Arts and Literature

جهانی شدن ادبیات

جهاني كردن ادبيات ايران چند سالی‌ست که به یکی از داغ‌ترین بحث‌های جامعه‌ی ادبی‌مان تبدیل شده است. عده‌ای کوتاهیِ مترجمان ایرانی را مهم‌ترین عامل معرفی نشدن آثار ادبی ما به آن سوی مرزها می‌دانند و کسی نیست از آنها بپرسد که آیا ادبیات بقیه‌ی کشورها را هم مترجمان همان کشورها به جهانیان شناسانده‌اند؟ اشتباه نکنید؛ هدف ما از برگزاری این میزگرد، مچ‌گیری از مقصر اصلیِ جهانی نشدنِ ادبیات ایران نیست، بلکه در کنار این بحث که جهانی‌ شدن اصولاً چقدر حائز ارزش و اهمیت است، به بررسی گرایش شاعران و نویسندگان ایرانی به جهانی شدن و به تبع آن، تئوری‌های جهانی در ادبیات و فلسفه و مقایسه‌ی این رویکرد با گرایش‌های شاعران و نویسندگان مهاجر - که در قلب آنچه از نظر بسیاری «جهان» محسوب می‌شود، زندگی می‌کنند - پرداخته‌ایم>>>

Thief

Steal the night and all its
Mysteries so that
When you seduce that one star
She cannot complain that hers were
The only lips lingering in awe.
Bow in front of sun and let it
Draw a sword and slice your smile
Onto pieces, then let your spilled
Blood become not a motto
But lessons embedded in your soul >>>

Squeezed between Russia and Britain

After Agha Mohammad fell, his army disintegrated and several months of infighting followed among the Qajar princes. Finally, his nephew was crowned as Fatah-Ali Shah, in 1798, whose only Fatah (victory) was over several hundred wives and concubines. The 35 years of Fatah-Ali Shah’s reign witnessed a gradual decline of Qajar dynasty, who started the nineteenth century like blood-thirsty wolves, but finished it like frail rats. The crippling blow came in the form of Persian-Russian wars. In 1800, incapable of protecting his people against the Qajar invasions, the king of Georgia simply relinquished his crown to the Tsar of Russia! This initiated 14 years of war that coincided with the Napoleonic wars in Europe>>>

قصه کوچ

در "بخارست" هواپيما عوض مى کرديم. هوا آزار دهنده سرد بود. برفى سنگين فرودگاه را پر از اشباح کرده بود. شلاق باد، ساچمه هاى ريز برف را بيرحمانه در پوست صورت مىچکاند. نور زرد و بى حال تک توک چراغ هاى ترمينال دوردست با تاريکى مسلط بر همه جا، کارى نداشت. چهار صبح بود، مامورين سلاح به دست که تا گردن درلباس هايشان فرو رفته بودند، از زير کلاه پوست هاى چرک و بى قواره خود، تک تک مسافران را مى پائيدند. از پله هاى هواپيما که سرازير شديم، نگاه هايمان راکه بى اختيار روى آنها افتاده بود جمع کرديم. سه ساعتى را بايد درانتظار کشنده باشيم، و براى سوار شدن، از سد کنترل پاسپورت بگذريم. از "بانکوک" مى آمديم. در آنجا داشتيم مى پوسيديم. بدون " پاس " به پاکستان و از آنجا به تايلند رفته بوديم. هر جاى ديگر را فکر کرده بوديم جز"تايلند" را. و حالا داشتيم بيرون مى زديم>>>

Reading Kafka at Harvard (7)

“It’s very critical. It’s so critical it can win this case or blow it right out of the water.” In the official court transcripts of the civil action, Afrasiabi versus Harvard, case number EFH12200, these words of the honorable justice Michael Harrington are found. It was day 8 of the jury trial and Judge Harrington was referring to the findings of the hand-writing experts stating that in their opinion the hand-writing of the Harvard detective on trial, Richard Mederos, matched the hand-writing of the person who had purportedly extorted money from the subordinates of professor Roy Mottahedeh. It meant that my allegation of a malicious conspiracy were about to be proved to the jury.>>>

Seema

Like many of my Iranian compatriots, I frequent Las Vegas for three primary reasons: gambling, alcohol and a hooker named Seema. If hookers were rated based on appeal and performance, Seema would have been up there with the best of them. Seema is beautiful -- damn beautiful. She looks something like a malnourished Bollywood star blended with Selma Hayek and a drop of Kate Moss. If that look does it for you, Seema is your girl. Her best features, by far, are her eyes. They are dark and mysterious. Her long legs, perfect nose (nose job) and bodacious tatas (implants) make her stand out in the crowd.>>>

You’re not a MAN!

That’s right Mr. Gordon! I believe so… Yes…you can call me Ahmad M in your report. I was Jamshid’s interpreter for the whole four days…Mr Jamshd was from Yakubi village…Yakubi village? Yes, it’s…. about 45 minutes away from the American military bases. Yes, it was December 5, a few hours after the rocket attack on the military base that the security guards captured him…the attack happened in the morning and they captured him after sunset…just a few hours... Jamshid’s only possession was a used Toyota whose family bought for him so he could work as a taxi driver.>>>

جنده های اسب سوار

جنده های اسب سوار از راه رسیدند و بی آنکه به اسب هایشان آب و یونجه ای بدهند در انباری بزرگ را باز کردند و با موهای سیاه و قهوه ای و طلایی شان لباس از تن کندند و در رختخواب بزرگ کف انباری با لودگی و عشوه با بزرگ ترهای دهکده شروع به عشق بازی کردند. این سکس و تن فروشی از روی عادت نبود - مسابقه ای برای بهترین عشق بازی بود. پیر و جوان دهکده کار خودشان را می کردند و کاری هم به هیچ صدا و حرکت و نگاهی نداشتد. عشق بازی بود و بس! بی هیچ عشق واقعی .>>>

Santa is ours

I have a recurring dream. I fly to the homes of Jews, Muslims, and leave presents for their children. Christians are outraged. In one north London school, Jews and the Muslims who’ve received Xboxes from me are punched and kicked by the parents of other children. “Santa is ours,” they say. “He’s ours, you can’t have him”. Newspapers columnists: "It's multicultural madness when Santa Claus favours the children of lesbian disabled Jews and Muslims instead of the people who invented him.” In the dream I fly to Lapland. It's not my intention to favour non-Christians, it just happens that way. As for the Jews and Muslims, they are forced into a unity under oppression after being spat at on the school run>>>

Illusion

“I’ll be home a little late,” Adam said to his wife on the cell phone. “How late is late? You know we have guests tonight. Salad and entertainment are your responsibilities.” Shiva said. “That’s exactly why I’ll be late. I need to get a book before I come home. I’ll show you some incredible artworks. A co-worker of mine had a calendar designed with optical illusions. They’re amazing. You’ve never seen anything like it.” “You mean like M. C. Escher’s artwork?” She asked. “Yes, but more mystical. Some of them are really mind boggling. These artworks really threw me off. You’ve got to see them.” “Known artists?” “Most of them are not. We’ll find out tonight.” “Hmm, that’d make an interesting subject of conversation.” >>>

من خود ایران هستم!

در تركیه خود را بیحقوق می‌بینم، در فرانسه پناهنده و در امریكا شهروند؛ اما در همه حال یك تبعیدی. سه صفت نخست، وضعیت قانونی مرا در كشوری كه به آن وارد شدم نشان می‌دهد و صفت آخرین، ذهنیت مرا نسبت به وطنی كه ناگزیر به ترك آن شدم. خواه در امریكا بمیرم، روبروی پسرم "آزاد" كه بر بالینم ایستاده و خواه به وطن بازگردم، اگر روی آزادی را ببیند، باز من یك تبعیدی خواهم ماند. درست مثل آن دریانوردی كه نوار آواز او را در كلاس‏ درس‏ فرانسویم در دهكده‌ی "شانتونه" در سال 83 شنیدم كه پس‏ از سال‌ها كه به میهن بازگشته بود آنجا را غریبه یافت و دوباره به سوی دریا بازگشت. نباید خود را گول بزنم: چه خود را در لس‏آنجلس‏ جزیی از یك جامعه‌ی "موفق" ایرانی امریكایی ببینم و نام این شهر را به "تهران‌جلس" تغییر دهم، و چه خود را چون نادرپور شاعر غریبه‌ای در "شیطان‌جلس" بینگارم، باز یك تبعیدی خواهم ماند. پس‏ بهتر است كه به جای خودفریبی، هویت خود را بشناسم و آن را قدر بگذارم.>>>

عطش

گاه دیده ام نیشخند عقربه
در چهرهء صامت یک ساعت
گاه حس کرده ام خستگی کفش
در دویدنهای بیهوده، بی آهنگ
گاه فهمیده ام سایهء ماسیده به دیوار
در کلافگی ظهر یک خورشید >>>

Kill the Black Dog

The unrelenting August rain pounded the cabin roof of an Alaskan Chilkat Valley campground. Sitting by the crackling fire and looking through a large window, I could see soaring snow-capped mountains and thousands of bald eagles feasting on the abundant Chilkat River’s salmon. The remoteness of the unspoiled wilderness made me feel as if I had arrived at the end of the world. About several dozen people had come to this camp for a week of rest and restoration that included informal talks and workshops. It was a recess time. One of the participants, a very elderly Tlinget Indian man and I sat together enjoying the magnificent display of nature>>>

Self-desired loneliness

I was reading a piece in Persian about J.M.G. Le Clezio, the winner of this year’s Nobel Literature Prize. If you allow me to go to a tangent at the beginning of an essay; it never fails to surprise, and delight me, to see how active Iranians, the ones living in Iran, are in pursuing international and global issues of art, literature, and basically what helps us continue to be human. Considering the information blockade which prevails there, it is quite striking to read pieces in so many journals which show a deep understanding of issues beyond the borders of Iran, and even beyond the immediate concerns of Iranians. I have it from several sources, one particularly reliable, that Iran alone publishes more translated literature than its neighbouring Arab countries together. >>>

پرونده تئاتر شهر در تهران

فرهنگ زدایی شاخ و دم ندارد. به همین سادگی آب می بندند به پاسارگاد! از زیر چهارباغ مترو رد می کنند و در کنار بیستون بایست حتماً یک اتوبان بسازند تا تمام علائم گذشته و تمدن پیشین محو شود. به همین سادگی! تصورش را بکنید که یک کشور هفتاد و چند میلیونی فقط چند سالن تئاترش فعال باشد! و تازه فعال ترین سالن در معرض انواع و اقسام تهدیدهاست. می خواهند از زیرش مترو رد کنند! در سی سال گذشته، در هر گوشه پارک دانشجو مسجدی ساخته اند و از یاد نبریم که تمام نمایشهایی که در این سالن اجرا می شود از زیر دست و نظر و خودکامگی های صاف چی های ارشادی و ممیزی های گوناگون گذشته است. >>>

Father of Ballet in Iran

Sarkis Djanbazian was the first ballet master, choreographer, and producer who established a ballet academy in Iran. He was also the first male ballet dancer who performed on stage in different cities in Iran. Owing to his significant contributions to teaching, staging, and raising awareness towards ballet in Iran, Djanbazian is widely regarded as “the Father of Ballet in Iran”. Sarkis Djanbazian was born on January 15, 1913 in Armaveer in Armenia. From early childhood, he took an avid interest in the arts especially in dance. After graduating from high school, he went to Leningrad to study dance. He graduated from Vaganova Dance Academy of Leningrad and from Lesgaf University with a Masters of Arts degree. After graduation, he worked as a principal dancer, choreographer, and artistic director in Kirov Theatre in Leningrad until July of 1938>>>

Reading Kafka at Harvard (6)

The evisceration of boundaries and any observable limits to the power of law is another insight of Kafka’s The Trial. The above statement by the Harvard University police officer investigating the crimes of extortion and death threats, alleged by two subordinates of professor Roy Mottahedeh and maliciously attached to me, appears on page 29 of Mederos’s deposition, that has been videotaped. This was an important admission that turned out to have high legal value in my civil rights law suit against Harvard; it harked back to the question that I had innocently asked Mederos and his friend about “jurisdiction” while in their cruiser on the way to the Harvard police headquarter.>>>