Taken 2

I wrote this on April 22nd.

A friend once said that it's a sin to watch a decent film on the plane. So I decided to watch a Hollywood  style movie (if you know what I mean) on my way back to Montreal from Edinburgh. I watched Taken 2. When I watched Taken a few years ago, the film did not have its Muslim vilification flavour. I guess a lot of things have changed since then. At the moment that I'm writing this, less than 10 days have passed from Boston marathon explosion and  already a considerable number of Muslims have been the target of disdain by some ignorant people in the States.
Taken 2 is another cinematic attempt to vilify Muslims by taking advantage of the current political atmosphere against Muslim and as a consequence, it consolidates the existing Islamophobia.
For those of you who haven't watched it, in Taken the daughter of an x-CIA agent is kidnapped by a Albanian gang in Paris. Since Bryan's daughter is virgin, instead of being drugged and exploited as a prostitute, she is saved to be sold to an Arab Sheikh for a high price. Why an Arab Sheikh? Because some of them think that having sex with a virgin girl will prolong their lives. The gang functions in Paris since they have a connection with a corrupt former French agent.
In Taken 2, the story happens in Istanbul and we realize that the gang was Muslim when the father of the guy who kidnapped Bryan's daughter, announces that he wants to take revenge at the burial of his son, after saying some prayers in Arabic. Then we see Hagia Sophia's minarets, we hear azan in the background that all together prepare us for the theme of the movie and decide for us the hero and the villains. By the time the 3 members of the family are in Istanbul, we know that this innocent American family is going to be the target of kidnapping by some ignorant Muslims who are led by a father who is filled with feelings of revenge and hate. The daughter, Kim, has failed her driving test several times but she's a stunt driver in Istanbul's narrow alleys, drives like James Bond and passes in front of a train within a few milliseconds it crashes the car. Don't worry if you don't pass the driving test in America, you can still drive like James Bond in the Middle East! Your father keeps his cool even when your mother is hung upside down with a rope in a dungeon in front of him. He calls you, gives you the directions, tells you to detonate a few grenades here and there and guides you to his location with an accuracy more precise than a GPS. Heaven knows how he came up with that while he was blindfolded in a car. Oh no, I forgot, he's an American, a superhero, this is a piece of cake for him.
The movie ends with a happy ending where the family is reunited and everyone has a milkshake. How lovely! How innocent, how intelligent these Americans and how villain, revengeful and corrupt these Muslims are!
I wonder, I just wonder why we never see any movies about Rais Bhuiyan, a victim of hate crime after 9/11 who instead of hating Mark Stroman, the man who shot him and left him with severe injuries in his right eye, launched a campaign requesting Stroman's death penalty be commuted to life in prison with no parole (read more here.) Why there is no film on the outrageous Khandahar Massacre in which Robert Bales, the American soldier killed sixteen Afghan civilians, or similar events?
It's a sad reality. May we all be conscious of what's going on in this world and not be transfixed in front of the screens of leading film production companies.

Granny, the house feels empty without you

Yesterday I called my dad while I was still in bed, before getting into town and discovering Edinburgh on foot. "I have a bad news for you" he said, making sure that my conference presentation was over and that I had already submitted my exams. My heart started beating fast. I was silent. "Your granny passed away two days ago," he said. I burst into tears. "We didn't want to tell you to distract you from what you were doing." For a moment, I thought how considerate of them but how distant I was from them.


Granny was my grand grandmother, a selfless beautiful woman inside and out, who had stayed in home for almost twenty years, because she had problem walking, yet this imposed confinement did not make her grumpy nor did it create any sort of complex in her character. She lost her husband at a young age and never remarried. She was forever in love with him and because she was religious, she had one wish only, and that was to reunite with her husband "if I deserve to go to heaven" as she said.

When she talked about him, tears ran down her eyes. She lived with her only daughter and was the light and joy of the house. She thought about everyone and her arms was a refuge for all of us, her grand grandchildren, her grandchildren and her daughter. I never heard her lie or give an unfair comment about anyone. She was an honest storyteller whom I always trusted without a shadow of a doubt . Whenever we were leaving the house, she said "I entrust you to the hands of God." I could never find an equivalent in my own words but I could feel the beauty of her words in the mind of a believer. It was the best kind of farewell. One could tell someone, "I entrust you to the powers of the good," or "I wish you safety on your journey," or "I wish you a safe journey" or… I don't know.

My granny was going to hospital back and forth in the past few months. Every time I called my uncle, I was hoping not to hear a bad news. She was suffering from heart, lung and kidney malaise. My aunt told me that when they were after the 13th day of the year (in Iran, the new year's holiday ends after the 13th day), she had told her: "now that the 13th is over, I can die; I won't ruin your new year's holiday." I sobbed when she said this. How thoughtful can one be to even think about the time of her death? My auntie also told me that the night before she died, she had dreamed of her husband telling her "you have suffered enough; it's time you come to me." She died peacefully the next day. Now that I'm writing these words on a train and watching the scenery passing the train by, I'm thinking about our journey in life, how life passes us by with all its good and bad memories, with the pains and laughters. We know about death, it's been there for zillions of years and yet we feel so weak and helpless when we face it, when one of our closest ones dies.

I was thinking about the first time I faced the death of a person whom I had seen in real, my father's uncle. It was weird and uncanny. I did not comprehend that he did not exist anymore, that he was simply not there and was not going to be there. I went around the house and came back and wanted to call him but kept silent when I realized that he was no longer sitting on his armchair.

It will still be the same when I visit my granny's house. I will still be searching for her in that house, on that chair near the stove where she cooked the most delicious foods for us, on the floor where she sat and knitted pullover and scarves, and on the leather chair she sat where I combed and plait her beautiful all white hair. I never wanted to think that I wouldn't see her when I said goodbye to her last year before leaving Iran. My granny, my sweet, kind granny, that house should feel empty without you. I don't know how I'm gonna enter it.

The Cherry of Her Lips

When I took a course in creative process, we had to prepare a poetry portfolio besides one for screenplay and one for fiction. I wasn't that excited to write poetry cuz it's not my cup of tea. Not that I didn't like poetry since I devour some from different corners of the world but I wasn't the one who would write poems. I was content with reading and enjoying the lines from Hafez, Khayyam, Baudelaire, Poe, Darwish, etc.
I contented myself with the last poem I wrote and breathed a sigh of relief that I didn't have to write anymore poems.

Later, when I showed it to one of my friends who is a poet herself and started a website of "The Poetry of tomorrow, 100 Days", she told me that she wanted to post it on her website. We translated the poem together from English to French on a weekend over a tisane, at a cozy cafe, because her website was in French.

Here goes what I wrote



‘’The cherry of her lips’’



Red turns green

steps forward like machines

crossing the zebra garb

on the adorned black street



my eyes followed the wind

through her hair

my steps, her steps



a sudden fall on the stripes

a trickle of blood

down her ghostly face



white



she ran to her like an angel

and lifted her up

but I only saw her cherry lips



her steps I followed

not to lend a hand but

to pleasure in her presence



her hand I saw, not

the bruised nose she cleaned

her fingers, not

the bloody napkin

on the still white face of the woman

who had fallen



the evil in me wished for more blood

for I wanted to engrave in my mind

the cherry of her lips



* * *
And here's the French translation


’’La cerise de ses lèvres’’



Rouge tombe vert

Mécaniques pas en avant

Tirant le voile du zèbre

Sur la rue noire décorée



Mes yeux suivent le vent

À travers ses cheveux

Mes pas, ses pas



Une chute soudaine sur les rayures

Une chute de sang

Coulant du spectre de son visage



Blanc



Elle a couru à elle comme un ange

Et la soulevât

Ses pas j’ai suivi

Pas pour prêter la main

Mais pour jouir en sa présence



Ses mains j’ai vu, pas

Le nez couvert de bleus

Ses doigts, pas

La serviette tâchée de rouge

Sur le visage figé blanc de la femme

Qui était tombée



Le diable en moi désirait plus de sang

Pour graver en ma pensée

La cerise de ses lèvres

East Coast Journal- Last part

For part 5, click here

I met Byron, a 25-year-old guy, at Moncton market. He was kind enough to accept my request about staying on their organic farm on Prince Edward Island for a day. When we arrived at the farm, he told me that he built his hut himself. I went inside. There was dust everywhere. I was looking for a bathroom when Byron saw my puzzled face. “Where’s the bathroom?” I asked. He said, “ummm, we don’t have bathroom here.” As if I was hit by thunderbolt, my eyes widened. I was about to repeat my question but hesitated and thought maybe I didn’t understand what he said. So I faltered, “ wwwhat, well, hhow… wwwhere do you… wwwhat do you do when you wanna pee?” He looked at me and said with a smile, “well, we pee outside.” Trying to digest what he said, I asked, “but where do you poo?” He said that they do it when they’re in town, they, meaning he and his girlfriend. “We go to town everyday and so we do it there.” Astonished and speechless, I didn’t ask where they take shower. Maybe they went swimming in the sea. I couldn’t contain myself and said, “but you’ve been living here for more than a year, right? You didn’t have a plan to have a toilet when you were building the house?” I felt my questions were becoming irritating and I really didn’t want that. He said that they didn’t think it was necessary and they could forgo the bathroom. “It’s been only a few weeks since I set up the solar panels. Before that we did with candles.” I was beginning to think that either I’m too bourgeois or they were really primitive. I tried to remember the old houses of a few hundred years old in Iran; yes, they had toilets. Even the humble huts in small villages I had seen, they all had toilets. Trying to get to know him more, I asked, “what made you come here and start your own farm?” He said, “We always wanted to have our own place and be independent. I don’t like paying bills. Here we grow organic vegetables and sell them at the market. My girlfriend works at a bar and life goes on.” While I was thinking of the meaning of comfort and how it has developed through history, I realized that for some people it has not developed and they adhere to the age-old meaning of comfort. Perhaps, that development wasn’t necessary for them.

Byron pointed at the dusty floor and a rag and told me I could sleep there. I looked at a chair and a table and thought I’d sleep on the chair. When he said that he’s leaving to pick his girlfriend up, I got excited and brought my backpack with me. On the way, I said, “is it possible that you drop me at a bed & breakfast or a hostel when we get in town? I’m sorry, I know you’ve been hospitable to accept me as your guest; it’s just that I can’t stay here tonight. I need a bathroom and a clean place to sleep.” He said, “I’m sorry I should’ve told you about the condition.” I stopped him before he finished, “no worries, you don’t have to feel sorry, I just took certain things that I find basic for granted.” He said, “it’s more than a year since we left city life and got used to this life of our own that I didn’t think it’s not conventional. Let me ask Reggie and see if you could stay the night there.”

Reggie and Stella were the owners of the big farm, which Byron and his girlfriend rented a part of. They were a middle-aged couple. We had soup at their place before getting to Byron’s house.  The first thing I saw in Stella was her penetrating blue eyes and long white hair. She was half native and had a special charm.

I stayed the night at Reggie and Stella’s in a comfortable guest room they offered me. I woke up in the morning with a smell of incense that Stella burnt. She said that she did it everyday. I told them many things about Iran they didn’t know. It was their first encounter and they didn’t really expect to see a backpacker from Iran in an organic farm in PEI. Stella told me a lot about the native Indian traditions, the powwow, sweat lodge and more. I was amazed at the richness of their culture and traditions. It was a pity that I couldn’t stay there more and had to leave to Charlottetown. Byron was kind enough to take me there, where I met my new couchsurfing hosts, a couple from Italy and Japan.

We rode on bike around Charlottetown for a couple of hours and came back home for a delicious Japanese food. The next day, Giancarlo, my host, woke up with me and took me to the bus station on bike.

On the way back to Moncton, I was summarizing my 3-week trip that was almost unplanned. I was thinking how everything happened on the spot and how accidental things were, the encounters, the places that I didn’t originally plan to visit, the sleeping in the wild, hitchhiking, camping by the beach around Cape Breton, jumping from the waterfall, skinny-dipping in the crystal clear water of the ocean surrounded by cliffs and lying on a rock in the middle of water under the sun, and last but not least, the people. The diverse people I met, the talks we had and the drinks we toasted. It was a unique trip, in the real Canada!

The end of the journal.

East Coast Journal- Part 5

For part 4, click here.

The next morning we started our day by jumping into the water which had still kept its cold temperature from the night before. We were surrounded by enormous cliffs and the ocean was endlessly blue. Skinny-dipping continued as we drove alongside Cape Breton. In Meat Cove, the tip of the island, where you could normally see whales, we went hiking to the top of the hill. This is the view from there! 

We came down and while I was running to the water, Oliver said, “are you sure you’re gonna skinny-dip here? I said, “hell, yeah! Aren’t you?” He said, “I’m not sure, there might be some people around who might not feel comfortable about it or get offended.” I said, “listen! If you’re not gonna do it here, in this beautiful nature, where the hell are you gonna do it? In a swimming pool in town?! Look around you! It’s a sin not to enjoy this. Why would anyone feel offended? I don’t know why it’s such a big deal here in North America. In Europe this is quite common and people feel relaxed about it; western and eastern Europe. Let’s go!” I ran on the pebbles and immersed myself in the most crystal clear water. We swam and climbed up a rock in the water and basked in the afternoon sun while the waves hit the rock every now and then and splashed salty water on our bodies. It was one of those moments that I wouldn’t regret if I died, right there, right then.

We drove for an hour and we reached Dingwall on the east side of the island where there was a sandy beach. It was a quiet place with just a few people walking. We set up our tent and went walking alongside the water with a bottle of wine which switched between our hands. Not long after we watched the sunset, we slept. 

We woke up with the rays of sunlight passing into our tent. I went out and saw the colorful ocean adorned with rays of sunlight. Gosh, it was beautiful! I went on jogging on the beach while Olivier was doing tai chi. We had the whole beach for ourselves. We had become primitives and even our body clock was adjusted to nature.

We drove down the island through Cape Breton Highlands National Park where I saw moose for the first time in my life. 

We also went to a waterfall in the park, also the first waterfall I swam in. 

Afterwards we went to a lodge called Cabot Trail Wilderness Resort. We set up our tent and made our food ready in the beautiful lodge owned by Paul, a psychologist from Boston. He told me that after he got his PhD, he started practicing but after a while thought that he didn’t wanna spend his life listening to the pains and sufferings of people. Therefore he came to Cape Breton and built this place. The lodge was an amazing place I would love to go to again.

The next morning we headed down towards Moncton and bid goodbye to the beautiful Cape Breton.

I stayed the night in Moncton, looking forward to my adventure in Prince Edward island.

For last part, click here

East Coast Journal- Part 4

For part 3, click here.

I came to a bed & breakfast this morning since there was no place in the hostel. Mary, an old lady and the owner of the house, was kind enough to come and pick me up. Her house is by the lake and is full of little doodads found on the walls and in cupboards. 
Mary lives with her two cats. So caring as she is, she brought me tea, offered me some custard she made herself and asked me if I wanted to drive with her to her sister’s house so that I could look around the island. Though she is chubby, it didn’t take me long to realize that she had only one breast. It made me contemplate the scenario, the moment, the fear women have when they are confronted with the situation. Sometimes I thought if I were faced with it, I would at best ask to have both of my breasts removed. This would be the case if I still had any hopes to live. If I didn’t, I would refuse to undergo any treatment in order to speed up towards the valley of death.  

Mary is not married yet she doesn’t regret it. I believe her, as she is contented. She is the oldest unmarried woman I’ve seen. She is sweet, caring and doesn’t nag like many do as they get old.

I stayed at Mary’s for one night. The next day, my first couch-surfing host came up to the island to pick me up and to travel around Cape Breton with me. Hadn’t he come, I was planning to go back to the hostel and hitchhike on the island. When he came, Mary said with that sweet trembling voice of hers: “I’m glad you came. I don’t like the idea of girls hitchhiking nowadays.” For a moment I thought how in just one day, this old woman grew a sense of emotion towards me that she felt worried about me and my safety on my journey. I didn’t know how to respond except to hug her. I took a photo with her to keep with me the memory of a precious heart.

We started our journey on the Cabot Trail, a heavenly place with untouched nature you would only see in the movies and on postcards. We went to the Fishing Cove, in the Cape Breton Highland National Park. We walked down a trail in the woods; we could hear different kinds of animals. At the entrance of the park, we were told that there were black bears, moose and raccoons. I didn’t see any of them that day but I could infer their existence from the noises I heard while walking. After about half an hour, we were on top of a slope, overlooking the ocean and the rocky shore. I stood there for two minutes in awe. We headed down and after we set up our tent, went to the shore and had our dinner by the water.

It was getting cold. When we returned to our tent, I sat down and watched Olivier pack every single item of food, even the toothpaste. A newbie as I was in the wild, I asked him why! He explained that wild animals search for food and if they smell anything like it, they would come close to us. Thirty seconds after Olivier went to pull the backpack of food up on a wooden frame like a swing set, I heard noises outside of the tent. I was scared shitless, worried to encounter a black bear or a moose for the first time in my life in a tent. It wasn’t a pleasant thought and I could hear my heartbeat. When Olivier came back, I told him what happened. As soon as he turned his torch off, we started hearing those weird sounds, as if they, the animals, were rummaging around our tent, tempted to get in. It took me a long while to fall asleep and all through the night I was dreaming of a black bear saluting me, while it entered the tent.

For part 5, click here