Perspective, Fall 2022

PERSPECTIVE

university of california, berkeley

A Letter from the Editors

Dear Reader,

It is with both excitement and careful thought that we present this semester’s issue of Perspective magazine, a semester fraught with tragedy, tension, and trauma. We have seen the righteous anger, grief, and sacrifice of the Iranian people as they fought, and keep fighting, for a better future — a fight that is eerily familiar but also entirely new. Watching from the outside with admiration and anxiety has been an experience that is not new for those in the diaspora, but those feelings, as well as the sensation of helplessness and the fear of speaking out, have reached a climax in the past few months. In the making of this issue, our writers sought community in one another, and our meetings frequently fostered broader conversations about our country. Though many of the articles do not feature the ongoing protests in Iran, they have been constantly on our mind this semester and provide a permanent undercurrent in any of our thoughts about the country and the culture. It is not this magazine’s prerogative, nor anyone’s outside of Iran, to declare what is best for the people there; the best we can do is to support them and to keep the conversation going.

Our cover for this issue is a photograph of an Iranian woman farming saffron, since we wanted to highlight the role of working class Iranian women as the driving force behind these nationwide protests. Farming saffron is incredibly labor-intensive; so too is rebuilding a country. The colors of Iran’s fields of saffron are strong and vibrant; so too are its women.

The challenge for Perspective this semester was picking up where we had left off before the pandemic. With so much turnover of editors and writers since the last time we had been fully in person, it was important for us to be rigorous about recruiting writers. We ended up with brilliant articles and dedicated people who helped us navigate the editing and laying out of this issue, which we could not have done without their help. We thank the staff endlessly for their work this semester.

This issue is dedicated to Zhina “Mahsa” Amini, as well as the people of Iran, both the martyrs and the surviving. The loss of life that we as a community have witnessed in the fight for liberation, over the past years and the past decades, is devastating. However, the Iranian people have shown and continue to show us what it means to be steadfast in the rejection of all kinds of oppression. They are, as always, incredibly resilient in the face of hardship, be it political, economic, or societal. We hope you keep the people of Iran in your mind as we do, as we all watch and hope for the rallying cry to come to fruition: woman, life, freedom.

Yours,

M. Rastgoo

Neda Nasseri Editors-in-Chief

Editors-In-Chief

M. Rastgoo

Neda Nasseri

Design Assistants

Niki Ebrahimnejad

N.

N.B.

Copy Editors

Anonymous

Ahmadzadeh

Staff Writers

Nita Sabouri

Leili Kamali

N.B.

N. AR-Y

C. Elegans

Zainab S.

Anonymous

Anonymous Anonymous

1 Listening to our khaharan

by N.B.

4 We are all hamvatan

by N.

7 Reminiscience of a childhood in tehran by AR-Y

9 Iran in color by

C. Elegans

i2 The time has come: a visual diary by Anonymous

13 The turning point of iraninan cinema by Anonymous

15 The moment i realized i wasn’t white

by Zach Roknipour

17 What the k-wave can teach iran

by Nita Sabouri

19 On saeid shanbehzadeh and habib meftah’s boushehri in babelle heureuse

by Leili Kamali

21 Music as a gateway to iran by Anonymous

23 Tell me, what can i do?

by Zainab S.

Listening to Our Khāharān Supporting Revolution in Diaspora

Inlate September 2022, I saw something that I have never seen before — an entire international discourse regarding the future of Iranian women and an Instagram timeline flooded with images of Iran.

Growing up, I always wished Iran could find its way into normal conversations. It felt confusing to be connected to a land and a culture that I had nobody to discuss with. I never had any Persian friends, and wanted people to understand situations in Iran that make the lived experiences of me and my family much harder — especially when it comes to Americans understanding how difficult my family’s lives became due to American policy. But conversations about Iran often became more confusing or defensive than educational and beneficial, and I began to avoid them.

But this largely changed in the fall of 2022 with the tragic murder of Jina (Mahsa) Amini1. High profile celebrities, ordinary people, activists, journalists, and more began posting about Amini’s murder after the news of her death spread. Amini was a 22 year old Iranian Kurdish woman who died in the hospital after the regime’s so-called “morality police” arrested her for violating hijab laws. Women in Iran have been subject to mandatory hijab laws — among other things — since the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Amini’s death — and state officials’ attempt to obscure the facts regarding it — immediately led to protests. In a majority Muslim nation, the outcry was not aimed at religion itself, but the use of religion to police women and justify harassment and violent behavior towards them. And it didn’t take long before the protests spread outside of Iran into most major cities worldwide. Globally, Amini became a symbol for international solidarity and hope.

Amini is part of a much larger history most Iranian women are deeply familiar with — a history where women are deeply afraid in public spaces be-

cause daily interactions can quickly escalate without reason. It is a history that aims to control women’s bodies, minds, and voices. It instilled fear in many Iranians back home and contains deep misconceptions abroad as well as the diaspora.

With the outcry surrounding Amini’s death, my childhood hope of a visible Iran came true and the women of Iran were finally being recognized for their bravery. However, it quickly became clear that the way we talk about Iran in the Western world has tangible impacts, and reemerging misconceptions fuel a vicious cycle that harms Iran.

Now, my initial wish has changed. I am deeply touched and inspired, yet I fear a discourse that potentially, and even unconsciously, could harm Iranian women once again. I hope that instead of simply talking about Iran, we listen to Iran.

Discussions about Iran, especially within the United States, often misrepresent the issue through generalizations or blatant misinformation. Gathering genuine information on Iran is particularly difficult — for starters, the internet in Iran was immediately shut down after the Amini protests began, and gathering credible primary sources is a constant struggle. And while we cannot control the information exiting Iran, it is the responsibility of us outside of Iran to avoid harmful stereotypes and disinformation that stifles the movement.

The first false narrative we often see in the US is when the issues in Iran are framed as an issue of Islam versus democracy — or rather any religious issue in general. The women in the streets of Iran are not attempting to separate themselves from Islam. The revolution is directly targeted at the regime. Furthermore, it is a perversion of religion to equate the problems at hand with it. The often quoted Quaranic excerpt, “There is no compulsion in religion,”

1 Amini was an Iranian woman of Kurdish origin. Her Kurdish name is Jina but the Islamic Republic required her to legally register under a Persian name. Using her preferred name, rather than her imposed name, is a nod to Jina’s Kurdish heritage and the ongoing struggles Kurdish Iranian citizens face at the hands of the Islamic Republic.

(Al-Baqarah, 256) stands with the women. To use these women as an excuse to denounce Islam is blatantly Islamaphobic and misconstrues the message of the movement.

People often say, “Why doesn’t the Islamic Republic just meet these demands and make the hijab non compulsory?” — under the belief that this simple demand will allow them to keep their power and send the protesters home with minimal loss. But this question is not situated within the context of the hijab in Iran. The hijab is deeply tied to how the regime is able to have power. Mandatory hijab was not the direct outcome of the 1979 revolution and was instituted later in 1983 when the Iraq-Iran war was underway and those leaders needed to increase their power post-revolution. It served as a daily reminder that they were pledging allegiance to this new republic, particularly in tumultuous times. A narrative that women not wearing hijabs are also disrespecting the martyrs who died for their freedom in the war complicated the role of this once-religious article and added political implications to hair covering. For many, wearing the hijab was a physical manifestation of saluting the nation and its troops.

Conversations in the Western world regarding the Middle East fall into a trap of East vs. West — often depicted as moral vs. immoral — and Iran is no exception. Iran is continually viewed as a state of oppression- a land that hates women, denies basic freedoms, and creates terrorists. Death and destruction in Iran is normal and expected — it is part of its inherent nature, and death tolls are not counted because these deaths are not “shocking.” Because of this, Iran deserves pity from those of us in the “civilized” Western world. This could be its own entire article (but is probably just best explained in Edward Said’s Orientalism), but narratives of Iran that point fingers towards the nation without understanding Iran within a global context will continue to misrepresent the history and politics.

The censorship of information coming out of Iran is a contributing factor, but the media continues to portray the Islamic Republic as deranged individuals predisposed to killing their people — an

assumption never made about Western leaders. It also removes the agency of Iranians, assuming that being against the Republic makes you pro-Americarather than being an individual Iranian citizen with demands. They assume that the future Iranians desire is one based in Eurocentric ideals of nation-building, rather than a vision that continues to be based in Iranian heritage.

Western media continually looks down on Iran as a place lacking democracy without acknowledging the very clear role the West has played in sabotaging the moments of hope and democracy that it did have. And without the interference of the United States (such as the CIA-led coup that overthrew Iran’s only democratically-elected leader, Mohammad Mosaddegh) it is possible Iranian democratic movements could have continued, although there is no genuine way to know. But one thing is for sure: these narratives are conveniently ignored in the West, but continually felt in Iran.

While a historical analysis of current politics is crucial to a genuine understanding of the situation, these politics have not dramatically changed. While Europe and the U.S. have vocally supported the women in Iran, their actions show otherwise. President Biden claims to support the women in Iran while simultaneously keeping Iranian sanctions in place. Sanctions have continually been shown to harm women and children the most2. Europe has shown a similar level of hypocrisy and imposed new sanctions in addition to passing an unofficial ban restricting Iranians from accessing a European Visa, citing fears of mass migration3. Political officials are using Iranian women as an opportunity to seem feminist without doing anything tangible to help with their situation or even changing policies that actively repress them. To genuinely stand with the women of Iran is not a performative act. It requires us to listen to them and denounce polities like sanctions and immigration bans that perpetuate their status as second class citizens. Sanctions further oppression in countless ways, but even today, those of us within the U.S. are unable to send basic necessities like money and medical supplies to those protesting on the ground. And although

2 “Unilateral Sanctions Hurt All, Especially Women, Children and Other Vulnerable Groups – UN Human Rights Expert.” OHCHR, United Nations, 8 Dec. 2021, https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2021/12/unilateral-sanctions-hurt-all-especially-women-children-and-other-vulnerable.

3 “Iranians Denounce European Embassies for Halting Visa Applications amid Unrest.” Middle East Eye, Middle East Eye, 12 Oct. 2022, https://www.middleeasteye.net/news/schengen-iran-denounce-europe-embassies-halting-visa-applications.

the American government perpetuates the belief that sanctions are targeting those in power, protesters in Iran are targeted because international solidarity with them is limited. When war breaks out in Europe, money floods into the nations affected, but when Iranians are executed by their own government, the State Department deems it illegal to send them financial support.

In this moment, it is crucial to not fall into traps that have fueled a vicious cycle in Iran — a cycle where the world claims to support them but continues to harm Iran and the women there the most. This is a call for genuine support — not momentary press statements and empty gestures. And this is not the sole responsibility of non-Iranians. Even within the diaspora, narratives riddled with Islamophobia, imperialism, and disinformation thrive. Non-Muslim Iranians in the West incorrectly blame Islam, and many advocate for the return of the Shah — while the protesters in the streets of Iran are clearly stating “down with all oppression, from the Shah to the rahbar.” This is a movement for future liberation: not a step into the past. The call for the Shah’s return through his son, a call heard most prominently in the diaspora, is a whitewashing of the actual history of the Shah. Evin Prison, the prison that many rightfully denounce as horrific and which recently gained attention when it caught on fire in mid-October4, was built by the Shah to jail his opposition.

This moment is for Iran, not the West or anyone outside of the nation. Continuing to support them and providing the support they ask for is crucial to avoid the mistakes we have made in the past — espe-

cially in regards to Western intervention, which has further destabilized the region. Nearby nations like Iraq and Syria had protests shut down with the help of the U.S., and real grievances made by citizens against their governments were hijacked by those involved in a gruesome war to exploit resources. For the first time in recent history, women in Iran have the opportunity to be heard on their terms. Iranian women do not need our pity, they need our attention. They are asking for amplification, not pity. Nobody should have to die in silence. What is happening in Iran is a largescale intersectional feminist movement where women from throughout the nation are not just fighting for the end of the morality police — they are fighting for freedom and basic needs. The call is no longer about reform, it is blossoming into a revolution. It is advocating for a reworking of the entire system, and of course this will leave the people of Iran in a vulnerable position as changes are made.

Ericka Huggins, a former member of the Black Panthers, told a fellow UC Berkeley student during a conference in October, “Do not blame yourself as a student if you do not know the full story. Certain things have been intentionally written out of history.” For so long, especially in the West, this has been true about Iran and its women. We have the opportunity to create a new history. But we must continue to learn. Having conversations regarding Iran is often difficult because of the segments left out of history. Understanding how those most affected are often the least considered is crucial to moving forward in a positive direction. Ultimately, the best way to support Iran is to listen to those within its borders.

4 Ghobadi, Parham, et al. “Evin Prison Fire: Several Dead after Fire at Iran’s Notorious Detention Centre.” BBC News, BBC, 16 Oct. 2022, https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-63271817.

We Are All Hamvatan

by N.

Thelast time I was in Iran was the summer of 2010: I was 9 years old, about to enter middle school, and had not gone since I was 3 years old. I knew I was “going home”, but understood and remembered absolutely nothing. I went to countless mehmoonis (parties, gatherings) filled with family members who all pinched my cheeks and wrapped me in tight hugs in excitement, all exclaiming the same thing: that the last time they saw me, I had been a toddler with chubby cheeks and barely any teeth. Of course, I remembered almost none of them or the interactions they described. Nonetheless, I left Iran, remembering who they were when I arrived back in America, harboring a deep sense of love and appreciation for each of them in my heart.

The next time I visited Iran was 12 years later, in the summer of 2022. Like all diaspora, my family never intended for our next visit to be so delayed. But work, school, summer classes, finances, having to move, political instability, COVID, and more all impacted our ability to return. Every summer, my parents would promise that we’d go next year. When “next summer” finally turned into “this summer”, I could barely believe it. Anxious and in disbelief, I barely told anyone about my summer plans, and refused to leave the house for 3 weeks before the flight (in fear of getting COVID and being unable to go), because I did not want to jinx or jeopardize my trip.

I instantly cried tears of joy (and sadness, that it had taken 12 years) when the airplane finally touched down in Imam Khomeini Airport. I fretted that 12 years had been too big of a gap to come back and visit. I was anxious if it would be awkward with my family after not seeing them for so long, or if my Persian-speaking skills would not be good enough. At the same time, these anxieties were overpowered by the joy of returning as a cognizant, appreciative adult.

The most saddening realization, however, was that my loved ones had aged 12 years. I realized that many of them no longer looked like the people I had remembered them to be, and that I had missed so much of their life. Given that the last time they saw

me I had been 9, and now I was 21, I know they felt the same (or my brother: he had been 6, and now, 18). My uncle, after picking me up from the airport, could not stop laughing at how much we had grown. I was overjoyed to find that interacting with my family and family friends still felt like second nature. But, it took a while to comprehend and grasp that these people were no longer pixels that I stared at in WhatsApp video calls, or people that I had heard about in my parents' or grandmother’s stories. For the next 3 weeks, they would be people I actually spent time with in real life. This was a privilege that I will never, ever take for granted. And yet, having soaked up every moment with them, I already long for the next time I can experience it.

I was also stunned by just how much I had failed to recall about Iran, as a result of my memories being held through my childhood perceptions of life. I had to ask my parents if the political murals and posters plastered throughout the country had always been there (to which, of course, they said yes); most importantly, I failed to remember ever seeing monuments, signs, or memorials of all the soldiers that died in the Iran-Iraq war. I’m genuinely unsure if, at 9 years old, my ignorance of the war and subpar Persian reading ability at the time was the reason why I didn’t register them, or if my Americanized childhood perspective made me oblivious to them. Either way, all I could notice now when I was

Azadi Tower, Tehran

in Iran, whether in rural or urban areas, was all the martyrs whose faces were plastered throughout the country in memoriam (even in sparse desert roads). I couldn’t help but succumb to my emotions — anger, grief, sadness — with every single one I looked at. Regardless of one’s political affiliation, looking at all the faces of conscripted young, innocent Iranian men who lost their lives to a horrific war was yet another everyday reminder of the constant tragedy Iranians face. I often thought about how many of them had been the same age as my brother, and wondered where their families were today.

Throughout my time there, I was in awe of all the large and small ways my people displayed resilience, despite facing some of the hardest times in history. Even with things like inflation and unemployment being at an all-time high, the streets, parks, restaurants, cafés, etc. were filled to the brim with joyful, laughing people who danced and sang the night away. Couples, young kids, families, friends, coworkers. Even up until the early hours of 4 or 5 AM, ignoring codified gender binary divisions. Honest people who, despite it all, still tried to make the most out of life, despite the daily hardships that they had been forced to grow accustomed to. My mom’s cousin, in conversation, remarked, “You Americans don’t really understand — you make money to set some aside for future expenses, vacations, personal purchases. That’s a luxury we don’t have and may never have. We don’t know what the future holds for us here, or what our money will even be worth tomorrow. The least we can do is spend the little we made today towards something that makes us feel good.”

I remember watching the news in my grandmother’s apartment one morning, feeling my heart sink to my feet when they announced that the price of 1 American dollar had soared to 40,000 Toman (funnily enough, my grandmother told me that when 1 American dollar rose to equal 7 Tomans about 45 years

ago, many people were adamant that it would soon go back down, and urged others to be frugal about spending until then). Simultaneously, they announced the iPhone, as a result, had grown to cost 85,000,000 tomans — a result of sanctions. That very same night, my mom lost her cellphone in the streets of Tehran, likely from the hole in her coat that she didn’t realize existed, until we entered my uncle’s car to go home and attempted to use her GPS to navigate us. Of course, we all panicked. She had also seen the news that morning, and knew that her phone, which held her entire life and was our lifeline for communication in Iran, would be lost forever. After all, who could blame the person that came across my mother’s phone and sold it for quick cash in these hard times? We wouldn’t. And yet, when we called my mom’s number with the smallest ounce of hope that she could perchance get it back, a young man courteously picked up the phone. He politely introduced himself and let us know that he found it in the street, took it home to safekeep it for us, and then provided his home address.

My uncle was not familiar with the exact street, and his phone was on 1% with no car charger, so we couldn’t use his GPS. My phone also didn’t have an Iranian SIM card, rendering it unusable at the time. My mother desperately asked a young delivery motorcyclist at the nearest corner store if he could lead us to the address, and offered him compensation for his time. He directed us to the exact location, yelled out that he hoped we had a good night, and sped off before we could pay him. Additionally, the kind man who had kept my mom’s phone likewise refused my mom’s attempt to pay him for his kindness, and grew genuinely upset when my mom insisted that he accept the reward money. He did, however, accept the box of pastries we had in the car, but maintained that even that was too much for him to accept.

It cannot be understated how difficult life is in Iran for everyday people. I witnessed heartbreaking

Masjed-e Jāme', Esfahan

Spread at a ‘mehmooni,’ Tehran

things like unaccompanied children, with torn and dirty clothes, begging and walking barefoot in the street, and a young family, including a toddler, digging through dumpsters in hopes of finding food. Most of the remaining family members I spoke to had plans in the works, or at least had hopes, of migrating to another country. One of the things I came to realize during this trip was that, although I still had family members to visit in Iran, the number of them that actually remained there had significantly decreased since my last trip, and will only continue to diminish. The last time I visited Iran, I remember becoming overstimulated as a child at the constant number of mehmoonis I went to, day and night — even losing sleep over the amount my parents had committed to going to. This time, I only went to less than a handful, and they were nowhere near the size of attendance to the ones I frequented years ago. A few days after we left Iran, one of my family members sold their apartment, packed their bags, and fled to Turkey.

Others, however, were adamant that despite Iran’s hardships, there was no other place on Earth they could ever bring themselves to call home. Despite procuring an American visa, one of my mom’s cousins grew miffed at the question of if he would permanently move to the U.S. — “Despite how bad things are here, Iran is where the true joy and happening of the world is. America is just a place to visit. Las Vegas or New York is nothing compared to the beauty of what Iran has to offer.”, he said.

Of my mom’s entire high school class, only 3 still lived in Iran. One of them had active plans to move to Spain within the year. When my grandmother wanted to reserve a restaurant to take her family out to dinner, the restaurant owners told her that they could not tell her in advance what the price of the meal would be, due to the instability of the Toman (I’ll never forget what they said: “I can tell you the price it was yesterday, and the price for today. But not the

price it will be tomorrow, or any day after. It might be the same, it might be less, it might be triple the price.”). Taxi drivers, unprompted, would confide in us about the back-breaking labor they endured just to provide for their families. And yet, despite the heavy nature of the conversation, they would always insist that they still harbored a deep sense of love for their people and homeland.

The widespread sentiment of sadness often emanated from people, but so did their kindness. A corner store worker in Tehran, upon finding out that we were Azeri, insisted we drive up to Ardabil with him that weekend so he could show us around, adamant that we promise to plan something. A young shop owner in the Esfahan bazaar, after we paid and were about to leave his store, thanked my family for being kind and friendly to him, and said he had given us a discount on our items for it. When I came up short for a bus fare and searched through my purse in an attempt to find loose change, an elderly man walked over from the male section and paid for my bus fare without a word (and without me noticing at first) - and insisted that I not mention anything about it, or even attempt to pay him back.

While something seemingly so simple, the constant kindness my family and I experienced from literal strangers in Iran truly touched me. Even if people couldn’t change their current exterior conditions, they did what they could to extend solidarity and support for one another. I don’t think I truly understood what it meant to feel a unified identity and community until then.

As I was leaving Iran, the female workers in the security section of the airport waved goodbye and blew my mother, grandmother, and I kisses, lovingly proclaiming that regardless of who we were, where we were going, or where we now lived, we would always be their compatriots, we would always be hamvatan.

Tadjrish, Tehran

Darband, Tehran

Reminiscence of a Childhood in Tehran

Thereis always something special about feeling a taste of home when one is out of the country. Having your senses suddenly awakened by the smell of saffron in a store or restaurant instantly brings you back to buried memories and your own identity. To feel this as a Persian when living in France, you would most likely have to stroll around the 15th arrondissement of Paris, home to the largest diaspora of Persians in France. Shops, restaurants, and other small boutiques held by Persians populate the Rue des Entrepreneurs, a street that is known all over Paris for giving a small taste of Iran. Walking along that street always reminds me of the Persian side of my family and of my few travels to Iran. I can only imagine how strong the memories must be, walking down that same street, for someone who left Iran to start a new life in France.

Through this article, I want to explore those memories and feelings of reminiscence towards Iran for fellow Persians who, unlike me, were born and have lived in Iran and have left everything behind to move to a European country. I want to touch upon the very feeling of reminiscing about one’s home country and how leaving everything behind affects one’s memories, perceptions, and the way one narrates them.

These memories of home for people who left Iran appear to me to be complex and worth examining. I have chosen to interview one of my relatives who left Iran for France in the 1990’s and who has been living in Paris ever since then.

Q: When I think of Iran as a smell, I think of saffron. What smell do you associate most with Iran?

A: Well, saffron does come to my mind, but it’s not the most significant one for me. Saffron is indeed the first smell that comes to mind when talking about Iran abroad and to non-Iranians. Rightfully so, as it can be found in a variety of Persian foods. However, in my perspective, rose is one of the scents I associate most with my time in Iran. From ancient Persia all the way to today, Persian people have been using rose water, known as golab, for multiple uses: flavoring their food, ice creams, cleaning their faces and more. Golab is a very familiar and comforting smell to me, which brings memories all the way back from my childhood.

Another smell that instantly makes me connect to Iran is jasmine. Growing up in Tehran, I would smell jasmine everywhere, in people’s gardens and even on the streets in public places. Today, when I happen to visit the south of France and go for a stroll in the spring, especially in May, I smell jasmine everywhere and it instantly makes me feel, if I close my eyes, like I am walking through the alleys of Tehran again.

I would also add that Iran has always managed to awaken all my senses with an intensity that I have never felt in France. When I think of Iran today, I think of a country which offers a wholly polysensorial experience. Smell, touch, and sight were senses that were always deeply solicited when growing up in Tehran. Even something as simple as the air had a unique smell. The breeze in Tehran is a distinct sensory memory that I still cherish to this day. I remember that my summers were punctuated by heat waves, always reaching over 100ºF, and that my winters were full of snowstorms, and temperatures reaching 0ºF. Tehran has a unique geographical situation; it is located at the foot of a mountain and yet is 1600 meters above

sea level. This location is partly the reason why I hold such vivid memories of extreme seasonal changes there. One of my most cherished memories I have of my childhood is when I would go to one of my relatives’ gardens to the north of Tehran. We would be offered juicy watermelons and peaches — having fruits for guests is a must in our family traditions. I would take the watermelon with me and dip it into the small creek in the garden to make it even fresher, cooler, and more delicious with every bite. Forty years later, I can still remember the exact taste of that watermelon. This memory is one of the many that constitutes all the highly sensorial memories I have of my life in Iran.

Q: When I think of Iran as an animal, I think of a cat. What animal reminds you most of Iran?

A: I understand why you think of cats when you think of Iran because they truly are a pervasive and a part of the décor, Persian cats, stray cats, and other cats wander in the alleys and streets or Tehran. However, the animal I associate the most to Iran are dogs because I grew up with them. We were faced with the issue of feeding the dogs because in the early 80s, shortages of dog food were very frequent, and we thus ended sharing our food with them.

Q: What landscape/destination in Iran encapsulates best the memory you have of the country?

A: The landscape that first comes to my mind is the Caspian Sea. I used to go there very often because it was not very far from Teheran. The road we would take to reach the sea was a very scenic, yet dangerous drive called the Chalous road. I remember feeling very stressed while driving there. What I liked most about this region is the

richness of the fauna and when I first visited the south of France, it instantly reminded me of the Caspian region. I was always struck by the humidity of this region even though it was flanked by mountains and a much more arid climate. I was completely in awe in the car, thinking of how my hometown and the nearest sea were separated by 5000 meters high mountains that seemed so big and imposing for me as a child. The contrast of the landscapes in Iran always made me feel like I was traveling very far away when I left Tehran and made me renewed.

Q: What’s a habit that people have in France that you could never adjust to?

A: From my experience of having lived in both countries, I think that the right question should more so be: “What is something about Persian culture that French culture could never have?” And to this question I do not even need to think of an answer. Persian people are gifted with natural generosity and are so warm and welcoming in a way that French people could never be. In France, the art of receiving and hosting parties is also very nice and unique, but it is a completely different approach to hospitality. In Iran, every time I would go to anybody’s house I would be greeted with immense generosity. They receive you in their house, they welcome you, they give a lot to their guests and relatives alike without expecting anything in return. Persian hospitality does not have anything to do with social norms and status, it is deeply rooted in all Persian hearts and home, to share, care and give to one another. The joy of sharing moments with other people trumps any distance that is naturally put between people in France. by AR-Y

from the Quran and ornamental decorations. These trucks, alongside the Nissan Aabi, only scratch the surface of “time capsule” automobiles still navigating the long stretches of road in Iran today. In cities that boast modern design and a clean aesthetic, these vehicles serve as a reminder of the vibrant recentpast that lives on through era-bound remnants such as cars and planes. Another astonishing pattern, for the uninitiated traveler, is the homogeneity of vehicle colors in Iran. With the exception of domestically produced Iran Khodro vehicles and imported Chinese brands, the lion’s share of vehicles on the streets in Iran are colored white, which is a unique sight coming from any western nation. Taxi cabs are often British Rootes Arrows, domestically called Paykan, which were once a staple vehicle and which have since become a symbol of a previous generation of Iranians. These cabs often have a union or corporate symbol stamped to their front doors, and I found myself attempting to capture all of the different taxi emblems that appeared along my three-week stay. Lastly, the interior of vehicles in Iran are as essential as their visage. The black, plastic crank-arms for rolling windows that come in the varieties of intact and irreparably abused are central to my own memory of these interiors. For children, they are a toy and object of fascination, and, to older passengers gazing out the window, the crank-arms are a perfect fidget or hand-rest. Seat liners abound,

colorful and rustic handcrafts most often adorn the interiors of cars, rendering character and uniqueness where most vehicles otherwise look the same. Some cars are lined with cutouts of discarded Persian rugs, and others with beads or mats. The dry, dusty smell of cars that have ceaselessly operated for years is the constant backdrop to mountains and plains coasting past the window on long drives. Looming masses of rock and rolling wheat fields give way to tall and narrow “3cm-brick” buildings that sprout from the middle of the desert and give way to urban vibrancy, to a vast and diverse country made smaller by the vehicles and roads that connect its reaches.

Iran is a country filled with color if one chooses to see it, and every corner is an endless well of detail to appreciate. Centuries of gradual evolution has yielded a diverse and rich country that begs to be appreciated first-hand. While paper and picture cannot attempt to replace the real dust and sun of our country, it can nudge the keen reader to the appeal of Iran’s beauty: Iran is a country that likes to be appreciated in small sips. Glances, moments, slices — these are the language of the silent discourse between traveler and environment that define the feeling of Iran. It is my hope that, over the course of my travels, focusing my lens on those ephemeral details opened a window for the curious reader to appreciate Iran, for once, in color.

a visual diary

University of California, Berkeley

2022

Oftenin times of dictatorial regimes, when conformity and propaganda suffocate a society of its humanity, one can turn to the art produced to find profound expressions of resistance and awareness. This sentiment is well-captured by the revolutionary cinema produced in 1960s-1970s Iran. Under the rule of the pro-western Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, Iran was rapidly industrializing and moving towards modernity, with the aid of its booming petroleum industry. However, while the government was focused on alleviating economic and social issues through rapid modernization, they disregarded that Iran lacked the socio-cultural and political infrastructure to account for these quick changes. The failure to recognize this showed a severe disconnect between the social atmosphere aiming to secure human rights and a regime preoccupied with westernization. Adding to the disconnect, any attempts at political dissent and protest were suppressed by the secret police, furthering the rampant human rights violations that the people of Iran endured. From this social angst and uncertainty emerged the Iranian New Wave of Cinema. This era deviated from commercial cinema and gravitated toward realism, social commentary, and artistic quality.

The films created in this movement were distinct for their depiction of class struggle, fear, oppression, and humanity. The Cow, by Dariush Mehrjui, is considered the film that jump started this movement. In his interviews, Mehrjui explained that most of the media during the time was ab gooshty, weak and watery; The Cow explored the concepts of over-dependence, poverty, and fear of modernity as it followed a village population while they navigated the death of their only cow. The idea of The Cow runs parallel to the economy of Iran at the time, which was centered around one commodity. The anxiety demonstrated by the villagers mimics the social unease that this economic state was producing. Tackling political concepts and incorporating characteristics such as a rural setting, simple narrative, and neorealist influences made this film an inspiration for many pieces that followed in this movement. Iranian New Wave films, while critical of the political climate at the time, also pointed the camera inward, portraying the flaws of contemporary Iranian society. Bamboo Fence, by Arsalan Sasani, elaborated on Sasani’s parental relationship in which the pressure of poverty translated into abuse and distress within the household. Bahman Farmanara, the director of Tall Shadows of the Wind, attempted to use a village’s relationship with a scarecrow to highlight society’s role in creating tyrannical rulers. The Cycle by Mehrjui exposed the exploitation of the poor

by Iranian medical organizations, and Sealed Soil by Marva Nabili revealed the confinement women endure in rigid village life. As demonstrated by the sheer range of this storyline, the philosophical concepts tackled by this wave of films knew no boundaries. The richness of these films stems not only from their philosophical content but also from their unconventional use of film language. At the time, popular Hollywood films used close-up shots, montages, and an active camera presence. When exposed to this composition, audiences often develop an emotional involvement with the film and start to identify with the characters. New Wave directors wanted to push the audience to decenter themselves during the viewing experience and use a more objective approach to the issues they depicted. In her research article titled “The Cinema of Refusal”, Sara Salijoughi explained the effects of the camera movement in Sealed Soil: “by keeping the camera fixed for the bulk of the film and relying almost exclusively on long shots and extreme long shots…, the film refuses to allow the viewer intimate entry.” The distant camera, paired with the natural setting used in the films, made for less romanticism and more gritty depictions of pressing issues. Movies also diverged from the closed narratives often used in Hollywood films, refusing to satisfy the audience’s desire for moral enlightenment or a happy ending. Due to the film’s realistic attitude, the directors viewed the insertion of moral victory as dishonest. The real moral triumph is achieved by the spectator, who is enlightened by the defeat experienced in the film. The all-around realism in these films makes this movement one characterized by reflection rather than romanticism.

Many of the films made during this time were banned due to their critical content; however, their influence on contemporary Iranian cinema and the international film scene continues. Their experimentative spirit matched many of the film movements in Japan, Italy, and France at the time, which helped Iranian cinema gain global appreciation. The precedents set in New Wave cinema, such as realism, the hidden camera, and the analytical content, prevail in Iranian cinema today even with the limitations imposed on it due to the Islamic regime. While different conceptually, New Wave films create a unique viewing experience in which the audience enjoys aesthetics and intellectual stimulation. The films sacrifice momentary thrill to leave you with questions and emotions that preoccupy you for weeks on end, making a cinema that is not just entertainment but also art.

The Moment I Realized I Wasn’t WHITE

by Zach Roknipour

There are moments in life when we begin to question everything we have come to know about ourselves. For me, that moment came one night after a long day of work, followed by a long day at school. The only thought on my mind was getting home as soon as I could. I was stopped at a red light, preparing to merge over to the next lane as soon as the light turned green. Next to me, there was a black Dodge Ram, the car of a person who refuses to back down. I, on the other hand, was in a black four-door Honda Accord, with a determination to get home as soon as possible. When the light turned green, I sped up to pass the man next to me as he did the same thing with the same thought on his mind. When the dust settled, I had emerged victorious; an insignificant victory that wouldn’t matter to most people. The White middle-aged man in the Dodge Ram that was now behind me, however, did not take this loss lightly. He proceeded to follow me home, which I did not realize until I pulled up to my gated community. Before I could enter the code to get in, the man had already pulled up at an angle so that I couldn’t get past him. He then rolled down his window to yell at me. I did expect him to yell at me (after all, I had just recklessly sped past him), but what he said shocked me. I thought he was going to say something along the lines of “watch it” or “slow down”, but no: he instead yelled, aggressively, “GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY.”

I sat there in a moment of disbelief. Why would this random person say such a thing to me? I was born in the United States at the Tarzana hospital in California on July 21st, 1993 at 8:04 pm. So I retorted quietly, but still loud enough so that he could hear me: “I was born here.” He replied with an arrogant smirk, as if he knew everything about me. “Yeah, right. Just look at the way you

look, and look at the way you speak,” he said.

I sat there in disbelief, because it was at that moment that I realized that this stranger in a Dodge Ram had taken one look at me and seen what he wanted to see: a dirty immigrant who had come to “his” country, to a White man’s America. After he’d said those painful words, I just stopped speaking. I did not know what to say or how to react. This only infuriated him more; he kept yelling, but all I could hear was white noise. I was completely frozen and felt as though I had left my body. The only thing on my mind was, “Please, can this just be over?”

Suddenly, he opened his car door, and the fear that I felt forced me to return to my body as if it were some natural hidden defense mechanism. I was preparing for him to approach me. However, I caught a glimpse of someone in the passenger seat signaling him to close his door before he could leave the car. He then backed up and drove away as if this was a regular occurrence for him. I could do nothing more than try to get home faster than before, so I punched in the code to the gate and quickly drove to my house.

When I walked through the door, my dad was casually sitting on the couch watching a Lakers game. I told him what had happened, and his reaction shocked me even more than what the stranger had told me. He said, “Why did you speed past him?” It was as if the stranger had had a valid reason to do everything he had just done. I replied to him, “What…what do you mean ‘why did I speed past him?’ Why does that matter?” His reply is something that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. He said, “If you didn’t speed past him then he wouldn’t have followed you home and yelled at you to ‘GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY’”.

In the moment, I was furious with my

father’s response. How could he say this? Especially after some random man put me in a traumatic, and possibly life threatening situation? Over the next couple of days, though, I reflected on what my dad had said and my anger turned into sympathy, as I had realized why he had said what he said. It was because this is how he and all other minorities and immigrants had needed to act in order to survive in America. For me, though, up until that moment in my life, I had never experienced anything like that.

I am biracial. My mom is White, and my dad is Iranian. Growing up, I was a white-passing biracial kid who grew up in suburbia, and I was far removed from my Iranian heritage. These factors had given me the false sense that I blended into this stranger’s version of White America. I had had the privilege of going through my day-to-day routines without experiencing the racism that affects minority communities — at least that’s what I thought. After the incident, I began to reflect on my interactions with strangers and friends and all of the microaggressions that had been made towards me started to flood my brain. Strangers would often ask me three different variations of the same question. The least offensive was, “What is your ethnicity?” A harmless enough question, although I will say that one doesn’t need to ask this in order to find out. That’s the beauty of making friends, after all; one finds out little details about them, like who they are and what they like and dislike. The second variation was, “Where are you from?”, which is just a nicer way to say what the stranger in the Dodge Ram had screamed at me: “based on your appearance, I’m just going to assume you weren’t born in America.” The third and final variation of this question was “What are you?”, as if I were some different species from a

distant planet in a galaxy far far away. Then there were the things that the people who knew me would say. These were jokes that referred to me or my dad’s side of the family as terrorists with ties to Al-Qaeda, or about how I somehow would have access to Saudi oil money because I’m half Iranian — even though Iran and Saudi Arabia are two totally different countries. Some of them even had the gall to ask me if I had ever been called a sand n-word (with a hard R), a word that I had never known existed up until then.

Over the years I have continued to think back to this moment as one of the defining moments in my life. It serves as a reminder that no matter how much I think that I blend into White America, they can always tell that I am not entirely one of them. I think of that moment in juxtaposition with what my father told me about how “I shouldn’t have sped past” this stranger in a Dodge Ram. His words, which had made me so angry in that moment, only make me sad for him today. That is because they serve as a reminder of what he has had to endure in America ever since immigrating here from Iran during the Islamic Revolution; and how he had to change parts of himself to “fit in” to White America. Having to always turn the other cheek and just let other people say and think what they want, because if he didn’t, he would just be another one of those “evil” brown people who are destroying America. He walks a thin line, just as all non-White minorities do, the line between acceptable and criminal. All because they don’t fit the mold of what White America says they should be. But the truth is they never will, and the reason for that is because they aren’t and will never be White, just like how I am not and will never be just White.

What the K-Wave Can Teach Iran

by Nita Sabouri

Unlessyou’ve been living under a rock, you are probably aware of the current popularity of Korean media. From the worldwide success of K-pop groups such as BTS, to the explosive popularity of Korean dramas like Squid Game, South Korean cultural exports are everywhere, even in one unexpected location: The Islamic Republic of Iran.

I first began to observe this phenomenon through TikTok. As we all know, the TikTok algorithm is remarkably accurate. Somehow, the algorithm figured out that I am both a Persian-speaking diaspora Iranian and a fan of BTS. It began to show me videos of Iranian girls living in Tehran and posting dance covers of their favorite K-pop groups. In addition to choreography, they would lip sync the songs, despite the lyrics being entirely in Korean. I became fascinated by this phenomenon for several reasons.

First, internet access is limited in the Islamic Republic. Of course there are still ways around it, but the limitations on sites like Twitter and Instagram, where most K-pop fans discuss their common interest, makes it significantly more difficult to engage with other fans. Additionally, there is the issue of the language barrier. As a fluent English speaker, I still find it difficult to find real-time translations of the lyrics and posts of my favorite singers. Since I don’t speak Korean, I have to wait for those who are fluent in Korean and English to provide translations. Sometimes, I have to cross reference multiple accounts to figure out the most accurate translation of what is being said. For a language like Persian, which is far less popular than English, there are few native speakers of both Korean and Farsi and thus, far fewer translators. More likely, Persian translators wait for the English translations, and then translate those into Farsi. Iranian fans wait double the time for translations of lyrics, posts, and livestreams and they go

through twice the number of hoops.

Another large aspect of the K-Pop fandom, merchandise and concerts, are nearly impossible to find in Iran. Fans across the world love to show off their album collections along with their concert photos. For Iranian fans, this is basically impossible. Iranian concerts in the Islamic Republic are already difficult, due to the country’s restrictions on music and travel.

As for merchandise, shipping to Iran is highly restricted due to a myriad of international sanctions. To me, this shows the sheer dedication that these fans have. They have such a connection to the artists and the music that they are willing to endure the various obstacles in place to prevent them from enjoying what K-pop has to offer. Though unusual, K-pop’s popularity amongst Gen-Z Iranians demonstrates the passion of Iranian teenagers and their resilience in the face of adversity.

Perhaps, however, this phenomenon is not so peculiar. Surprisingly, Korea and Iran share a more closely-woven history than one would expect. Ancient Korea was notoriously isolated, earning the nickname “the Hermit Kingdom” due to its reluctance to engage with outsiders. But according to the Middle East Institute, goods had been arriving in Korea from Persia through the Silk Road for over 1,500 years. What’s even more unexpected is that there is mention of Korea’s Silla Kingdom in the Kushnamah, a Persian epic poem from the sixth century. The middle of the poem contains a story about a Persian prince who visits the Silla Kingdom and marries a Korean princess. This story was mentioned by Park Geun-hye, former South Korean president, during the Korea-Iran ‘One Heart’ Festival, an event that celebrates Korea and Iran’s cultural ties. But just as South Korea and Iran’s relations serve to bring the two countries together, they also highlight the

stark differences in their political and economic situations. As part of a cultural exchange, in 1977, Iran and South Korea decided to designate streets named after the other country’s capital city. Teheran-ro in Seoul is beautiful. It’s home to many tech companies, including Samsung. It is also located in the Gangnam district, which is one of Korea’s wealthiest areas. In sharp contrast, Seoul Street in Tehran is located near the notorious Evin prison, which is where most of the country’s political prisoners are kept. The two streets demonstrate where the two countries are at the present moment. While Korea’s cultural influence expands outwards to the rest of the world and it becomes a powerful player in the global tech market, Iran retreats inwards, instead focusing on political repression. In a way, the existence of Teheran-ro

and Seoul Street shows where Iran could be.

Iran has a rich and ancient history, spanning centuries. Persian culture has produced some of the most influential epics in the world. Iran is home to some of the world’s brightest creative minds, such as Abbas Kiarostami, Forugh Farrokzad, and Shirin Neshat. And as I see Korean filmmaker Bong Joon-ho win the Best Picture Oscar for the hit film “Parasite”, I find that I could just as easily see Iranian filmmaker Asghar Farhadi escape the confines of the Best Foreign Film category that international artists are often restricted to and make his way into winning Best Picture. But as it is, Teheran-ro serves as a reminder for what Iran is capable of achieving if it is willing to show itself to the rest of the world.

On Saeid Shanbehzadeh and Habib Meftah’s Boushehri in Babelle Heureuse

Iranian Southern Folklore Meets Contemporary Art

By Leili Kamali

In2001, Saeid Shanbehzadeh, an Iranian composer and musician, originally from Bushehr, orchestrated one of the biggest contemporary folk pieces of Southern Iranian music. Along with Habib Meftah, another wellknown Bushehri artist, the two bring together western and southern Iranian cultures on stage. The southern part of Iran is home to many ethnic groups, including Baluch, Lor, Arab, Fars and African. It is also one of the geographical areas in Iran with a unique school of art. Due to the presence of African immigrants from Zanzibar (Zangbar in Persian), the dance and music culture of the area around the Persian Gulf has been influenced by African primitive art. It is important to note that the show itself is held in Paris, France, the premier hometown of modern art. The presentation of Iranian folklore art to a Western audience is not something that has been recognized in the past, let alone a contemporary modification of Iranian folklore, which includes its mixture with Western art. The show is unique on all grounds. Throughout the performance, there is a deliberate arbitrary composition of dancers and music. On one hand, there is a simultaneous presence of two unrelated cultures. On the other hand, the performers seem not to be following a guideline of unity. Southern Iranian instruments, nayanbun, and Iranian percussion are played alongside several performances of Western dance genres, including ballet and hip-hop. Each of the performers hold on to their own identity and professional genre, while the show as a whole does not lose

its integrity and harmony.

In the opening scene, the curtains unveil as a tiger appears on the screen. Shanbehzadeh, leading the group of dancers, walks towards the tiger. Chanting “vele jonbesa”, he approaches the tiger, and starts petting him. The chant soon turns into a melody, and the dancers disperse on the stage, each performing their own professional style. A ballerina does a grand jeté, while the hip-hop dancer swirls constantly with his hands open, until he runs into Shanbehzadeh himself. The hip-hop dancer, who is French African, slowly starts whispering the same “vele jonbesa” melody. The two leave the stage, while a French opera singer takes their place. She starts repeating a different chant. She continues to sing until the dancers start clapping together, forming a circle. The melody subtly turns into southern Iranian folk music, while the performers start dancing along with the song.

What makes the show phenomenal is its radical arbitrariness and diversity. In one of the sections, two live animals, a pair of ducks, start wandering around the stage. The audience is now more focused, occupied with the question of what is going to happen next. While the music in the background continues to be Bushehri folk music, the dancers take over the live animals, performing different pieces of different genres. At first, a female ballerina, jumping up and down in a very controlled manner, tries to actually imitate the motion of a flying bird. The music suddenly changes

to Bach’s Menuet and Badinerie. Then, a female hiphop dancer comes on the stage. She is wearing authentic African clothing and performs a similar dance the ballerina does; she jumps up and down and flaps her hands in the air. The difference is, the movements of the hip-hop dancer are free of any discipline and control. Though it resembles nothing like a classical ballet performance, both give the impression of a flying bird, answering the question of where the ducks came from in the first place.

In the ending section, Shanbehzadeh invites all the performers on the stage. He then asks the audience to repeat the words he is singing: “somraya, somraya, somraya somra, maleye kobra.” Aside from the fact that the amphitheater is filled with French-speaking people, who probably have no idea what these words mean, the sentence has no literary meaning in Farsi either. Yet, the way that Shanbehzadeh combines these random words and turns them into a melody, forces the audience to sing along with him, as if he was reciting a familiar folk lullaby.

Though the show might seem very random and disorganized, it does not lack harmony. It is hard to identify the genre of the show as a whole. While it can be identified as Avant-Garde, as the audience actively participates and sings along with the vocal artists, its incorporation of unrelated movements could be due to what modernists refer to as Fluxus. Fluxus is an art movement that was popular in 1960s and 1970s. It includes eradicating the normal disciplines of art, and essentially developing new media and art forms through a radical performance of randomness. It is referred to, by Dutch art critics such as Harry Ruhe, as “the most radical and experimental art movements of the sixties”.

The bigger question here is why Shanbehzadeh orchestrates his show in such a way. In an interview with Eyes on Africa, Shanbehzadeh tells the interviewer that he identifies himself as an Afro-Iranian artist. He mentions that his Zanzibari roots are an integral part of his creative identity. A half Baluchi, half African Iranian, he’s come to realize that Iranian Southern music is widely influenced by the Zanzibari Africans, who have had to immigrate to Iran by means of force. “You should never forfeit your culture by the power of the new society. As a kid, I always wondered why we, the southern people of Iran, dance like this. Why our percussions are not played the same way as a regular percussion. After research, I realized that we owe much of our Southern dance and music to the African immigrants. Even boogh, a very famous Iranian wind instrument, comes from Cape Town, as I have realized.”

The multicultural characteristic of the southern part of Iran makes it very unique, and perhaps Shanbehzadeh is trying to reflect this diversity to a Western audience, by combining Iranian folk music with Western dance and music culture. In an interview with Tirgan, Shanbehzadeh mentions that as an immigrant, one should hold on to their original identity. This explains his ambition to bring his Bushehri background, and ultimately have some impact on Western art, by combining the two art cultures and creating a new one. The result turns out to be, aside from all the technical analysis, simply beautiful

Iranian folk music has been overlooked by many art scholars around the world. Although Shanbehzadeh has been lucky enough to publicize his work, there are tens of thousands of artists in Iran who are keeping Iranian folk music alive, yet are not receiving any worldwide attention. There are few international articles written on Persian dance and music. Perhaps it is time to introduce the world to Iranian culture by presenting its art. After all, what peaceful way of communication is there other than art?

MUSIC AS A GATEWAY INTO IRAN

There is a plethora of new Iranian musical talent that has been, and continues to remain, unappreciated by both the youth of the Iranian diaspora, as well as the Western media. Most of us grew up listening to Arash, Black Cats, Kameron and Hooman, Benyamin, and Andy in the early 2000s. There is no debate these artists are Iranian musical legends. However, it’s time to expand our horizons, dust the cobwebs off our playlists, and make way for new Iranian talent. It’s time for the diaspora to catch up and connect more to today’s Iran, and to do so by uplifting modern Iranian musicians. Below, I’ve curated a set of artists who are wildly popular in Iranian youth culture today. I’ve also matched these artists to popular Western artists that their music strongly resembles. More people need to listen to and share Iranian music, as it is an extension of our culture and voice.

Western Artist Drake

Gunna/Burna Boy Pitbull

Iranian Artist

Behzad Leito:

• Gives a range of genres from rap to pop

• Song recommendations: Bahatam Dasham, Faghat Ba Man, Peida Nakardam

Isam:

• Gives a range of genres from trap to Afrobeats

• Song recommendations: Malibu, Safe, Aladdin, Caramel

Talk Down:

• Their music is perfect to play for dancing at a party

• Song recommendations: Party, Dokhtare Haji, Ti Amo, Bottle

tmBax:

• Another go-to for dance party music

• Song recommendations: Mi Corazon, Lazemami, Avazia

The Weeknd

Catchybeatz:

• Covers a range of genres from rap to pop

• Song recommendations: Ba Man Bia, Eleli, Dardesar

Poobon:

• Makes slightly depressing music, but good depressing nonetheless

• Song recommendations: Anxiety, Ghermez, ROSE, FENDI

ASADI:

• EDM music

• Song recommendations: Violin Song, Age Ye Rooz (Remix), Masteh Cheshaat (Remix)

Shervin Hajipour:

• Makes powerful music that is amazing to cry to when you’re heartbroken

• Song recommendations: Baraye, Telephone, Bahar Oomad, Roozaye Khoob

Frank Ocean/ The Weeknd

Avicii

Conan Gray

Tell Me, What Can I Do?

Mehdi Soheili, translated by Zainab S.

Tell me, what can I do?

The sound of your distress travels across oceans

The sound of my own sobs are carried by the winds

There’s not one word of joy within your speech. There is no message of happiness in my stories.

Tell me, what can I do?

I cannot escape the clutches of solitude.

Tell me, what can I do?

No matter how much I moan in anguish, the thought of you is not forgotten.

Tell me, what can I do?

You are asleep in your house of sorrow in an alien city — I am in my home, in the prison of my loneliness.

Nor in the desert of my thoughts

Do I have the hope of seeing you again,

Nor in the autumn of my life do I have the power of patience.

You, who are the epitome of sorrow —

How can I grow wings? fly to you?

When the deserts and mountains that separate us won’t budge.

Let us mourn our circumstance

For the distance between us is as vast as the seas.

Tell me, what can I do?

On our last call —

When we say our goodbyes —

Hear my voice through the cord

Hear my cries of loneliness within my empty room

I hope God wills that we might meet once more —

And if we don’t, then come visit the earth above my tomb.

This poem was written by my late grandfather Mehdi Soheili. Despite his passing years before my birth, his art has been a continuous presence in my life. The lessons and love his works exude created a lasting bond between him and my baba, which I now share with him.

These poems have transcended time, not only telling of our family history but reflective of what an entire generation of Iranians endured and continues to endure. Circumstances have led to the separation of our family networks, difficulties staying in contact, and loneliness/disconnection for those in the diaspora and in the homeland.

A fear we continue to face is the impending threat of not being able to return home, or of returning home too late. Baba Soheili wished my baba would one day return. However, Baba Soheili’s prophecy came true, and he passed before they could reunite. This is the story of many of us, yet it does not stop the hope that rings through every ending phone call to family that “Inshallah, everything will work out, and we’ll all be together again in Iran.”