Arts and Literature

A Saturday in May

The day starts innocently enough. Having gone out the night before, I sleep in a little, before setting off for my morning run. I feel victorious at having once again completed the 5 mile trail. I record a new personal best. For a mediocre runner such as I, that amounts to shaving off a second or two from the mile. Every personal best deserves to be celebrated. So, I promise myself a small piece of chocolate after dinner. I start on the usual Saturday morning chores – laundry, grocery shopping, a little cleaning here and there and lastly the hairdresser’s. I was to meet him at around noon. Dressed, made up and ready, I settle on my leather recliner – cherishing the moment. I slowly drift into a delicious slumber, only to be nudged awake by the ring of my phone>>>

Babak's Story

Maryam loved Babak and Azita. They were her best friends in the world. Babak had been her first friend in the US, when she had first arrived from Iran. She and Babak had gone through college together, had helped each other through some rough time, and had celebrated each other’s weddings. They had also helped each other through their divorces. They could talk about anything and everything, politics and arts and gossip, and they never grew tired of each other’s company. Luckily for both of them, the men and women who had entered each of their lives seldom felt threatened by their deep friendship. Maryam was so happy to see Babak’s life brighten up when Azita entered it. Mature adults and professionals, lovely and compatible together, they were a joy to watch and to have around>>>

شاخه ای جدید در صحنۀ رپ

بنظر می آید اینروزها رپ فارس وارد مرحلۀ جدید دیگری شده است و با به میدان آمدن رپ خوان های معترضی مانند «ماهور» و «بهرام» از شاخه ای جدید در صحنۀ هیپ هاپ ایران، یعنی رپ آگاه، اعتراضی و یا رپ انتقادی-اجتماعی به ما خبر می دهد. «بهرام» یکی از رپ خوان های فعال در صحنۀ هیپ هاپ ایران می باشد که بتازگی نامش بر سر زبان طرفداران و شنوندگان کنجکاو موسیقی رپ فارس افتاده است و شهرت وی به عنوان آوای معترض نسل جوان و تحولجوی داخل ایران حتی به آنسوی مرزهای ایران نیز رسیده است. یکی از قطعه های رپ خوانی که از «بهرام» در وبلاگ ها و سایت های ویژۀ موسیقی رپ فارس انتشار پیدا کرده و به سرعت نام وی را به عنوان یکی از معدود رپ خوان های انتقادی-اجتماعی درون-مرزی معرفی و مطرح کرد، رپ-نوشته ای بود تحت عنوان "نامه ای به رئیس جمهور".>>>

Half a child

The war started on the last day of the summer 1980. It changed everything. It destroyed our neighborhoods and brought whoever lived in the lasting ruins closer to each other, but it separated us from the rest of the peaceful world. The change didn't happen slowly. It was abrupt. It occurred on a Tuesday night, in the third week of war at 10:30 PM. At 6:45 the sirens echoed and Tehran went dark. I hid inside my usual shelter, my closet, and my parents found refuge in the bathroom. We waited. The noise of a jet - flying high- turned into a deep powerful rumbling, as if thunderstorms were descending from skies, but before the first eruptions, a long moment of silence fell on the waiting city>>>

The Foghorns at Night

There are nights in San Francisco when I wake up in the middle of the night and hear the foghorns out in the bay, and I have lain in bed and felt the beauty of where I live, listening to the different sounds at their different intervals, and the whole idea of a horn sounding over the land and the sea has been one that has made the night and the city feel like my own. It has sounded like a horn that is watching over everyone sleeping, and those who are awake and coming to rest after crossing an ocean, and listening to it purposefully feels like it gives me a little access to all it sees. I have tried to think about places where a horn sounding at night does not carry any of the beauty of a city, places like Baghdad, where those horns carry an ugliness instead>>>

Downhill since

The new Khan of the united Mongol tribes (Genghis) was rapidly expanding eastward into the Chinese territories, but apparently; he was considering Iran more as a potential trade partner towards Europe, rather than an immediate target. Therefore, Genghis was astonished when the riches of a Mongol caravan were confiscated by the border guards of Iran, and all the 200 merchants and guards were executed. He sent another group of emissaries directly to Khwarizm Shah’s court with a plea for retribution, but they too were killed! In response, the angered Mongol chief sent a massive army of 200,000 murderers into Iran.The first wave of Mongol invasion (1220 to 1224) destroyed most of the Khorasan cities (the cradle of Farsi civilization), killing millions and enslaving millions more! All eastern centers of Iranian culture, agriculture and business were irrevocably destroyed or devastated>>>

A Word of Warning!

When nations are under pressure
Dogma rules the day and it goes unquestioned
Established views become final
Protected from any challenge
In these circumstances
Those who do not go along
And offend the conventional views
Take a serious risk >>>

‏برگشتن روزگار سهل است

روز پنجشنبه ۱۸ ارديبهشت ۱۳۵۹ روزنامه کيهان نوشت: "ساعت يک و نيم بامداد امروز فرخ‌رو پارساي تيرباران ‏شد". مرده‌شوي‌ها از شستن جسد وي خودداري کردند زيرا وي به نام "مفسد في‌الارض" اعدام شده بود. زنان خانواده ‏بودند که پيکر وي را شستند و ديدند که سه تير به زير سينه‌اش اصابت کرده و از پشت بدنش خارج شده است. اين ‏سرنوشت زني بود که در خانه مادري چون فخرآفاق پاراسي ناشر مجله "جهان زنان" و پدري چون فرخ‌دين پارساي از ‏روزنامه‌نگاران بنام زمانه خود پرورش يافته بود. پدر و مادري که تلخي توقيف و تبعيد را در کشاکش تناقضات دوراني ‏که ايران راهي نوين را در پيش گرفته بود، چشيده بودند. مادر از پيشتازان مبارزه براي حقوق زنان و از ياران صديقه ‏دولت‌آبادي بود و پدر در شمار کساني که زبان خود را نگاه نمي‌توانستند داشت.‏>>>

Reading Kafka at Harvard (5)

“Mr. Afrasiabi. The DA has just given me this piece of paper telling me that after due investigation there is no evidence connecting you to any of these charges. Go home, you are free, and thank God that you live in a free society where there is due process of law.” These were the exact words of the judge presiding at my initial pre-trial hearing more than four months after my arrest. ”Thank you, your honor. It’s Dr. Afrasiabi. While I am happy that these charges against me have been dropped, I am very unhappy that they were attached to me in the first place. The damage has been done. I have lost my job, my income, my reputation has been severely damaged, and I have incurred tremendous costs, not to mention the emotional pain on me and my family...>>>

Pebble Beach – Half a Sandwich

I call his room from the hotel lobby. It wakes him up. A brief silence. He asks me whether I want to go up. Hesitation. I respond that I will wait for him in the lobby. I am not in the least bit offended; surprised a little; flattered somewhat, but interested, I am not. I grab a cup of coffee and the local paper, and settle into one of the plush chairs in the foyer. I pore over the Carmel news with gusto. A local resident has come across a $20 counterfeit bill at Dolores and Ocean which he dutifully turns in to the local authorities. A squirrel has munched his way through the front seat of a car parked at Mission and 7th. A resident on San Antonio finds the tires of her car missing. The culprit turns out to be an ex-boyfriend who has disabled her mode of transportation in exchange for the money she owes him>>>

دونده ها

این مرد هر صبح زودتر از من
شروع می کند روزدوی اش را
زودتر من که کورمال کورمال
راهم را به سمت "ماشین دو"
پیدا می کنم و دکمه ی شروع را می زنم.
توی گرگ و میش بیرون
او خم می شود با ضرباهنگی منظم
به سمت سطل آشغال >>>

Zoroastrian Poem

My friend Dolly was the last one who saw P. alive. Peter Rostopovich Stihotvoreniev was Dolly’s boyfriend, but everybody had already forgotten his full name. It was Dolly who introduced him as P. We were both poets. Living in this town, surrounded by the shores of the Pacific Ocean, the tang of civilization had dispersed in the salty waves of our encircling borders and we were slowly being isolated by the rest of the world. A narrow path was the only link between the city and the continent. Many immigrants had found refuge in this far island and we suspected they could be escaping from something horrific in their past>>>

Riposte

Before the empire's rage,
before dark men, in shadows,
furious in the calm that reigned,
or will deservedly reign,
narrowed eyes, narrowed lips
and for what glory?
For what power and dominion?
For flamed swords? Taken from
the hands of fallen angels? >>>

حریق

وجدی موواد در زمینه تئاتر، نمایشنامه نویس و کارگردان و بازیگر است و جوایز بسیاری دریافت کرده که یکی از آنها جایزه مولیر در سال 2005 است که آن را به دلیل بی توجهی ناشران به کار نمایشنامه نویسان جوان در فرانسه رد کرد. او در فرانسه بسیار محبوب است و در سالهای اخیر نمایشنامه هایش مرتب در سالنها به روی صحنه رفته است و یا در جشنواره های فرانسه اجرا می شود. نمایشنامه "حریق"، با مرگ زنی آغاز می شود و با خواندن وصیت نامه اش. او برای هر یک از دو فرزند بازمانده (یک دختر و پسر دوقلو)، نامه ای گذاشته است که در آن نامه از هر دوشان می خواهد به جستجوی پدر و برادر خود بروند و نامه ای از مادر خود را به او بدهند. "حریق" بازتاب جنگ و پرتاب شدن در جهانی سوزان و در میان شعله های آتش است.>>>

Got Depression?

My brother called the other day. I was a bit surprised. We don’t talk much. Life has been busy and our relationship has been reduced to quick chitchats, consisting of a few words and not much content. We sometimes go for months without talking. Dealing with kids, wives, demanding jobs, the in-laws, and everything in between, leave us both with no time or energy to keep the communication channels open. He sounded stressed on the phone. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “Well, you know, shit hit the fan with Kami. We got issues,” My brother said. Kami is my brother’s teenaged son. The kid is a bit strange and very shy. He is one them kids who wear only black and walk around in long trench coats and military boots. He scares me.>>>

A Dead Man, a Wife, a Mistress, and a Daughter

Last March I went to see Darvag Theater’s play, In Memory of Kazem Ashtari with dear friends in Berkeley. I was blown away by the play’s original storyline, the crisp and clever dialogue, and the stellar performances of its cast. I found the whirlwind of plot twists and developments dazzling and so entertaining! Sepideh Khosrowjah’s dialogues all through a complex plot were exquisitely simple, yet thought provoking. What would a woman do when her husband dies suddenly? What would she and her late husband’s mistress tell each other if they were to meet? This story is delicious!>>>

Reading Kafka at Harvard (4)

On January 27, 1996, the Boston Herald featured a rather unusual article that, its title alone – Harvard professor’s galpal accuses his rival of extortion – must have given serious shivers to Henry James in his grave. Times have surely changed for the worse at Harvard and, sitting in jail like one of Becket’s clowns waiting for a just and expedient end to the horror leveled on me and my family, I concentrated on the necessary antidotes that would keep me from being fated like another Joseph K. The article is worth quoting at length: “A muddied case of alleged extortion, spiced with Middle East intrigue and Harvard prestige grew even murkier yesterday when the only real witness did not pick out the alleged bad guy in court…Shobhana Rana claims she twice turned over $250 payments of her professor-boyfriend’s cash to a death-threatening Iranian last Fall>>>