shahadat spring

Spring 2013

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Table of content

Introduction by guest editor Roger Sedarat 4Mohsen EmadiFrom Amsterdam to Tehran 7

Simin Behbahani I am with you 13

Roya ZarrinSound of the Human Child 15 In the Ghost Train 17Don’t Close the Window 19 Goodbye Mr. Orwell 21The Earth was Vast 23Gone to the Pastore Drugstore 25Send My Picture to the Journal 29

Alimorad FadaieniaExcerpt from "Tales of the Nameless" 31

Bijan Jalali Untitled 35

Sa’id SoltanpurWinter Squall 37In Pahlavi Prison 39Communist Victor 45

Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi The Invitation 55

About the ContributorsTranslators 120Writers 122

Guest Editor Roger Sedarat

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Literature

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Contemporary Literature In Translation Series

Managing Editor: Barrak Alzaid

Guest Editor Roger Sedarat

Contemporary IranianLiterature

The obvious convention for a guest edited introduction of work in translation calls for briefly foregrounding what readers should know about the authors and their publications coming into English from another tradition. Though I will of course briefly touch upon this diversely exceptional body of work that loosely coheres around the category of “contemporary Persian literature,” I attempt to do so by inverting the norm: introducing instead the translators featured in this issue of Shahadat to illuminate the importance of what they have chosen to submit. Insofar as a western audience depends upon their talented renderings of Persian drama, poetry, and prose into English, comment upon who has made these texts possible seems warranted, as it has much to teach about the featured texts. The emerging talent of young scholars and translators like Kaveh Bassiri—himself a rather accomplished poet and scholar teaching Persian literature while pursing a doctorate at the University of Arkansas—brings us the verse of Roya Zarrin, a quite established poet that remains relatively unrecognized outside of Iran. Like Kaveh, Samad Alavi and Aria Fani are currently enrolled in graduate study. To cite their academic pursuits is to say something substantial about future discoveries and greater understandings of various Persian writers. Aria, in collaboration with

Adeeba Talukder (who also translates Pakistani and Afghani poets), brings us verse by the remarkable Simin Behbahani as well as the lesser known (to the west) Bijan Jalali. Samad Alavi, who also teaches Persian at San Francisco State University, offers verse by the poet and playwright Sa‘id Soltanpur, allowing the reader to consider the writer beyond, or perhaps in connection with, the tragic story of his political struggle (more of which can be understood in the author biographies). In addition to publication by emerging scholars, this issue features work by such established and award winning translators as Sholeh Wolpé. Here too the translator’s biography can provide an introduction of her chosen poet, Mohsen Emadi. Like the first poem in this issue, “From Amsterdam to Tehran,” Sholeh crosses regions and traditions to great effect in her own work, translating from Persian into English and vice versa. Among her many projects, she currently has co-translated, with the poet she brings us here, Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself as part of the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program.Like Sholeh, Salar Abdoh is himself a very accomplished creative writer who both bridges and complicates traditions with a deep understanding of contemporary Iranian culture. His instincts for translation in part must surely emerge from his own postmodern sensibilities. Like Salar’s fiction, Alimorad Fadaienia’s short story here remains charged with both lyric power and political intrigue.

Introduction: Contemporary Iranian Literature

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Finally Maryam Habibian, with a background in performance, offers along with co-translator Lois Becker a short dramatic work by Iranian playwright and prose writer Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi, my personal favorite Iranian writer of the 20th century. Here again the reader encounters excellent collaborative translation work, which proves quite fitting with a piece written for performance. It remains somewhat cliché to observe that even one translator going at it alone collaborates—insofar as he or she works with the author of the source text— regardless of living or dead. This final one act play, the longest selection in the issue, speaks in part for an ongoing dialogue among those engaging the Persian tradition in various genres and from different perspectives. Maryam summarizes the dramatic piece as follows:The one act play “The Invitation”, from the collection of five one act plays “The Light”, shows the struggle of individuals against their chaotic world. In “The Invitation”, a young society woman and her maid spend a frantic afternoon preparing for a party, only to discover in the end that the young woman doesn’t remember where it’s to be – or if there really is a party at all. It presents a dark, funny, and fascinating portrait gallery of pre-Revolutionary Iran. And yet, like the works of Chekhov or Brecht or Ionesco (all of whose influence can be felt in the collection), Sa’adi’s themes and characters and situations are universally

recognizable. So too do the translators and their translations here touch upon different influences, producing themes and voices among speakers as well as characters who, although of course from a country that continues to remain somewhat foreign to western sensibilities, nevertheless emerge as “universally recognizable,” albeit in their own distinct ways. R.S.

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روز بر خاکسرتهای تو خواهد شکستدر میدان چه ی هراس کبوتران.

میدان بر ناله های تو چاه می شودکبوتران پر می کشند از چاه.

چاه، دهان توستپیوسته به تنی سوزان

که یکراست به مرکز زمین می رودبه توده ی مذاب زخم های بی نام.

دور می شوند کبوترانو خاکسرتت در نعره ی خاموش باد

سیلی می زند به رعشه ی لذت عابراندر متاشای آتش بازی.کلمه، خاکسرت است.

آواز می خوانیم وخاکسرت می پاشیم بر زخم ها

تا خون بند بیایدبادی رسد

بر جراحت کوچکم می وزدبر پیراهنی که درد می کند

از آخرین هامغوشیو تکثیر می شود

در متام پیراهن های جهانکه به غیابی مرسی گرفتارند.

از آمسرتدم تا تهران

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Day will soon break on your ashes,break on this round plaza wheredoves are circling in fear.

The plaza now becomes a deep well inside your laments from which the doves break away.

The well is your mouthjoined to a feverish bodythat spirals to the center of the earth into the molten mass of nameless wounds.

The doves flee far,and inside the wind’s quiet wail, your ashes slap the faces of passersby who quiver with pleasure watching the fireworks.

The word is ash.We sing and spread iton wounds to stop the blood’s flow.

Cold wind blows on my wound,on this garment still aching from its last intimate embrace,and ravages all garmentsof the world inflictedwith a contagious absence.

Poem by: Mohsen Emadi Translated by: Sholeh Wolpe

From Amsterdam to Tehran

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زنان، با تشتی از خاکسرت بر کناره ی رود می نشینندترانه می خوانند و ظرف می شویند.

غیاب، ملودی کوچکی است،مشتی خاکسرت

که بر استکان و نعلبکیبر قاشق و چنگال و بشقاب های چرب می ریزند

آواز می خوانند و آب می پاشند

و ملودی کوچکمتیز می کند خاطره را

آن را به شکل تنی در می آوردکه رطوبت دست غریبه ای بر آن نچکیده است.

خاکسرت به یاد می آوردشکل نخستین هرچیزی را، جز خودش.

زنان آواز می خواننددر آوازشان ماه می لرزد

ساقه های برهنه ی علف،برف،

بر خنده های دخرتکان تازه بالغ می لرزدو صدای دورگه ی پرسان

بر آوازها می دود.

زنگوله های کوچکبر گردن بره های بازیگوش.

زنگوله های کوچکبر گردن متام اشیا

تا راه خانه را گم نکنند.زنگوله های کوچک در غلظت مه

که آواز می دهند: من اینجایم!این جا، که متام زنان

با تشت های خالی خاکسرت

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Women sit by a river,their tubs filled with ash.They sing and they wash dishes.Absence is a small melody.It is a fist-full of ashsprinkled on greasy spoons,forks, and plates,on cups and saucers.The women sing and splashand the small melodywashes clean the memories,molds with it a bodyon which no stranger’s hands have dripped wetness.

Ash remembers the first shape of everything except itself.

The women sing and the moon shimmers inside their melody.The naked spears of grass,of snow, tremble in the recesses of teenage girls’ laugher.The pubescent boys’ breaking voices run on the surface of the songs.

Little bells that hang on the necks of playful lambs.Little bells that hang on the necks of all objectsto not lose their way home.Little bells in the thick of fog tolling: I am here,here where all women return home with tubs empty of ash.

به خانه بر می گردند.همدیگر را پیدا می کنیم

با زنگوله هابا ملودی های کوچک غیاب

در میدان های مه آلودوقتی سیگاری روشن می کنیم

و از دل مه شبحی به پیش می آیدپیت کوچک نفت در دست

و آتش می خواهد،بخار نفس ها یخ بسته است

و مه راه گلوها را مسدود کرده است.

امشب متام ناقوس ها به صدا در آمده اندامشب در مرز وضوح و مه، گله ها رسگردانند

امشب آوازها در چاه گلو خاکسرت می شوندسایه ها در آینه.

رها از انعکاس و سایهاوردوز می کنم بر پیراهنی مشتعل در فرودگاه

اوردوز می کنم بر جزیره های شناور میدان های تیراوردوز می کنم بر زمین

که می چرخد و می چرخددر لحظه ای که هواپیام از زمین بلند می شود

و صندلی از زیرپای اعدامی رها می شودیا پیراهنی آتش می گیرد

بر تن بی نام مردیکه رگ هایش را بر سطرهای کاغذ می گشاید

اوردوز می کنم بر تواز آمسرتدام

تا تهران

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We will find each other with these tiny bells,with the small melodies of absencewhen we light up a cigarette in the whirling fogand a spirit from inside the fog’s heart approaches, a can of oil in hand,and asks for a light.

The steam from breaths are frozen,and the fog has clogged throats’ passageways.

Tonight, all church bells toll. Tonight, the sheep wander along the edges of clarity and fog.Tonight, songs become ash in the throat’s well, shadows become ashin the mirror.

Free of reflections, of shadows,I overdose on a blazing garment in the airport.I overdose on the floating islands in the execution circles.I overdose on the earth itselfthat turns and twirlsat the very moment the plane takes offand the stool beneath the feetof a condemned is kicked,or a garment is set ablazeon the body of a nameless manwho opens his own veins on the linesof this paper.

I overdose on youfrom Amsterdam to Tehran.

I overdose on the earth itself

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من با توام ای رفیق! با تو همراه تو پیش می نهم گام

در شادی تو رشیک هستم بر جام می تو می زنم جام

من با توام ای رفیق! با تو دیری ست که با تو عهد بستم

همگام توام، بکش به راهم همپای توام، بگیر دستم

پیوند گذشته های پر رنج اینسان به توام منوده نزدیک

هم بند تو بوده ام زمانی در یک قفس سیاه و تاریک

رنجی که تو برده ای ز غوالن بر چهر من است نقش بسته

من با توام

زخمی که تو خورده ای ز دیوان بنگر که به قلب من نشسته

تو یک نفری ...نه! بیشامری هر سو که نظر کنم، تو هستی

یک جمع به هم گرفته پیوند یک جبهۀ سخت بی شکستی

زردی؟ نه! سفید؟ نه! سیه، نه باالتری از نژاد و از رنگ

تو هر کسی و ز هر کجایی من با تو، تو با منی هامهنگ

سیمین بهبهانی، جای پا - 1335

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I am with you, my friend! With you.It is with you that I tread forth.

Your joy is my own elation;I raise my wine-cup to your glass.

I am with you, my friend! With you–our oath has bound us for eternities.

My steps are your steps–take me by the hand.My feet are your feet–lead me to the path.

a history of suffering has pulledme closer to you–

Poem by: Simin Behdahani Translated by: Aria Fani and Adeeba Talukder

I am with you

I once shared with you a prison cella single cage, black and dark.

the anguish you’ve borne at the hands of the vilehas left its traces on my own face

the scars you’ve suffered at the hands of fiendsall reside in my own heart

A single entity? No, you are so many;whichever way I turn, I see you.

We are so many drawn together, boundbound so that we cannot break.

Not white or black or yellow, no!You are higher than race, above all color.

You are everyone, from everywhereI with you, you with me,a single pulse.

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صداى كودك انبسان

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The sound of the human childwas loud and plaintive.The sound was forever erupting.Stars stepped aside and we journeyed to a new world, Obadiah, to touch our broken foreheads against the ground.

The sound of the human child was loud and erupting.Wolves stepped aside. The sky grew furious.And we resolvedthat the bent hills be divided and the young fish in the murky waters and the joint leaves of the olive tree and the segments of the reedand the wind and music in the thickets of mossand the Marmar shells be divided.Still, there remainedthe bountiful sap of my bonesthe white sap of my veinsforever erupting.

Written by: Roya Zarrin Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri

Sound of the Human Child

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دراين قطار ارواحى

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In the ghost train where they’ve pinnedour expired tickets to our breastshow much like night I am, and free, in a tunnel more like a bathhouse drainbrimming with tears, blood, water, and piss.And the station always a mirage in our sleep. Each stop we step off with full bladders.Each stop we climb aboard with empty bowels.And the houses of worship are laden with broken prayers. All aboard!We climb aboard. It doesn’t get late as if we aren’t meant to reach a place of light.Night is so stretched here that we constantly crumple and I embrace myself tightly as no mother.

My legs are now a closed parenthesisaround a dim infinity.

Poem by: Roya Zarrin Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri

In This Ghost Train

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ينجره رانبند صداى بران

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Don’t close the windowThe voice of the rain will suffocate behind the double panes, Obadiah.

Firewood!I need it for this stove,to scatter its yellow, red, and blue around the room. Fill my cup with water. Tonight, I must send a signal.You must bring some paper.You must writeand tend to the beats of your pulse. The stuttering history Obadiah will find its way through the cleft of every stonethrough the seam of every nightuntil it freezes, as is water’s custom. Little by little I’m getting cold; close the window.Little by little the legs of my chair are wobblinggo look for a carpenter, Obadiah.


Don’t Close the Window

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خداحافظ اقاى اورول

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Goodbye Mr. Orwell Mr. MarxMs. DurasGoodbye Mr. Kundera Ms. SylviaDear MayakovskyGoodbye The Human Zoo The Labyrinth of Solitude The Clown.Goodbye to you human attachments my bourgeois habitsbusybody bits of language games in the folds of all these books.

I kiss your lovely faces ladies, gentlemen.Forgive mefor selling you.


Goodbye Mr. Orwell

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زمني بزرك

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The earth was vast and emptyand the sky reclined on its invisible spineand water brimmed over the corners of the land. It was the end of the ninth dayand I gave birth to two largeslices of apple.


The Earth Was Vast

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بودم دراك استورياستور

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Gone to the Pastor Drugstore

I had gone to Pastor Drugstore,bought a lot of Valiumto relieve someone’s mistrust,bought a lot of Ibuprofento see untimely dreams. Out of money.Out of hope. After a lost desire,taking a shortcut from Republic Street, came from prison…

You were sittingas if you had been cryingfor your land and mother tonguetwirling in your mouth.No. It’s more poetic if you were standingfacing me who had come thirsty from the shortcut,facing me who loves overturned flowers andthe green icicles and the autumns in Saei parkand lamb stew on the fortieth day of summer at Azeri cafe and non-alcoholic beer at Saless bookstore and sour-plum rolls at Darband. I am in love with a simple “I like you”in the Asre-jadid cinemaand the bang bang songs of Kill Billin the Sepideh cinema. Really!I’d bought a lot of Valium to takea shortcut from where going where?The newspapers said: incidents are useless to a women who is mad…

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Now at the start of this new cycle I’m being flung off you when I won’t say goodbye,still hoping for brave incantations,standing here not in Spain. I keep thinking you’re leavingto come back again with clear words from a place of healing.I keep thinking, “Wish one could take her homeland, like violets,wherever she desires.”I keep thinking keep planting violets keep walkingfrom what public square to where.

The street is still filled with the sound of a small loudspeaker:“go back home go back home.”And we exactly at five in the afternoon of an unalloyed sunset of a strange yearlose the road home in our throbbing temples.

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عكسم رابه مجله مى فرستى

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Either you send my picture to the journal or I don’t get you.

I clasp you, so you won’t miss anything.(For God’s sake don’t be like your father like his grandfather who won’t eat this sugar cube with Belgian ancestors before its ablution in the afternoon tea.)

What’s wrong with this picture this hairthis brazen eye looking straight ahead?

Help me so I won’t turn from you, my dear.It was the year of tobacco and I was weaning you.It was the year of tobacco and I had issued a fatwa, no one should rub coal on her breasts.No one should of bogymen… should be afraid of bogymen, my dear.

You had wet your restless night between the wool blankets.Why did I doze off?Dozed off and you dreamed of caves and herds?

Now “take three times from this sack with lots of water”this is what the family consultant has prescribed to restore the roots.

You didn’t saywhat’s wrong withthe curves of this hair this woman that any void in her you touchyour index finger will swell.Delete my picturesI have laid down my floral clothes in the copper basin.I didn’t know English, my dear.

Send My Picture To The Journal


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قاتل دوستم را كاو فقط مامور اعدام بوده، باقى ش را بايد به اداره يى ديگر رجوع كنم. هر چه

گفته بود كردم. شخص مسول، انسان محرتمى بود. سالم و حال و احواىل خودماىن كردم. رسش شلوغ

بود. آدم هاى ديگرى هم آمده بودند كه رساغ خويشان دور يا نزديكشان را مى گرفتند يا مثل من

نشان دوستى آشنايى ه ديدم، سالم و عليىك كردم و نشان مزار را گرفتم. منى دانست. مى گفت را.

گفت كه منى تواند نشان مزار را بدهد چون من هيچ خويىش نزديىك با شخص مربوطه ندارم. گفتم،

پدر و مادر شخص مربوطه، عاقش كرده اند و برايشان فرقى منى كند كه چه باليى رس فرزندشان

آمده، من دوست بسيار نزديكش بوده ام، نشاىن را به من بدهد، همه ى عمر ممنون محبتشان

خواهم بود. كم مانده بود دستش را ببوسم. گفت اين كارها الزم نيست، صرب كن ببينم چكار مى

توانم بكنم. واقعا هم كمك كرد. گوش نكردم كه با ديگران چطور حرف مى زد. روى يك صندىل گوشه

يى نشستم، چندين ساعت. آخر رس آمد و گفت هنوز اين جايى. گفتم هر گىل بزند به رس خودش

زده، دعاش خواهم كرد، ممنونش خواهم بود. گفت نشاىن- ات كجاست، پيدا مى كنم، تلفن مى كنم.

گفتم، مسافرم، در مسافرخانه هستم، هر وقت بگويد مى آيم، غرض خواندن فاتحه يى ست و رفنت.

گفت طرف مسلامن نبود. گفتم كار ثواب اسمش روى خودش است. نگاهى كرد كه يعنى يا خيىل

پرتم يا مغزم پاره سنگ بر مى دارد. گفتم، منى دانم چه فكر مى كنى، وىل هم عقلم پاره سنگ بر مى

دارد و هم كمى پرتم، برادرى كند، هر كارى مى خواهد مى كنم. گفتم، اجازه بدهد، فردا بيايم، مى

دانم كه رسش خيىل شلوغ است و اين شغل هم كار سختى است، دركش مى كنم بقول قدميى ها،

حاال هم اگر بخواهد صرب مى كنم، كارش كه متام شد، برويم يك قهوه خانه همني حواىل يك چايى با

هم بنوشيم، يا اگر خانواده اش منتظرش نيستند، برويم يك شام مهامن من باشد. گفت، هم كارم حاال

حاال ها متام منى شود، هم زن و بچه منتظرم هستند، آدم هاى زيادى آمده اند مى خواهند نشاىن

فرزندان پدران خواهران برادرانشان را كه اعدام شده اند بگريند، منى دانم با مرده مى خواهند چكار

كنند، مرده كه حرف منى زند، ىب كارند، كار ما را هم زياد مى كنند. گفتم، تقصري آن ها هم نيست،

باالخره رسم است كه بروى رس قرب مرده. گفت شام چرا ديگر دنبال اين رسم ايد. گفتم من دنبال

رسم نيستم، من آمده بودم اين جا كه ببينمش ، گفتند زندان است، رفتم زندان، خيىل محبت كردند،

با اين كه خويش نبودم، همه ى اطالعات را در اختيارم گذاشتند، واقعا آدم هاى درستى بودند، خيىل

زحمتشان دادم، باالخره بعد از گشنت همه ى پرونده ها گفتند، فوت كرده. رساغ خانه شان را گرفتم.

نشاىن دادند. رفتم. پدر ايشان يا حوصله نداشتند يا ىب وقت رفته بودم، يا هر چه، چند تا ناسزا

بيست و دوم

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Coming at last upon my friend’s murderer, I bid him a greeting and asked if he knew where my friend was buried. The man didn’t know. His job, he said, was only to execute people. If I wanted to know where they’d actually buried my friend, I had to go ask at a different government agency. So I did. The man in charge at this other office seemed like a respectable fellow. Busy though. There were a lot of people going in and out of there asking about their executed relatives. He told me there was no way he could give the whereabouts of my friend; I wasn’t family. I let the man know that my friend’s parents had disowned him a long time ago and could care less what happened to their child. But me, I was like a brother to him. “Just give me the location, and I’ll be grateful to you to the end of my days.” “No need for theatrics,” the man said, “wait around and I’ll see what I can do for you.” I sat, waiting while he went about dealing with the other supplicants. Then at the end of the day he noticed me again and asked, “You are still here? Give me your address. When I find your friend’s file, I’ll let you know.” “But I’m not from this town. I’m staying at a guesthouse. Truth is, all I want to do is pray one time over my friend’s grave. That’s all.” “But the guy we killed, he wasn’t even a believer. He had no faith. Why would you pray over someone like that?” “A good deed is its own reward,” I answered. Which made him look at me like I was either crazy or a bit thick in the head. So I immediately added, “I’m both a little crazy and more than a bit thick in the head. But come, be a sport! I know you are very busy, and this job, well, it’s not an easy job, is it? I understand your situation completely. I’ll wait as long as you say. When you’re finished with work, we could go to a teahouse together. Or if your family is not expecting you, we could go have dinner. My treat.” “For starters, I still have a lot of work to do. Besides, my family expects me home.” Then he added, “Listen! We’ve had to put a lot of people to death. But folks still keep coming around asking about their children, their fathers, their sisters and brothers. I don’t understand what it is they think they want to do with a dead body. Does a dead body talk? No. These people, they have nothing better to occupy their time. So they come here and make more work for us.” “Can you blame them?” I asked. “I mean, Isn’t it proper to show up where your loved one is buried?” “Yes, but why are you following this custom?” “I’m not following any custom. I’m in this town on a visit. They told me

Written by: Alimorad Fadaienia Translated by: Salar Abdoh

Excerpt from “Tales of the Nameless”

32

my friend’s in jail. So I went there and they were perfect gentlemen about it all. I mean, even though I wasn’t a close relative they gave me what information they could. They spent a long time looking in their files and finally told me they’d killed him. They gave me the address of his family home. His father was there. But, I don’t know, maybe he wasn’t in the mood to talk; he just swore at me and ran me off. Then I ended up here. Everyone says this is the place where one can locate a grave.” “Come tomorrow then.” “To be honest with you, I’m leaving day after tomorrow. What if the this thing drags out? I don’t have the money to change my ticket. And even if I were to spend that kind of money … well, I’d rather give it to you rather than the airlines. Yes you. Because you are a hardworking man. I can tell.” It was just the two of us there now. So I took my money out and put it in his hand. “You won’t eat with me, then at least take the family out tonight. And God bless you.” I didn’t give him a chance to refuse the cash and walked right out of there. Now I was scared. What if the guy went and reported that I’d tried to bribe him? What if they threw me in jail first. And then … I jumped in the first car that slowed down. When the driver asked “Where to?” I told him to drive me wherever his other passengers were headed. The fellow laughed and I did my best to laugh along with him. “So where are you coming from?” he asked. “The Office of the Cemetery.” Now the other passengers chipped in, “You got scared and ran?” “Of course,” I said. “Then obviously you’re not from these parts.” Now they all eyed me like I was some kind of leper. “Tell us where you’re staying and we’ll take you there.” I gave an address two blocks away from the guesthouse. By the time I got off, I was ready for the airport. I told myself I had to act like I had never asked to see my friend’s grave. And so it went. No idea how I endured the hours till the next day when I got on that plane. I talked to no one. In the plane I sat quite still in my seat, and not until the voice announced we could undo our seatbelts did I believe I had finally escaped danger. I got up and headed for the bathroom. In the bathroom I began shaking and before I knew it I was weeping hysterically. Now was a good time for that, but I still put my hand to my mouth so no one could hear me. When I was finished weeping, I went back to my seat. The fellow next to me says, “Do you have some kind of allergy?” “To what?” I ask. “I don’t know. Your eyes, they’re bloodshot.” “I had me a good cry in the bathroom, is what I did.” “Lucky you.”

33

گفتند، من فكر كردم عصباىن است حتام مزاحمش نشدم، شنيدم، نشاىن قرب را مى شود اين جا بگريم،

اين است كه آمده ام خدمت شام. يقني كردم، كه يك مشكىل پيدا كرده، وىل منى دانستم چيست.

گفت، حاال فردا بياييد ببينم چكار مى شود كرد. گفتم حقيقتا پس فردا من مسافرم، بليطم را هم

خريده ام، منى دانم چكارش كنم اگر كار طول بكشد، امكان هم ندارم كه پول اضاىف بليط بدهم، اگر

هم قرار است بدهم، بهرت است كه بدهمش خدمت شام كه فرد زحمتكىش هستيد، تا بدهمش به

اداره ى هواپياميى كه احتياجى به پول من ندارد. و ضمن همني حرف، ديدم غري از خودم و خودش

كىس توى اداره منانده. موقعيت را مغتنم شمردم، مبلغى كه يك شب شام خانوادگى را مثال بدهد

گذاشتم كف دستش . گفتم با ما كه شام منى خوريد، خانواده را بربيد شام بريون از طرف من، تصدقت

.گردم. نگذاشتم چيزى بگويد. گفتم، فردا خدمتت مى رسم و آمدم بريون

بريون كه آمدم ترسيدم. گفتم نكند گزارش كند كه رشوه داده، بگريند زندانم كنند رسم را بكنند زير

آب. اولني سوارى كه رسيد، سوار شدم. گفت كجا، گفتم هر جا كه ديگران مى روند. سوارى دو

تا مسافر ديگر هم داشت، زد زير خنده راننده. منهم همراهى كردم. گفت كجا بودى. گفتم دفرت

قربستان. مسافران ديگر هم همراهى ش كردند. گفتند، ترسيدى در رفتى. گفتم، مگر ترس ندارد.

راننده گفت، معلوم است كه مسافرى. گفتم، چطور مگر. گفت، هيچى رست سالمت. انگار يك

جذامى ديده اند. گفتند بگو كجا، اول شام را مى رسانيم. اين يعنى خود محبت. ترسيدم نشاىن

مسافرخانه را بدهم. يىك دو كوچه حواىل مسافرخانه را نشاىن دادم كه اسمشان را هم حقيقتا درست

.منى دانستم

پياده كه شدم، گفتم بخودم همني حاال مى روم فرودگاه. بعد گفتم، اگر حاال بروم مشكوك مى شوند.

يك جورى بگذرانم تا فردا. بايد فقط طورى رفتار كنم كه كىس نداند رفته ام نشاىن قرب بگريم. نبايد كار

.سختى باشد

تا وقت سوار شدن هواپيام را منى دانم چطور گذراندم. منتهاى سعى ام را كردم كه با كىس تا الزم

نباشد حرف نزنم. سوار طياره هم كه شدم همني كار را كردم. همني كه گفتند كمر بندها تان را وا

كنيد، فهميدم كه واقعا ديگر از خطر جسته ام. رفتم دستشويى، قبل از اين كه آىب بصورتم بزنم،

ديدم مى لرزم و لرزه متام نشده گريه يى كه منى دانستم از كجا آمده، وادارم كردم كه دست بگذارم

روى دهانم كه صداى ضجه ام را كىس نشنود. متام كه كردم، صورتم را شستم و آمدم نشستم.

بغلدستى ام گفت، حساسيت دارى. گفتم به چى. گفت منى دانم وىل چشم هات عني كاسه ى خون

.است. گفتم جاى شام خاىل، توى دستشويى، گريه ى مفصىل كردم. گفت، خوش بحالت

34

می خواهم در پوست حیواناتبخزم

و دنیا را از چشم آنهابنگرم

شاید معنایی را بیابمبه وسعت اندوه خود

آن روز که مردمآن چه را که یادگار دریاست

به دریا بازدهیدو آن چه را که از آسامن

در دل من مانده استبه آسامن بازگردانید

زمزمه ی جنگلو صدای آبشارها را

به جنگل و آبشارها برگردانیدو اگر ستاره ای در دست های من مانده است

آن را به آسامن بازفرستیدو آن گاه تن من را به زمین باز دهید

و قلب من را به سکوت و تاریکی بسپارید

صدای گریه کودکانو درخشیدن

خورشیددر همه جا

یکسان است

چه خوب است دلی باشد میرا

و در آنعشقی باشد

جاودانه

وقتی واقعیت ناگفتنی استیا باید سکوت کردیا باید شعر گفت

35

i want to crawlinto the skins of animalsand see the worldfrom their eyes

maybe i’ll find meaningvast as my despair

the day I diereturn to the seawhat i’ve held of it as keepsakereturn to the skywhat’s left of it in my heart

the humming of the forestthe noise of the waterfalls return them to the forest and waterfallsand if any starsshould remain in my handssend them back to the sky

then returnmy body to the earthmy heartto dark, silence

the sound of children wailingand the splendor of the suneverywhereare the same

how wonderfulfor a mortal heartto hold eternallove

when reality cannot be spokenone should resort to silenceor to verse

Written by: Bijan Jalali Translated by: Aria Fani and Adeeba Talukder

36

ا سقند با دأ

36

37

Such as the days transpiresuch as the wind gusts with its gaspsand rears it head to probe each doorand rears its headat every roof and raids the cracks of every walland rushes savagelyand sets with its covert paws before the valiant man on the path of peril and blood, its snare

Such as the scheming old wind wears oncrying out in dread, at the jungle's headshrilling in fear, at the massif's heart and wrangles through entangling alleys

Such as it breaks us and flees but now it too more brokenfrom fear of standing still, away from the mighty stones

Such as it passes babbling and cloaked glass and beads adorned on a thousand limbsstandard and scripture clutched in a thousand fists glowing flamelike in ragepounding dirt and blood upon its crown in rancorits body armored with a thousand spikes and barbs and turns circles and yelps derangedand rams its horns into the sprouts of the red roseand thrashes its tail against the people's windowsand claws at the walls of their homesand punctures the veins of the living and deadand cooks up a thousand dreams and delusions:

as the sun which arises, signs appearin its tactics and its rushsigns of demise

Written by: Sa‘id Soltanpur Translated by: Samad Alavi

Winter Squall

36

38

دربند يهلوى

39

In Pahlavi prisona man has fallen fatigued and bloodied fire set alight from the soles of his feetblood from his veins’ blazing walls like fire dropsflows calmly in the leaves of the woundthe wire lasheshaving traveled circuits of his blood have not travelled

another circuit, his resolveit shines like a spring and spillson his broken face - moonlight of December moon -quicksilver of his patient criesclose-lipped on the bellow’s firehe burnsin the blossoming fire of the wound-flowerin his narrow cornerhe stays restless like a flame.

But in the heavens of the window the full moon, the crimson pupil of revenge,in the clouds’ sinister socketsstays awake.

Glowing crimson and scorched in the prison’s narrowson sweetbrier boughs he seesthe broken moonin nightly garden-stroll solitudehe plucksblood-flower mementos from the branches of the woundto release himself as if from painlike a broken branchhe plants his head on the wall’s chestcalmly he sits:I am not alone here broken


In Pahlavi Prison

41

I am not alone here seated in this bloodwhat branches, broken in this plainwhat wounds, blossomed in this gardenhere, what countless springs have burned.

The wound-flowers burn with fire-dropsfiercerand sleep-flames ignitethe man’s eyes more triumphant and more lit with blood:at home far away midnight moonbeams through window panes scattering grief ’s ashen dust there my mother sits in smoke and tearsthere my father clutching sorrow’s kneeswith dew drops spilled, with dripping cheeksmy brother asleep on his nightly assignmentsmy wife’s disheveled ringlets spillon Dawn’s chestlullaby mingled with her bouts of weepingmother until the dawn of executioninvoluntarily breaks her sobsbut father still curled on sorrow’s kneesweighted by the sleeping cries.

Calmly, mother, calmallow the morning light to riseallow them to bind at first lightmy aspirations to the stakeallow the call of “fire” to rise allow the star of the discharge to pass madly through this galaxy of blood the blood to grow flame-likethe blood gardento scatteron the bullet-hail’s fieldthe summer seed to forest in the blood-lit sunto crythese seeds will not lay groundedfrom the earth’s heart like lightning they will bloomand will traverse the plateau like thunderthis is blood and will remain.

43

Sleep’s blood flames hang on the man’s eyelidshe frees his body from the wall and sleepsin blazing anguishsifting dreams of morning through his sleep and blood and night, bloodthirsty, monstrous nightlike a hangman, furious arms at the readyelbows exposed from rolled up, blood-stained sleeves eyeless sockets filled with bloodin the fortress of Evinin the fortress of Hesarin the dreaded buried halls of Qezel Qal'ehin the fortress of the Committee's slaughterhousehunches over the darkened pitat work with his bloody arms.

The man asleep, fevered in his visionsa thorn from the flower bed of the wound piercing him each moment in bloodand the crimson moon glowing past the prison window.

44

جهان كمونيست ٥

45

A bullet in the moutha bullet in the eye.

On the blocks of icein the freezer of the state morguetwo frozen blood-flames glowa firelight in the moutha firelight in the eye.

In the February sixth meeting in the throngs of supporters and the peopleamong the slogans and signsunder the patrol of armed republicansand droves of guards and thugsin the preserve of nunchucks, maces and chains in discharges of fearand maniacal gibesin the glimmer of bayonets and tin stars in the caws of surveilling crows and clobbering vulturesin the February sixth meetingin the red meeting of the uprising in the red Siyahkal meetingtwo incendiary solar cries radiate from Victor's lashes and lipsa sunburst in the moutha sunburst in the eye.

Victor the CommunistVictor of today and the future VictorThe workers VictorVictor of the worldVictor of hammerVictor of sickleVictor of red flagCommunist Victorspringing Victor of the meetingspringing from Shoosh Square


Communist Victor

47

to the restricted square- Liberation Square - springing from the restricted Liberationto Revolution Squarespringing above the heights of the murderous convoysand the wounding bayonetsspringing from the ricochets of the blastsspringing from blind alleys and roofsto Avenue of the Flag- avenue of patrol and bullets and blood - springing Communist VictorVictor of revolutionin the suffocating republican airwith lips of flint and steeleyelids of flint and steel lightning bolt in the mouth a bolt of lightning in the eye.

Meat prices inflatedbean prices inflatedunemploymentand lusting for bread Arise, arise toilers!Toilersarise, arise!Victor of slogansslogans of toilslogans of laborincendiary throat of firevolcanic burst of blood and uproarheaving in the meeting's skya galaxy in the moutha galaxy in the eye.

Born of toilin alleys of dust and hungeryesterday's little Victorat the threshold of awaiting breadand smileson the knees of laborin the coarse caress of toil's handsin the skirt-folds of travailwith motherly songs and tearsgrown up Victor of todayVictor bearing standardred VictorVictor of meetings and strugglerevolving Victor springing forward

49

Victor of workshopVictor of workVictor of smoke and fumes and fireVictor of stone and lava and flamea volcano in the moutha volcano in the eye.

At the meeting Victor did the roundsand the pages of communiqués took flight from his fingertipshovering above the meetingand the people- melodious islands of doveson a tumultuous sea of shouts and fists - Victor the messengera pigeon in the moutha pigeon in the eye.

At six oclock in the morningwith bundled manifestos at suppliers' square ten minutes past eightwith leaves of slogans and tracts at the Gomrok Pressnine o'clock with the "Defense" comradesbehind the greenery of "Liberation"with the long sickle of loveand the weighty hammer of a crya panther in the moutha panther in the eye.

At half past tenon Worker's Avenuebinding a comrade's woundsin the people's houseand in the tumult of patrols and alarmscarrying on his shouldersa comradewith a bullet through his cheekthrough the alleys of "Khosh"a future in the moutha future in the eye.

The leaden bowsand canopies of gas suspended between earth and skyand Victor calling from his volcanic throat" … persist , persist! toilers

51

struggle resist, resist!" a revolution in the moutha revolution in the eye.

Victor the Feda'iFlorid Victor of redemption and loveflowers of ,71flowers from then until noweternal flowersforest flowers and ambrosial flowers Feda'i flowersharvests in heaps and heapsfrom Siyahkalto the Uprising harvested heapsfrom the uprisinguntil today. Communist Victorwith red arrangements for Comrade Tomaj a bouquet in the moutha bouquet in the eye.

Brass knuckles and knivessnorts and hoofbeats Ay!Wounded VictorVictor spilling bloodin the bloodied convoy of the Republic. Rifle butts and bootswhipping and swelling and woundsAy!Victor withstanding tortureVictor refusing to breakCommunist Victorwith two bolted locks of bloodin the torture chambera padlock in the moutha padlock in the eye.

Hands bound with the Republic's cuffsRepublican boots on chestRepublican fistson Victor's bloodied jawsworn Colt barrel in the mouth worn out barrela bullet in the mouth

53

a bullet in the eye.

In the freezer of the state morguedocuments of Republican crimeson blocks of ice. Banners in the intersectionsmanifestoes in factories and streetsCommunist Victorin handson wallsCommunist Victorin tractsin airin schoolsin homesin heartsin mouthsin eyespartisan's flint and steel in the jungle of the toilers' rageand the toilers surrounding the bannersbeside the manifestoesand the meeting's airthe Feda'i aircirculates in the homeland of strugglewith Victor's shining voice"…persist, persist!Toilers struggleresist, resist!"

Among the bannersthe Revolutionwith its forehead split and bleeding callswith Victor's shining voice and riversand Victor's comradessing"Communist Victor"and they singwith bouquets of bloodat the head of the meetingof history.

54

دعوت

54

55

Characters

Miss

Asieh (her maid)

Setting

The room of a thirty-year-old woman. It is a mess. On

one side of the room is a dressing table and, next to it, a

small table with a telephone. Near the dressing table is

a large closet. On the other side of the room is a single

bed. Three doors open onto a bathroom, the hallway,

and the next room. The place is extremely untidy, and

everything is piled on top of everything else. There is

an ironing board with an electric iron and an electric

phonograph with a stack of records next to it.

A number of books and magazines are strewn about

the place. In spite of its chaotic state, the room has a

look of comfort and affluence. When the curtain rises,

the stage is empty. Miss can be heard singing in the

next room. She enters a few minutes later, in sloppy

Written by: Gholam-Hossein Sa'adi Translated by: Maryam Habibian and Lois Becker

The Invitation

*the Farsi text was not transcribed but scanned from the original text 54

57

house clothes, carrying a load of dirty laundry under

her arm. She goes toward the hallway, still singing. As

she passes the mirror, she stops and looks at herself.

She smiles, then enters the hall and shouts.

Miss: Asieh! ... Asieh! Come and pick up these things.

I'm putting them in the corner here.

(She enters the room and looks around, shakes her

shoulders, puts on a record, starts toward another

room, stops in front of the mirror again, and winks

at herself. As she moves on, the phone rings. The

woman stops, hesitates, turns off the record player, and

picks up the receiver).

Hello . . . Oh, hello . . . hello . . . How are you? . . . Are

you O.K.? . . . It's strange . . . Well, (she laughs) I'm not

bad . . . Yes, I'm fine . . . No . . . You're kidding! No,

really . . . Well . . . Where? . . . Whose house? . . . Not in

the house? . . . Then where? . . . Uh huh . . . Oh, that's

cute . . . You're naughty. It sounds like you need a

chaperone . . . Well . . . Who's going to be

there? . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Is her husband coming

too? . . . So they're back together? How many times

does this make? . . . (She laughs). You mean you aren't

counting? . . . Those two have really made a mess of

it . . . Well . . . Me? . . . No . . . I can't . . . I really can't

59

. . . I'm busy tonight. Yes, a real invitation . . . No . . . It's-

not a secret . . . You have a dirty mind ... Well ... I'm too old

for that kind of thing . . . No one pays any attention to .me

anymore . . . No . . . It's impossible .. . There's an old

saying . . . What? . . . How can I? . . . It's impossible. I

have to go . . . It wouldn't be polite . . . You know there's no

getting out of it . . . No . . . Stop acting like a child . . . No

way . . . It's over. He left . . .Well . . . O.K. It's not because of

him . . . He just called me a few days ago . . .

Nothing . . . Just to say "hello" . . . You know how I am . . .

It's not my style to make a fuss . . . When something's over,

it's over. The rest is a waste of

energy . . . No way . . . He wasn't that great anyway . . . It's

true . . . I didn't expect anything from him . . . You want

me to beg? . . . No, it's true . . . I wouldn't know how to trap

a man . . . Why should I? Life goes on. (She laughs). I've

been there before . . . What, does he think my heart is an

open door that he can come and go whenever he

likes? . . . What's that supposed to mean? . . . Well, let it

go . . . So what? . . . No . . . No . . . I'm not angry . . . It's

not even worth talking about . . . (She laughs). I told you,

it's impossible . . . What? . . . I don't have the patience for

people like that . . .

61

Yes, I have patience for anything . . . Apologize to

them . . . Yesterday, today, it's all the same . . . You

know that I'm always available . . . No . . . I didn't

do anything . . . I only just remembered ... You don't

know how I look. (She touches her hair).

Dirty . . . Disheveled . . . I can't bear to look at

myself . . . (Laughs) I'm a mess, my dear, a mess. If

you were here, you'd understand . . . My room looks

like a bazaar . . I don't know . . .

I don't know anybody . . . Yes . . . It's a nice place . . .

A lot of cultured people . . . I count on that . . .

No way . . . Well, that's one way to look at it . . .

Sure . . . Are you shy? . . . Well, it's impossible not to

be shy . . . I'm sorry about that . . . I would have liked

that too . . . Next time, God willing . . . Say "hello" to

them . . . Love you . . . Good-bye. (She puts down the

receiver, looks around her). I haven't gotten anything

done.

(She doesn't know what to do. Then, with an air of

decision, she goes to the closet and starts examining

her clothes. She takes out a dress, holds it against

her body, studies it, and decides she doesn't like

it. She takes out another dress and unconsciously

60

63

hums a slow melody. Throughout the play, whenever

the woman thinks about the invitation, she begins

humming, deep in her throat. She tries on the dress,

but she doesn't like it. She is confused. Thoughtfully,

she pulls a stool in front of the closet. She sits there,

looking, and tries to choose one of the dresses.

Finally, she chooses one, examines it, and her singing

becomes louder. She holds the dress in front of her

body and looks at herself in the mirror. She frowns,

she likes it; she takes out another dress and hangs it

over her left arm. She holds them up, alternating. She

is unsure, she puts her hand down and calls Asieh.)

Asieh ... Asieh . . . (She waits, and, to herself) Which

one should I wear? (As she is thinking, she watches

herself in the mirror.) Which one looks better on you?

Asieh: (In the doorway) Yes, Miss?

Miss: (Suddenly catching herself) Look at this place.

Asieh: You've made a mess all right. (She begins

tidying up).

Miss: What are you doing? Just leave it . . . This isn't

the time to do this . . . When is Mom coming back?

Asieh: I don't know.

Miss: Don't you know anything? (Silence) Why does

she have to disappear now, when there's a thousand

65

things to do.

Asieh: Well, I'll help you.

Miss: You? (She looks at Asieh very carefully, and she

puts the dresses on the bed. She examines Asieh and

the room, then walks around aimlessly. She looks

at the bed, the mirror, the telephone, and her own

fingers. She can't decide what to do).

Asieh: What's going on, Miss?

Miss: Don't confuse me . . . Don't confuse me. (To

herself) Let me see what I have to do. One thing at a

time . . . The dress . . . the hairdresser . . . would I get

there on time . . . What time is it? (She picks up her

watch from her dresser and looks at it).

Asieh: When do you have to go?

Miss: I don't know . . . I told you to let me think, I don't

know anything. (She goes to the closet and looks for

a dress. She gets angry when she can't find it). Where

did I put it?

Asieh: What are you looking for, Miss?

Miss: Nothing. (She notices the dresses on the bed).

Oh, there it is . . . I'm absent-minded . . .

Asieh, listen . . . (She picks up the dresses.) Which do

you think looks better on me? (In front of the mirror)

This one? (She holds it to herself.) Or this one? (She

67

picks up another dress).

Asieh: I can't see you.

Miss: In the mirror . . . look in the mirror, not at my

back. (Asieh comes forward and looks at her in the

mirror). Well?

Asieh: Very pretty.

Miss: Which one?

Asieh: Both of them.

Miss: I can't wear two dresses at the same time. I

asked you which one?

Asieh: Everything you wear looks good on you.

Miss: If you were in my place, which one would you

choose?

Asieh: Me? (She picks up the dresses and examines

them and stands in front of the mirror.) But . . . What

can I say? If it was me . . . (Spontaneously) You're very

lucky. (The young woman smiles.) Which one do you

prefer?

Miss: If I knew, I wouldn't have asked you.

Asieh: Well, it's your opinion that counts.

Miss: Sure, but what about you?

Asieh: I would wear this one. (She chooses one).

Miss: This one? . . . Why this one?

Asieh: Well, why not?

69

Miss: (Satisfied) Then this is the one I'll wear.

Asieh: (Excited) Didn't I tell you?

Miss: (She throws down the second dress and walks

around with the chosen one). So, this one is better

than the rest. (In front of the mirror) Yes ... it's better

than the rest. (Imagines herself in the dress) The

bright color . . . the bare shoulders ... the skirt ... You're

sure the color isn't too bright?

Miss: But why?

Asieh: Because it's nice.

Miss: What's nice about it? . . . Can you tell me?

Asieh: You know, Miss, it's a nice color . . . it's well

tailored, it's nice.

Miss: (Convinced and thoughtful) Is it nice?

Asieh: Very nice . . . beautiful.

Miss: (Satisfied) Then this is the one I’ll wear.

Asieh: (Excited) Didn't I tell you?

Miss: (She throws down the second dress and walks

around with the chosen one). So, this one is better

than the rest. (In front of the mirror) Yes . . . it's better

than the rest. (Imagines herself in the dress) The

bright color . . . the bare shoulders . . . the skirt . . .

You're sure the color isn't too bright?

Asieh: No, Miss ... it's very pretty.

71

Miss: Well, I'll put a pin here. (She puts the dress

on the table and pins her hair in the back, while

humming a song).

Asieh: Aren't you going to put it on?

Miss: The way I look? . . . So, what about the shoes?

(She studies the closet, brings out some shoeboxes,

and examines them carefully). None of these shoes go

with the dress.

Asieh: But these shoes are all new, you haven't even

worn some of them yet.

Miss: I am talking about their color. (Testy) For

example, does this shoe go well with my dress?

Asieh: No, it doesn't.

Miss: So, what do you suggest?

Asieh: Well . . . what about those others?

Miss: They're all the same.

Asieh: What do I know . . . this must be one of those

formal parties.

Miss: Why?

Asieh: Because you're so nervous. I've never seen you

like this.

Miss: (Offended) Never seen me like what? Will you

let me get on with this or not? (She examines the

shoes again). It's embarrassing.

73

Asieh: Why is it embarrassing? No one will notice.

Miss: You think people are blind, that they don't have

eyes?

Asieh: Who's going to be looking at your shoes?

Miss: At a big party, they notice everything you have

on . . . shoes . . . hat . . . clothes . . . hair . . .

Asieh: So what if they do, Miss?

Miss: Nothing! But what about me? Perhaps no one

else will say anything, but I'll know . . . I am someone

too. (She begins thinking). What a problem! (She gets

up, puts the dress away, and lies down on the bed).

Asieh: So you're not going, Miss?

Miss: Where?

Asieh: To the party.

Miss: (She gets up). Who said I wasn't going? I

wouldn't miss it for the world. I have to go. It's

impossible not to.

Asieh: So what will you do?

Miss: Do?

Asieh: About the shoes?

Miss: (Determined) I'll think of something.

Asieh: How?

75

Miss: (More determined) I'll fix it ... There is nothing

one can't do . . . Be patient for one minute (goes

toward the phone), be patient. (She looks for the

phone number. Asieh comes forward and watches

her). Hello . . . Susan, dear . . . hello . . . How are

you? . . . Yes, it's me . . . thanks. How are you? . . . Are

you O.K.? I'm not surprised . . . I'm calling to bother

you about something. (With a nervous laugh) I have

a problem . . . No, my dear . . . Don't worry . . . You

see, I have to go somewhere right now, and I don't

have the right kind of shoe to go with my dress. I just

remembered that we both wear the same size

shoes . . . No . . . I want to borrow your maroon

pumps . . . What are you doing? . . . Can you have

Mohammad bring them for me? . . .

Thanks so much . . . You won't need them, will you? ...

Thank you very much, dear Susan . . . So Mohammad

is going to bring them? Yes . . . thanks . . . good-bye.

(She puts down the receiver and, happily, to Asieh)

See? (She laughs and twirls around). It all worked out.

Asieh: You're going to be late, Miss.

Miss: (Notices) What time is it? (She runs toward her

dresser and looks at her watch). It's getting late.

77

Asieh: (Flustered) So, hurry up . . . hurry up.

Miss: What?

Asieh: It's time to go ... to leave.

Miss: (She is nervous and doesn't know what to

do). I'm confused. With the way I look, and all this

mess. (She goes into the bathroom. Silence. Asieh is

listening to her. The woman comes to the doorway).

Asieh!

Asieh: Yes, Miss.

Miss: Should I take a shower?

Asieh: Do you have time?

Miss: I don't know. Why didn't I think of it earlier? Put

the iron on. (Asieh puts the iron on). Is there any hot

water?

Asieh: I just turned it on.

Miss: When will it be warm?

Asieh: Right away.

Miss: (She enters the bathroom, and, from the

bathroom) What if it isn't warm?

Asieh: It will be. I'll have your dress ironed by the time

you get out.

Miss: Would you? It's not your job.

Asieh: What, Miss? . . . Who does all your ironing for

79

you?

Miss: This is different.

Asieh: (Surprised) What do I know?

Miss: (Shouting) Asieh. Bring my clean slippers

here. They're under the bed. (Asieh brings them from

under the bed). Give them to me, hurry up. (She takes

the slippers, puts them on, and enters the room.

She starts cleaning her feet). Asieh, please dial my

hairdresser's number.

Asieh: (She dials the number) Hello. Hello . . . Ms.

Mojgan? Hold on, please. (She points at the young

woman).

Miss: Just a minute. (She dries her feet hurriedly and

throws the towel on the floor, goes toward the phone.)

Hello. Hi, how are you, my dear? . . . Do you have any

time today? (She points to Asieh to bring the stool

for her). No? . . . What? . . . I'm going to a party. (She

sits on the stool.) Yes, it's an important place. I'm

already a little late . . . Isn't there something you can

do? Maybe you could ask someone to give me their

appointment? Please . . . Well what am I going to

do? . . . No . . . No . . . There's no need to be

81

embarrassed . . . Good-bye. (She puts the phone down

and buries her head in her hands). This isn't going to

work.

Asieh: Miss.

Miss: What?

Asieh: I wish you had called earlier.

Miss: (Excited) What difference would that have

made? Even if I had called earlier, what good would it

have done?

Asieh: (Shocked) None.

Miss: (Chin cupped in her hand, she looks at herself

in the mirror and smiles). Pfft! . . . It's ridiculous to

expect anything from people like that.

Asieh: You shouldn't get all worked up about this, dear

Miss.

Miss: What do you suggest I do with this dirty hair?

(She grabs a bunch of hair in her hands and shakes it).

Ha? What should I do?

Asieh: You can find a comb and water anywhere,

Miss.

Miss: Comb and water?

Asieh: (Carefully) To, well, wash it . . .

Miss: Wash it? How can I do that? (Screaming) Be

careful that iron doesn't scorch!

83

Asieh: (She runs toward the iron. The young woman

enters the bathroom; Asieh, in a loud voice) Miss, it’s

very hot, what should I do?

Miss: (From the bathroom) What should you do? . . .

Let it burn! (The sound of the water is Heard).

Asieh: Burn?

Miss: (She sticks her head out the door). What are

you, brain dead? Turn it off!

Asieh: Turn what off?

Miss: The damned thing, I mean that damned thing!

Asieh: O.K., Miss. (She turns off the switch).

Miss: Did it burn?

Asieh: No, nothing happened.

Miss: Why are you standing there watching me?

Asieh: What do you want me to do?

Miss: Come and help me wash my hair.

Asieh: Wash your hair?

Miss: Yes, wash my hair. (She is contemplating).

Should I wash my hair? If I do, it isn’t going to dry.

I wish I had a hair dryer. Asieh, could you go and

borrow the colonel’s wife’s hair dryer?

Asieh: If you want me to, I will.

Miss: (Uncertain) No, better not, or tomorrow they’ll

be talking behind my back. (She touches her hair).

85

So . . . (with a pleading look) what do you think I should

do?

Asieh: About what?

Miss: This damned hair.

Asieh: You’ll have to do something with it . . . but you

don’t want to be late.

Miss: I’ll fix it somehow . . . There must be something

I can do. (She opens the drawer, takes out some rollers,

combs her hair hurriedly, and puts the rollers on).

Asieh, some water.

Asieh: Miss!

Miss: What?

Asieh: This is going to take a long time.

Miss: (She is upset and starts throwing everything

within arm’s reach). So, what the hell should I do?

Asieh: You used to have something . . .

Miss: What?

Asieh: That wig, the one that you said was so

expensive.

Miss: Yes, you're right. (Excited) Well done, Asieh,

you've saved the day, I didn't think of that! (She looks at

herself in the mirror). You don’t think it looks ugly on

me?

Asieh: Not at all ... it looks great.

87

Miss: I'll try it ... (She gets up). Make sure the iron

hasn't gotten cold. (Asieh wets her finger to examine

the iron). Set up the ironing board. (She lays the dress

on the on the table and goes toward the closet to get her

wig. The bell rings loudly; both of them start and look

at each other). Oh, God, not now, who could that be?


Miss: Do you think it's a visitor?

Asieh: It must be. Everyone else has a key.

Miss: Oh . . . this isn't a house, it's a hotel. This one

comes, that one goes. There's always someone here.

Asieh: Shall I answer the door?

Miss: And say what?

Asieh: So you don't want me to?

Miss: No, stay where you are. (The bell rings

insistently).

Asieh: Whoever it is isn't going to give up. They must

know we never leave the house.

Miss: Let them ring till they drop. After a while, they'll

get tired of it and get the hell out. (The bell rings

loudly).

Asieh: Do you want me to go tell them there's no one

home?

89

Miss: What if it's a relative? . . . They'll come in

anyway. (The bell is heard).

Asieh: Let me peek out the window.

Miss: Be careful they don't see you.

Asieh: I'm being careful. (She looks outside). It's a man.

Miss: A man? What does he look like?

Asieh: I can't really see from here.

Miss: Let me see. (She goes to the window, peeks out,

and, suddenly realizing something, to Asieh) Go. . .

run . . . it's Mohammad with the shoes. (She sticks her

head out the window). Yoo hoot . . .

Mohammad . . . Mohammad . . . just a minute . . .

wait . . . she's coming! . . . (She comes back into the

room). Run . . . (She is confused. She can't make up

her mind between the three doors, the hallway, the

bathroom, and the bedroom. Finally, she decides and

goes toward the hall. Asieh comes up with a shoebox in

her hand. They both laugh, they are happy, the young

woman picks up the box and hums the usual tune).

Asieh: He said to tell you the madam says "hello."

Miss: (She gives the box back to Asieh.) Open it, let me

see. (Asieh starts opening it.) Break the string . . .

Oh . . . You can't even untie a string . . .

91

Give it to me . . . This won't take long. (She opens the

box and brings out a pair of shoes. She holds them

up and whistles). They're great . . . it's exactly what I

wanted . . . See how they look on me. (She puts them

on and walks toward the ironing table, compares the

dress and the shoes). This is just what I wanted . . .

It's a perfect match . . . Come . . . come, look . . . (She

saunters along). Do they look good on me?

Asieh: Very nice.

Miss: Where are you looking? Look at the shoes, not

me. (She takes them off). So, now the shoes are taken

care of. (She goes toward the iron). Now if this dress

looks all right . . . If this goes well, then that goes well,

and this will go well, and I will go well, and you will go

well too, and everything will go well. The whole world

will go well! And no one will have any regrets. If only

death didn't exist . . . but that's not such a big problem.

(Laughs and sings) La la la . . . (She picks up the ironed

dress, holds it in front of herself, and twirls around the

room).

Asieh: You don't want to be late.

Miss: Late? . . . Oh my God. (Happy and excited) What

should I do first?

93

Asieh: Put your dress on.

Miss: First I should put on some make-up, and then . . .

Asieh: Whatever you do, you'd better hurry up.

Miss: You should be doing something, instead of telling

me what to do.

Asieh: What can I do? . . . I'm not the one going to the

party.

Miss: Go find my watch and purse and bring them

here. And see what the weather's like . . . It was a bit

cloudy this afternoon. If it's still cloudy, bring me my

umbrella. (Asieh leaves). I'm afraid it's going to

rain . . . My evening will be ruined . . . One can't trust

this weather, it's fickle. (She takes out the wig and

stands in front of the mirror). What's going on, Asieh?

Asieh: The weather looks bad, so I brought the

umbrella.

Miss: Excellent, Asieh, wait till you see what I'm going

to do for your wedding. I'll pay you back for everything

you've done for me. (Asieh laughs. The young woman

is diligently applying make-up). Asieh, do I look nice?

No? Tell me the truth.

Asieh: Put this on, then I'll tell you how you look.

Miss: Whatever you say, Miss. (She laughs and starts

95

putting on the dress, and, as she is changing her dress)

At last. Well, Asieh, you see how it is . . . One should

always expect the worst . . . till . . . everything is worked

out . . . everything is organized . . . everything is going

right . . . Then you can relax . . . then you don't feel

tired anymore . . . You feel clean . . . chic . . .

beautiful . . . All the men rise for you . . . open doors for

you . . . greet you . . . bow to you . . . and show you

respect. (She comes toward Asieh). Do my zipper.

(Asieh pulls up the young woman's zipper. The young

woman puts her shoes on, puts the wig on, looks at

her nails, picks up her purse, and looks at herself in

the mirror for the last time. She executes this series of

movements quite elegantly, and then) Well, everything

seems fine . . . Now I have to go . . . (She winks).

Asieh: I hope you have a good time.

Miss: I'm sure I will. I'll be home late . . . Tell them not

to wait up for me . . . Don't put on the chain. (She looks

in her purse). I have my keys . . . Tell them that I'll get a

ride home late tonight . . . They needn't wait up.

Asieh: O.K., I'll tell them.

Miss: Well, I should go now.

Asieh: Good-bye.

97

Miss: Good-bye. (She starts toward the door, hesitates,

turns back astonished, contemplates, stands in front

of the mirror, is terrified, confused, comes back to the

middle of the room. She looks around, miserable and

helpless).

Asieh: Is something wrong, Miss? . . . What is it? (The

young woman doesn't respond. She is staring into

space). What's happened, Miss? . . . Why are you acting

like this? (She holds the young woman who is bent

over). Sit down, Miss, for a minute. (The young woman

sits down).

Miss: Asieh.

Asieh: Yes.

Miss: Where was I supposed to go?

Asieh: Where were you supposed to go?

Miss: Yes. . . where?

Asieh: To the party, Miss.

Miss: To the party? Which party?


Miss: You don't know?

Asieh: No.

Miss: I didn't say anything to you?

99

Asieh: Yes, you did.

Miss: So, where am I supposed to go?

Asieh: You didn't tell me where.

Miss: Think a little . . . Perhaps I told you.

Asieh: There's nothing to think about, you didn't tell

me.

Miss: Asieh . . . I beg you, think.

Asieh: Even if I think, it won't help you remember.

Miss: Am I really supposed to go anywhere?

Asieh: Of course you are.

Miss: Are you sure?

Asieh: You said so.

Miss: When? When did I say that?

Asieh: Today.

Miss: (She gets up at once).

So, why is this happening . . . Asieh . . . Do you think I

just forgot?

Asieh: I don't know, Miss. Everything was in such a

state . . .

Miss: Do you think I'm having a nervous breakdown?

Asieh: God forbid.

Miss: So, why . . .

Asieh: Maybe if you walk around a little, it will help you

remember.

101

Miss: (As she is walking) Why should I walk to

remember? I was walking when I forgot.

Asieh: (Walking with the young woman) Walk,

think . . . walk, think.

Miss: (Biting her nails) What am I going to do?

Asieh: Think, think hard, and then say:

“Aha . . . Aha . . .” That might jog your memory.

Miss: How?

Asieh: It's what you did as a child, whenever you forgot

something. (She frowns and holds her chin). Don't

you remember? (She laughs). Whenever you wanted to

think . . .

Miss: Don't say another word, Asieh . . . Don't talk for a

few minutes. (She walks. Asieh is looking at the young

woman all this time. Whenever the young woman

seems to be happy, Asieh is happy too and smiles, and

whenever the young woman looks upset, Asieh looks

upset too).

Asieh: (Gently) Miss!

Miss: What?

Asieh: Shall I bring you a little something to eat?

Miss: What?

103

Asieh: I don't know, anything you'd like.

Miss: What for?

Asieh: To help you remember.

Miss: I don't think eating will help.

Asieh: (She pours a glass of water.) Here, take a sip.

(The young woman is still walking and Asieh brings

her the water). Please, humor me, I beg you, Miss. (The

young woman takes the glass and sips. Asieh waits,

smiling, and watches the young woman's face intently).

Is it coming back to you?

Miss: (Nervous) Leave me alone, leave me alone till I

figure out what the hell to do. (She sits down angrily

and immediately calms down). If I am truly a guest, if

I have been invited somewhere, where is this place? If

not . . . then . . . why did I put on my dress and make-

up?

Asieh: Of course you were invited . . . why else would

you have been so nervous? But I don't understand why

you suddenly forgot where you were supposed to go. It

happens to me sometimes . . . I go to buy something

and forget what it was . . . I'm confused, I wander from

store to store. I ask myself over and over what it was

I was going to buy, I look at the money, I pray, I say

105

whatever comes into my head, but I can't remember a

thing. Then, as soon as I get home, I remember. You're

going through the same thing.

Miss: So you think I've forgotten where to go?

Asieh: Yes . . . What other explanation could there be?

Miss: Yes . . . What? I don't know . . . perhaps.

(Determined) I have an idea. (She takes off her coat

and goes toward the phone). I will find out once and

for all where I am supposed to go, where I wanted to go.

(Both are calm and happy. The young woman dials a

number. Asieh puts on a record. The room is filled with

music). Turn down the volume . . . turn it down. (She

lights a cigarette). Hello . . . hello, dear Jaleh . . .

hello . . . How are you? Nothing . . .

I am at home . . . Nothing . . . What about you? Are

you knitting something? (She is impatient). Lucky

you. Well . . . anything else . . . Me? No, I just wanted

to see how you were doing . . . God willing . . . Love

you. (She hangs up). She has nothing else to do, so she

is knitting. So, she's not going anywhere. (She starts

dialing another number hurriedly and, to Asieh) They

will certainly ask me why I'm late. (Seriously) Hello . . .

hello.

Madam . . . How are you . . . Yes . . . yes . . . Thank you,

107

not bad, they say "hello", I wanted to talk with dear

Minoo . . . She's not home? . . . Where is she? You don't

know where she is? . . . At the movies? . . . Oh, yes, so

she's gone to the movies. Nothing, I just wanted to see

how she's doing, O.K., O.K., good-bye. (She hangs up

and takes a puff of the cigarette).

Asieh: (Worried) Miss?

Miss: (Nervous) No, she's gone to the movies. (She

starts walking around the room. Her head aches, she

doesn't know what to do. She goes to the phone and

dials a number dejectedly. No one answers. The young

woman listens impatiently). Why don't they pick up? I

wonder where they've gone. (She hangs up angrily. She

is very disappointed. Finally, she dials another number.

She is smoking away, puff after puff. She listens, waits,

listens. Suddenly her face lights up). Hello . . . hi . . .

How are you, dear Malih . . . Are you well? . . . Well,

what's up? . . . Are you at home? You aren't going

anywhere? . . . (Hastily) I just wondered . . . I really

don't have the time . . . I really wanted to . . . Aha . . .

aha . . . So you had a good time . . . How . . . Not on the

phone . . . O.K. then . . . tell me . . . Well, now . . . (She

109

turns around and shows her impatience by a gesture to

Asieh.) Well . . . hey . . . aha . . . well . . . hmm . . .

aha . . . hmmm . . . (She cups her hand over the receiver

and, to Asieh) What a chatterbox ... She's not going

to give up. (On the phone) . . . aha . . . hmmm . . .

(Listening impatiently. Finally she sets the receiver on

the stool and starts walking around the room). What a

mistake, she just talks and talks. (She sips a little water

and picks up the phone) . . . hmmm . . . well . . . so

that's it. (She puts the phone on the table). She makes

me sick . . . She won't stop talking . . . (She is moving

around the room. Suddenly she turns to the phone and

says forcefully) stop, woman. Leave me alone . . . (She

picks up the phone again). Aha . . . aha . . . hmmm . . .

hmmm . . . (She holds her hand over the receiver) She

just keeps chattering.

Asieh: Tell her that you're busy and will call her back.

Miss: As if she listens. (Into the phone) Well . . .

aha . . . (more impatient) aha . . . (She hits her head

with the receiver, making a loud noise) Very well.

(Angrily) I can't talk anymore. I have to go. Asieh just

called me from downstairs . . . What? . . . I should

ignore her? . . . But she needs something. (She can't

111

wait, gets up). Once she starts talking, you can't stop

her.

Asieh: You should hang up, Miss.

Miss: How can I hang up? She should be considerate

and understand. (She picks up the phone again). Aha.

aha . . . (She starts crying, she bites her hand, Asieh

comes near her).

Asieh: (Slowly) I am going to call you loudly and say

that we have some guests.

Miss: Hurry up . . . do something. (Into the phone)

Well. Yes. (She hands the phone to Asieh).

Asieh: Miss, there are some people waiting for you

downstairs, they've been here an hour already, they're

guests. They want to know why you aren't coming

down?

Miss: (Worried) I'm coming . . . coming. (On the phone)

I'm very sorry . . . I have some guests . . . I have to go

downstairs . . . No . . . no . . . I will come to see you . . .

One of these days, I can't promise, not tomorrow, I'll let

you know . . . love you . . . good-bye. (She bangs down

the phone. She is tired and weak). God damn that

woman. She never stops talking. (Silence. The young

woman notices the phone again and dials a number).

113

No, she's always talking. (to Asieh) What do you think

I should do?

Asieh: Calm down a bit, maybe you'll remember.

Miss: Remember? My mind is a complete blank.

Asieh: So, what are you going to do?

Miss: Nothing. . . I don't have anything to do . . . Go

back to your work. (Asieh waits for a moment, then,

realizing that she's not wanted, she exits. She leaves

the door open behind her. The young woman closes

the door and bursts out crying. She throws the wig and

the purse into a corner of the room in a fit of anger.

She takes off all her jewelry and sits down on a broken

stool. She looks at the phone, she dials a number

without excitement, she waits, she bites her lips, she

tries to choke back her tears).

Hello . . . hello . . . Homa . . . dear Homa . . .

I'm glad I found you . . . I was dying . . . yes, Homa . . .

I am miserable . . . (She is in tears.) Homa . . . I was

supposed to go someplace . . . someplace nice . . .

someplace I wanted to go . . . I was supposed to go

there. (Choking up) I knew . . .

I don't know where . . . Where do you want me to start?

. . . From the beginning . . . I don't know myself . . .

Dear Homa, what should I do . . .

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where should I go? . . . I don't know anything anymore,

Homa . . . There's nothing happening anywhere. No

one expecting me anywhere. Who can I turn to? (She

lowers her hand as if to put the phone down and drops

it instead, she sinks into the bed and buries her face in

the pillow, crying).

Curtain

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About the Contributors

Salar Abdoh was born in Tehran and is the author of the novels The Poet Game and Opium. His articles, short stories, essays and translations have appeared in journals in the United States, Europe and the Middle East. He is currently on the faculty at the English department of the City College of New York and divides his time between NYC and Tehran.

Samad Alavi teaches Persian at San Francisco State University. He is currently completing his PhD in Near Eastern Studies at the University of California, Berkeley.

Kaveh Bassiri was the recipient of a Witter Bynner Poetry Translation Residency and Walton Translation Fellowship. His poetry won the Bellingham Review’s 49th Parallel Award and was published in Best New Poets 2011, Virginia Quarterly Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Mississippi Review.

Lois Becker, Stanford graduate, is a writer whose work, in collaboration with husband Mark Stratton, includes children’s television (the Emmy-winning series Muppet Babies, Clifford the Big Red Dog), a Sundance short (“Conquering Space”), and feature screenplays (freeFALL, a special selection of the international film society DreamAgo, and Lover’s Leap). Ms. Becker is also an experienced journalist and print editor (NoHo>LA), independent film producer (Monkey Love), and songwriter (member of ASCAP). She is currently working on a song cycle project with composer J. Brockman. Ms. Becker has had the pleasure of working with Dr. Habibian on numerous Farsi-to-English projects and is always fascinated by the special challenges faced in the translation process – in particular, the challenge of maintaining a sensitive but dynamic working balance between accuracy in details of culture and authorial voice and those synchronisms of meaning and spirit that “translate” on some deeper level, beyond words.

Aria Fani has taught Persian in California and English in México. Currently, he is a graduate student at the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. His translations with Adeeba Talukder have been featured in publications such as PBS Tehran Bureau, The Huffington Post, and Consequence Magazine.

Maryam Habibian has a Ph.D. in Educational Theater from NYU. Her doctoral thesis was “Iranian Theatre in Exile: An Examination of Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi’s Plays in Iran and Abroad between 1866 and 1985.” She translated and collaborated on Dr Sa’adi’s collection of five one act plays The Light with Lois Becker in 1996. The two one act plays: “The Invitation” and “Blessed Are the Meek” from The Light collection were directed by Maryam Habibian and produced at Expanded Arts theater in Manhattan in 1997. Her paper “The Theme of Exile in Dr. Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi’s collection of five plays: The Light,” was presented at the BRISMES conference, University of Manchester, (England) in 1994 and at the East Stroudsburg University Conference in Philadelphia, 1994. She has had an NEH-grant to study the iconic Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad and her relationship to the city of Tehran. The resulting documentary short, “Forugh Farrokhzad: Young Revolutionary Poetess of Tehran” has been screened at the Library of Congress and many other venues. Other directorial credits include her multimedia play “Forugh’s Reflecting Pool” on the life of Forugh Farrokhzad (1967-1935), an Iranian woman poet who was attacked for her sexual openness, feminism, and earthy, militant poetry. This play was subsequently published in the anthology Shattering the Stereotypes: Muslim Women Speak Out (Olive Branch Press: Massachusetts, 2005). She has translated and performed selected poems of Forugh at different poetry cafes.

Her latest work is a feature documentary, The Mist (2009), which follows her on a journey of discovery in the land of her birth, Iran. It has been screened at many different venues in New York City and elsewhere.

Translators


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Adeeba Talukder lives in Brooklyn, New York. She holds a degree in Middle Eastern Studies from New York University, and has translated as well as performed Pakistan's progressive poets as well as work by Afghan and Iranian poets. Her translations with Aria have been featured in publications such as PBS Tehran Bureau, The Huffington Post, and Consequence Magazine.

Sholeh Wolpé was born in Tehran, Iran, and has lived in Trinidad, the UK, and the United States. Her publications include Keeping Time With Blue Hyacinths (University of Arkansas Press, 2013), Rooftops of Tehran (2008), The Scar Saloon (2004), and Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad (2007) which awarded the 2010 Lois Roth Translation Prize. Wolpé is the editor of The Forbidden: Poems from Iran and its exiles (Michigan State University Press, 2012), Breaking the Jaws of Silence--Sixty American Poets Speak to the World (University of Arkansas Press, 2013), and a regional editor of Tablet & Pen: Literary Landscapes from the Modern Middle East (Norton 2010). Her Persian translation and reading of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself (co-translated with Mohsen Emadi) was launched by the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program in October 2012, in celebration of Whitman’s work.

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Writers

Simin Behbahani, born in 1927 in Tehran, began to compose poetry at the age of 14. Having experimented with linked couplets and free verse, she later turned to the ghazal as a vehicle for her artistic expression. She has published more than 15 books of poetry, and more recently an autobiography, entitled “In My Mother’s Company” (Sokhan Publications, 2011). English translations of her verse include “A Cup of Sin” (Syracuse University Press, 1999) published in the United States and the bilingual edition, My Country, I Shall Build You Again (Sokhan Publications, 2009) published in Iran. Behbahani’s verse reflects her social milieu and conditions. Spanning over 600 poems, her works deal with war, peace, revolution, class disparities, gender discrimination, polygamy, marital life, domestic violence, patriotism, prostitution, aging, poverty, and global violence. Her poems have been turned into popular songs, extracted for daily aphorisms, recited in literary circles in Iran and abroad, and rapidly circulated through mass emails. For her efforts in the struggle for freedom of expression in her homeland, Behbahani was awarded a Human Rights Watch-Hellman/Hammet grant in 1998 and the Carl von Ossietzky Medal in 1999. She resides in Tehran.

Mohsen Emadi was born in Iran. He is the author of four collections of poetry La flor de los renglones (2003, Spain), We did not speak of her eyes (2007, Tehran), Las leyes de la gravedad (2011, Spain), and Visible come el aire, legible como la muerte (2012, Spain), and four books of translations: Selected Poems of Vladimir Holan (Iran, 2008), Selected Poems of Nichita Stănescu (Iran, 2008),Panther's Night by Clara Janes (Iran, 2008), and Songs of love and war, a selection of Afghan Women's Poetry (Iran, 2008).

While enduring extensive censorship by the Islamic Republic of Iran, Mohsen founded The Persian Anthology of World Poetry (or the House of World Poets) on the web in 2006, where he continues to publish translations of world poetry into Persian. Mohsen was awarded Primeo de Poesia de Miedo in 2010 and IV. Beca de Antonio Machado in 2011. Presently, he lives in Mexico City. (website: mohsenemadi.com).

Alimorad Fadaienia was born in Masjed Suleiman, Iran. In the earlier part of his career he published several books in Iran, including The Gift, Ancient Towers and The Pedestrian. In more recent years he has published the following novels in the United States: M, The letters of Shapur and his Gazelles, and The Tales of the Nameless, of which the current selection is taken. All of Alimorad's work is written in Persian.

Bijan Jalali was born in 1928 in Tehran. For several years he studied physics at the University of Tehran and natural sciences in France. Ultimately, his all-consuming passion for letters led him to obtain a bachelor's degree in French literature from the University of Tehran. Over the course of his professional life until his retirement in 1981, Jalali taught English and French, consulted with the Ministry of Culture's Museum of Anthropology, and worked for Tehran's Petrochemical Organization as a translator. He set to publish his books of poetry in the 1960s. Nine volumes of his work have been released: Days (1962), Our Hearts and the World (1965), Color of Waters (1971), Water and Sun (1983), Play of Light: Selected Poems (1990), Dailies (1995), About Poetry (1998), Encounters (2001), and Verse of Silence: A Selection of Unpublished Poems (2002). In 1999, he passed away in the city of his birth. Unlike many contemporary Iranian poets, Jalali was neither a sloganeer nor politically conscious; he was unfazed about the socio-political circumstances of his time. The history of the human struggle to achieve happiness and reconcile with the forces of nature—this is what preoccupied Jalali’s mind and shaped his poetry.

Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi was born in Tabriz, Azarbaijan in 1936 and died in exile in Paris in 1985. Trained as a psychiatrist, he is considered as one of the most prominent Persian playwrights under the pen name Gohar Morad who has also written novels, screenplays and short stories. He has published more than thirty plays that were written between 1966 and 1985. His first short story was published when he was fourteen years old. He became involved in politics at a young age and was even arrested for his cultural and political activities in his teen years in Tabriz for a couple of times. Throughout his career, Sa’adi suffered


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censorship, imprisonment, torture, and exile, but he continued to write. He even said in his own biography: “I still haven’t been broken despite the harsh blows that I have experienced in my life. And from now on, my story will have a lot of adventure in it….yes, I know that from now on I will sit in a corner and will observe the whole stage and know how I should scream that its reflection is not only in the sound. Writing is not less than boxing and I think I have learned the techniques of boxing whether in life and if I dare say somewhat in writing too”. Sa’adi’s uniqueness as an Iranian playwright lies in the independence and absolute integrity with which he exclaimed various situations and types of people. His settings varied from deserts to villages to great cities, from scenes of rural poverty to the middle class houses in Tehran to the mansions of the wealthy. His plays express a twentieth- century view of geopolitical and psychological alienation, such as one finds in Camus, Sartre, Beckett, Ionesco and Brecht, combined with a more traditional use of dialogue and plot, such as one finds in Chekhov. As indicated in Sa’adi’s autobiography, as soon as he was introduced to the world of books, Chekhov became his hero. Perhaps he felt close to Chekhov because they shared similar experiences, both having started as doctors – Sa’adi as a psychiatrist and Chekhov as a physician – and both turning their analytic skills to writing instead.

Sa‘id Soltanpur (1940-1981) was celebrated in the 1970s and early 1980s for his unabashedly radical poems and plays. In the decades since, Soltanpur’s legacy of political activism has survived among at least some members of the Iranian opposition, while his contributions to Persian drama and poetics have received much less attention. However, Soltanpur’s writings reveal an artist who constantly reflects upon and refines the aesthetic dimensions of his work. In the translations presented here, we encounter Soltanpur’s serious engagement with poetic images and forms. While the poetic voice never wavers from its revolutionary devotion, the poems also speak in an imaginative and lyrical language rooted firmly in the classical Persian canon in general and the ghazal tradition in particular. These aesthetic and ideological commitments in many ways culminate in “Communist Victor.” The poem on one hand echoes a ghazal’s rhythm and pacing with its steady refrain. At the same time, “Communist Victor” breaks from the rigid metrical and rhyming constraints of the classical form

in order to capture a political rally and a gruesome act of state terror in the un-ornamented language of what critic Saeed Yousef has called a “documentary” style. As such, Soltanpur can be considered a pioneer of post-ghazal poetics in Persian verse, anticipating the form’s many afterlives in the decades to follow. Unfortunately, “Communist Victor” also marks the last poem of Sa’id Soltanpur’s career. The forty-one year old poet and playwright was arrested by the security forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran in spring of 1981. Charged with leading an illegal Marxist organization, he was executed by firing squad on June 21st of the same year.

Roya Zarrin is from Lorestan province. Her work has won a number of awards, including the Nima Prize. Her first book, The Earth Needs the Lover’s Incantation, was a finalist for the Karnameh Prize. Her third book, I Want to Swallow My Children (the source for these translations), won the 2008 Khorshid Prize, an annual award for the best poetry book by a female author. This book has already been translated into Swedish.

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ABOUT SHAHADAT

Shahadat is a quarterly online series designed to provide a platform for short-form writing and experimentation in writing by young and underexposed writers from the MENA region (Middle East and North Africa). The series features stories, vignettes, reflections, and chronicles in translation and the original language of Arabic, Farsi, Turkish, or Kurdish. It makes up one quarter of Arte East's online programming, the AE Quartely. For past issues of Shahadat click here.

ABOUT THIS SERIES

Shahadat is proud to run two alternating series, and releases four issues a year. The issue you've just perused is part of the "contemporary Literature in Translation" series which presents contemporary authors in Works are presented in their original language and in translation. Our other series, "Exploring Popular Literature" challenges traditional understandings of "literature" emerging from the Middle East and North Africa by presenting genres of creative production that rely on words and language but which have not typically been studied as literature.

In each issue, we gather texts from a spectrum of writers to challenge the singular status of the artist/author and to encourage a more complex presentation of the middle Eastern and North African "street" for English-speaking audiences.

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