern Diapora Jews for the state of Israel. “All their neighbors [Jews who preferred to stay in the Achaemenid empire rather than move to Jerusalem] supported them with silver vessels, with gold, with goods, with livestock, and with precious objects…”
Who were the Jews who stayed behind? Clues to their stories are somewhere in Achaemenid archeology. The bible follows only a few. Esther became a beloved queen to the Achaemenid king Xerxes. Her uncle Mordechai became the prime minister to the Achamenid empire. An Achaemenid Disraeli. What about the important Iranian Jews that the bible does not mention? Fragments of their lives may have survived in those tablets. The Jewish festival of Purim began with Achaemenid Jews. This festival commemorates a palace intrigue full of political rivalry, romantic seduction, gratuitous violence, and in an outdated sense, justice. What are the juicy historical facts behind Purim? The answers may be encoded somewhere in those ten thousand Achaemenid tablets and artifacts about to be auctioned to private collectors.
It would be misleading to claim that this particular set of Achamenian artifacts contain the history of Achaemenid Judaism. But tiny clues can unravel big mysteries. A seal here, a symbol there, the clues may be in the meaning of the inscriptions, in the chemical composition of the tablet, on a bit of reed or a strand of hair stuck in the clay. Less dramatically, each bit of knowledge contributes to the critical mass needed for the chain reaction of understanding.
The details of the legal tragedy are complicated. Basically the Islamic Republic of Iran did not bother to show up as a defendant, and the plaintiffs won by default. The issue has caused the executive branch and the Judicial branch to lock legal horns so that at this point an act of congress is the most promising way to save these artifacts. Elected officials however do not wish to appear to be taking the side of Iran. To make the job more attractive congress needs to know that there is public support for it. In a predominantly Judeo-Christian nation, emphasizing the connection of these artifacts to the bible would make it more likely for congress to act.
On the International front, Iran has threatened to retaliate if the artifacts are auctioned. Retaliate how? One may worry. By further destroying humanity’s common heritage? Iran must make it clear that this is not the content of its threat. By taking a morally strong position Iran would make it easier to gain public support for the cause of keeping these artifacts where they belong, in universities and museums.
The state of Israel is paying Diana Campuzano’s medical bills. To add farsightedness to generosity Israel should do what it can to help save these Achaemenid artifacts from being cast into the winds of commerce. Not only are the artifacts relevant to her own history, Israel should keep in mind that Iran may not stay a radical Islamic Republic. When the time comes for Iran to reassess her policy towards Israel, the Achaemenid Cyrus would be pleased that the nation he once freed from slavery remembered him and returned his favor.
Refrences:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyrus_in_the_Judeo-Christian_tradition
Esther’s Children A portrait of Iranian Jews.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purim
Monday, July 03, 2006
Let Me Tell You Where I Have Been
Let Me Tell You Where I Have Been:
New Writing by Women of the Iranian Diaspora
Edited by Persis Karim
“Ey khoda een vasl raa hejraan makon,“ says Rumi. God, do not let this union become a hejraan. The Persian word hejraan begins with a sigh and breaks like a sob. It cannot be translated into English. Yet in her poem “Separation,” Iranian-American poet Farnaz Fatemi hints at the meaning:
“…I have learned too much
about movement, not enough about
how the heart can translate
the language of separation into words.”
Let Me Tell You Where I Have Been translates the language of hejraan into English. The result is deep literature sometimes surpassing what could have been said in Persian. Perhaps circumstance has led the writers in this collection to appreciate an extra dimension in the opening verses of Rumi’s Mathnavi:
"Listen to the reed for it tells a story,
complaining of separations"
Rumi too was writing in a land far from his ancestral home. His mystical desire to return to the Beloved is rooted in the earth of his birthplace. Like some of the contributors in Let Me Tell You, Rumi’s exile began when he was just a child. His family was driven away by the Mongol invasion. This thirteenth century social upheaval decimated Iran’s population and gouged deep wounds in the Iranian psyche.
The trauma of Iran’s 1979 revolution has now added another scar. Many of the modern day Rumis in Let Me Tell You have been driven away by the revolution and Iran’s subsequent war with Iraq. How the pain is expressed in writing reflects individual personalities. Gelareh Asayesh is mystical. She says, “With that first trip back [to Iran], I began the long, slow road toward resurrecting a buried self. And vowed I would never suffer that inner shriveling of an isolated core, the immigrant’s small death, again.”
Niloofar Kalaam’s “The Sun Is a Dying Star” seems a rambling Jane Austen dilemma of love and money in marriage, but suddenly snaps into harsh focus as a powerful tale of imprisonment and rape.
Parinaz Eleish makes her lament this way:
"And my brother’s off to war.
How thoughtlessly beautiful the persimmons
Feel in the bloody dusk.
I long to hang from a tree
Watch my grandmother pray in the shade.
For even one more day."
Refusing to board the back of a bus in Tehran, Mitra Parineh’s American-born female character explains to her aunt, “We did this with black people in our country, a long time ago. How can you be serious? I will not ride that fucking bus.”
To which the aunt replies, “Stop it. This is not your country. This is not your people.”
Yet a few pages into the story the ache of hejran begs for reunion:
"Ay Khaleh, she says to me and sighs big. I am listening carefully, hoping she'll say something
and it occurs to me for the first time: why do we do this in Farsi? I call her Khaleh, Auntie, and
she calls me Khaleh back. I think of my father. Baba, Daddy. Baba Joon, he calls me, Daddy
Dear. They reverse the casual term of endearment and it becomes that-- endearing,
affectionate."
Yes “they” do speak with the voice of their beloved, and the effect is more than endearment, it is oneness. It is “they” being “us.”
Michelle Koukhab’s hejraan manifests in her yearning for the tender touch of tradition in the postpartum ritual of the public bath, where
"Sisters wrap my mother’s waist with egg yolk
and chick-peas paste…
[In America] I can have children, but no healing ceremony.
In my healing of parts below the navel, I can only spread
Glue with tongue depressors. This gap opens sometimes
Between the places we are born and the places that we live."
Hejraan in English.
Yet with poetic irony some of the writers protest that their Western refuge is not far enough from tradition. Sheila Shirazi, perhaps after a bitter breakup:
"…The hands of the cultural clock
are closed ‘round my throat…
Are you happy now, Maman, Baba?
No more fucking."
Some have concluded that their Western refuge is no refuge at all. In an excerpt from Funny in Farsi, her best selling panegyric on America, even Firoozeh Dumas manages a suppressed ouch. “My relatives did not think Americans were very kind,” she complains timidly. But the Iranian American writer PAZ is more colorfully outspoken:
"[Before the 1979 revolution] one of my favorite memories is of the time when Becky
showed me how to use a red plastic Barbie golf club to get myself off, and then subsequently
to get her off as well. After we were done playing in the lazy, sun-strewn desert
afternoons we would slip away to Becky’s apartment to eat an early American supper....
[After the 1979 revolution] Becky’s family stopped inviting me over for pork
dinners.TheWright sisters, who were my favorite orange tree pals, were no longer allowed to
come over in the afternoons to play. Their father who was a minister at the Presbyterian
church around the corner, stopped dropping by to have enlightened religious conversations
with my father. And someone—to this day I don’t know who—blew the cover on my sexual
adventures....
It was 1979 and I realized that my whole world has shifted. I was going to have to reinvent
myself so I could belong in America, belong to my Muslim Iranian family, belong to a world
which didn’t like me as I was. I had a long, hard road ahead of me."
For PAZ politics was a slap in the face to wake up to the realities of tribalism, while for Poet Sanaz Banu Nikaein the awakening moment comes every time she looks in the social mirror, "I am an Iranian with terrorist tattooed on my forehead…."
The brilliant Azadeh Moaveni needs no awakening to politics. Her book Lipstick Jihad sometimes dazzles with insight. The excerpt in Let Me Tell You is one of her dimmer moments, but it does reveal an interesting phenomenon—how Iranian-Americans import Western values into Iran. When an Iranian girlfriend seeks advice about a romantic partner, Moaveni offers this bit of naïve American feminism:
"So I tried to explain that like many men, her boyfriend was intimidated by how much he
wanted sex and that it was easier for him to vulgarize intimacy than admit that she (a mere
girl/woman) controlled the supply of the most powerful physical experience of his existence.”
Supply?? Capitalist feminism at its most crass! The politically savvy Moaveni would agree that righting of Iran’s policy towards women is more urgent than any military preparations. Gaining the women’s support is not only a human rights issue, it’s a matter of national survival. Therefore, we look to thoughful people like Moaveni to think out-of-the-box, to discover new, workable solutions that do not trigger Iran's immune reaction to transplantation. Western feminist rancor has proven counter-productive even in the West.
And in return for such Western exports, what have these Iranian-American women writers imported from Iranian culture? Its most valuable treasure—Iran’s literary tradition. Mimi Khalvati’s poem in the ghazal style of Hafez is such an astonishingly beautiful love poem I am tempted to reproduce it here in its entirety. But it feels like sacrilege to put such gentleness through computer hardware. Read it in the book.
Some Muslim Iranian-Americans don’t place the Koran on their Haftsin table anymore. The excesses of the Islamic Republic have inclined them to decorate the traditional spread with a book of Hafez instead. Perhaps Diaspora Iranians should start a new custom. Each year place the new book that has most clearly expressed our hejraan. I nominate Let Me Tell You Where I Have Been as the Haftsin book of the year.
New Writing by Women of the Iranian Diaspora
Edited by Persis Karim
“Ey khoda een vasl raa hejraan makon,“ says Rumi. God, do not let this union become a hejraan. The Persian word hejraan begins with a sigh and breaks like a sob. It cannot be translated into English. Yet in her poem “Separation,” Iranian-American poet Farnaz Fatemi hints at the meaning:
“…I have learned too much
about movement, not enough about
how the heart can translate
the language of separation into words.”
Let Me Tell You Where I Have Been translates the language of hejraan into English. The result is deep literature sometimes surpassing what could have been said in Persian. Perhaps circumstance has led the writers in this collection to appreciate an extra dimension in the opening verses of Rumi’s Mathnavi:
"Listen to the reed for it tells a story,
complaining of separations"
Rumi too was writing in a land far from his ancestral home. His mystical desire to return to the Beloved is rooted in the earth of his birthplace. Like some of the contributors in Let Me Tell You, Rumi’s exile began when he was just a child. His family was driven away by the Mongol invasion. This thirteenth century social upheaval decimated Iran’s population and gouged deep wounds in the Iranian psyche.
The trauma of Iran’s 1979 revolution has now added another scar. Many of the modern day Rumis in Let Me Tell You have been driven away by the revolution and Iran’s subsequent war with Iraq. How the pain is expressed in writing reflects individual personalities. Gelareh Asayesh is mystical. She says, “With that first trip back [to Iran], I began the long, slow road toward resurrecting a buried self. And vowed I would never suffer that inner shriveling of an isolated core, the immigrant’s small death, again.”
Niloofar Kalaam’s “The Sun Is a Dying Star” seems a rambling Jane Austen dilemma of love and money in marriage, but suddenly snaps into harsh focus as a powerful tale of imprisonment and rape.
Parinaz Eleish makes her lament this way:
"And my brother’s off to war.
How thoughtlessly beautiful the persimmons
Feel in the bloody dusk.
I long to hang from a tree
Watch my grandmother pray in the shade.
For even one more day."
Refusing to board the back of a bus in Tehran, Mitra Parineh’s American-born female character explains to her aunt, “We did this with black people in our country, a long time ago. How can you be serious? I will not ride that fucking bus.”
To which the aunt replies, “Stop it. This is not your country. This is not your people.”
Yet a few pages into the story the ache of hejran begs for reunion:
"Ay Khaleh, she says to me and sighs big. I am listening carefully, hoping she'll say something
and it occurs to me for the first time: why do we do this in Farsi? I call her Khaleh, Auntie, and
she calls me Khaleh back. I think of my father. Baba, Daddy. Baba Joon, he calls me, Daddy
Dear. They reverse the casual term of endearment and it becomes that-- endearing,
affectionate."
Yes “they” do speak with the voice of their beloved, and the effect is more than endearment, it is oneness. It is “they” being “us.”
Michelle Koukhab’s hejraan manifests in her yearning for the tender touch of tradition in the postpartum ritual of the public bath, where
"Sisters wrap my mother’s waist with egg yolk
and chick-peas paste…
[In America] I can have children, but no healing ceremony.
In my healing of parts below the navel, I can only spread
Glue with tongue depressors. This gap opens sometimes
Between the places we are born and the places that we live."
Hejraan in English.
Yet with poetic irony some of the writers protest that their Western refuge is not far enough from tradition. Sheila Shirazi, perhaps after a bitter breakup:
"…The hands of the cultural clock
are closed ‘round my throat…
Are you happy now, Maman, Baba?
No more fucking."
Some have concluded that their Western refuge is no refuge at all. In an excerpt from Funny in Farsi, her best selling panegyric on America, even Firoozeh Dumas manages a suppressed ouch. “My relatives did not think Americans were very kind,” she complains timidly. But the Iranian American writer PAZ is more colorfully outspoken:
"[Before the 1979 revolution] one of my favorite memories is of the time when Becky
showed me how to use a red plastic Barbie golf club to get myself off, and then subsequently
to get her off as well. After we were done playing in the lazy, sun-strewn desert
afternoons we would slip away to Becky’s apartment to eat an early American supper....
[After the 1979 revolution] Becky’s family stopped inviting me over for pork
dinners.TheWright sisters, who were my favorite orange tree pals, were no longer allowed to
come over in the afternoons to play. Their father who was a minister at the Presbyterian
church around the corner, stopped dropping by to have enlightened religious conversations
with my father. And someone—to this day I don’t know who—blew the cover on my sexual
adventures....
It was 1979 and I realized that my whole world has shifted. I was going to have to reinvent
myself so I could belong in America, belong to my Muslim Iranian family, belong to a world
which didn’t like me as I was. I had a long, hard road ahead of me."
For PAZ politics was a slap in the face to wake up to the realities of tribalism, while for Poet Sanaz Banu Nikaein the awakening moment comes every time she looks in the social mirror, "I am an Iranian with terrorist tattooed on my forehead…."
The brilliant Azadeh Moaveni needs no awakening to politics. Her book Lipstick Jihad sometimes dazzles with insight. The excerpt in Let Me Tell You is one of her dimmer moments, but it does reveal an interesting phenomenon—how Iranian-Americans import Western values into Iran. When an Iranian girlfriend seeks advice about a romantic partner, Moaveni offers this bit of naïve American feminism:
"So I tried to explain that like many men, her boyfriend was intimidated by how much he
wanted sex and that it was easier for him to vulgarize intimacy than admit that she (a mere
girl/woman) controlled the supply of the most powerful physical experience of his existence.”
Supply?? Capitalist feminism at its most crass! The politically savvy Moaveni would agree that righting of Iran’s policy towards women is more urgent than any military preparations. Gaining the women’s support is not only a human rights issue, it’s a matter of national survival. Therefore, we look to thoughful people like Moaveni to think out-of-the-box, to discover new, workable solutions that do not trigger Iran's immune reaction to transplantation. Western feminist rancor has proven counter-productive even in the West.
And in return for such Western exports, what have these Iranian-American women writers imported from Iranian culture? Its most valuable treasure—Iran’s literary tradition. Mimi Khalvati’s poem in the ghazal style of Hafez is such an astonishingly beautiful love poem I am tempted to reproduce it here in its entirety. But it feels like sacrilege to put such gentleness through computer hardware. Read it in the book.
Some Muslim Iranian-Americans don’t place the Koran on their Haftsin table anymore. The excesses of the Islamic Republic have inclined them to decorate the traditional spread with a book of Hafez instead. Perhaps Diaspora Iranians should start a new custom. Each year place the new book that has most clearly expressed our hejraan. I nominate Let Me Tell You Where I Have Been as the Haftsin book of the year.
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