From the New York Times

*Took the words right out of my mouth. We need a social revolution*


By MARJANE SATRAPI

PARIS — Six years ago, I went to listen to a man, whom I will not name, in a café in Paris.

He said it had been 24 years since he had been back to Iran, that he had to leave right after the revolution of 1979 for political reasons.

He talked of many things, and he ended by saying: “Once you leave your homeland, you can live anywhere, but I refuse to die anywhere other than Iran — or else my life will have had no meaning.”

His statement touched me very deeply. I’ve thought about what he said, not just understanding him intellectually but feeling his meaning with all my heart. I, too, was convinced that I must die nowhere other than in my country, Iran, or else my life will also be meaningless.

At the time I heard this man speak, it had already been four years since I had been home.

Yes, I call Iran home because no matter how long I live in France, and despite the fact that I feel also French after all these years, to me the word “home” has only one meaning: Iran.

I suppose it’s that way for everyone: Home is the place where one is born and raised.

No matter how much I am in love with Paris and its indescribable beauty, Tehran with all its ugliness will in my eyes forever be the “bride” of all cities around the world.

It’s a question of geography, of the smell of the rain, of the things we know without ever having to think why we know them.

It’s a question of the Alborz Mountains protecting my town. Where are they? Who will protect me now?

It’s a question of the unbearable smell of pollution, a smell I know so well.

It’s a question of knowing that the blue of the sky is not the same everywhere, nor does the sun shine the same way in every place.

It’s a question of wanting to be able to walk under my own blue sky, of wanting my own sunshine to caress my back.

At the time I heard that man speak it had already been four years since I had been home. Today it has been more than 10 years. To be precise, 10 years, six months and three days.

During all that time, I believed I would live a few more decades without ever being able to walk in my mountains. But 18 days ago, June 12, 2009, something happened, something I never believed I would see in my lifetime: Iranians, crowding into an extremely tiny space of democracy, usually left just large enough for them to vote for a president whom the Guardian Council had already approved, truly voted.

The question much of the media asked before the election was: “Are Iranians ready for democracy?”

“YES!” came the answer, loud and oh, so clear.

With a voter turnout of 85 percent, they started to dream that change was possible.

They started to believe “Yes they can,” too.

It’s likely needless to remind you that this was not the first time Iranians showed how much they love freedom. Look only at the 20th century: They launched the Constitutional Revolution of 1906 (the first in Asia); nationalized the oil industry in 1951 (the first Middle Eastern country to do so); mounted the revolution of 1979; and engineered the student revolt of 1999. Which brings us to now, and that deafening cry for democracy.

Almost 20 years ago, when I started studying art in Tehran, the very idea of “politics” was so frightening that we didn’t even dare think about it. To talk about it? Beyond belief!

To demonstrate in the streets against the president? Surreal!

Criticize the supreme leader? Apocalyptic!

Shouting “Down with Khamenei”? Death!

Death, torture and prison are part of daily life for the youth of Iran. They are not like us, my friends and I at their age; they are not scared. They are not what we were.

They hold hands and scream: “Don’t be afraid! Don’t be afraid! We are together!”

They understand that no one will give them their rights; they must go get them.

They understand that unlike the generation before them — my generation, for whom the dream was to leave Iran — the real dream is not to leave Iran but to fight for it, to free it, to love it and to reconstruct it.

They hold hands and scream: “We will fight! We will die! But we won’t be humiliated!”

They went out knowing that going to each demonstration meant signing their death warrants.

Today I read somewhere that “the velvet revolution” of Iran became the “velvet coup,” with a little note of irony, but let me tell you something: This generation, with its hopes, dreams, anger and revolt, has forever changed the course of history. Nothing is going to be the same.

From now on, nobody will judge Iranians by their so-called elected president.

From now on, Iranians are fearless. They have regained their self-confidence.

Despite all the dangers they said NO!

And I’m convinced this is just the beginning.

From now on, I will always say: Once you leave your homeland, you can live anywhere. But I refuse to only die in Iran. I will one day live in Iran...or else my life will have had no meaning.

MARJANE SATRAPI is a writer and filmmaker whose works include the book and film “Persepolis.” Her most recent graphic novel is “Chicken With Plums.”

It’s already July. Where did the time go?

In another couple of months or so, I will be jetting back to Manchester for another stint.

 

The long used phrase ‘the year is short but the hours long’ has been plaguing my mind like an incessant itch, more so during this summer holidays than ever.

 

Why does time during the summer holidays pass by so very fast? I have set in motion several experiments around the northern hemisphere to test my theory, and the results are indeed very promising, colluding with a suspicion I have been harbouring for ages now.

 

During summer, the total heat energy present in the immediate vicinity is considerably much higher than that of other seasons. The little-known-about time particles (as I would like to call them) present in the environment will absorb this energy (net energy movement to equilibrium), increasing in their vibration and rotation. Its kinetic energy invariably increases, evident in the haphazard movement of these minute particles shown in my experiments. Now for the icing. These time particles have a very unique relationship with all time-keeping contraptions. Their variation is directly proportional to the movement of these time-keeping mechanisms.

 

This theory would also explain why time seems to move much slower on rainy and gloomy days or during winter.

 

But you may ask, would not time in summery locations then move way ahead of time in wintry locations?

 

 I have a theory for this too, but I shall await the results of my experimental counterparts in Australia to feedback on their data before I dare release a more technical exposition. However, if you must now, the gist of the theory is that during the change of the temperature from night to day, at one specific point the time particles will either have a sudden and exceptional increase or decrease in speed so as to offset the gains or loss during the day, depending on whether the change in temperature is one of reduction or increment. Wait, do not lose your marbles just yet. What is meant here is that, let us say it is summer now. Time is moving much faster than normal. At one point in the evening, as the temperature drops significantly, time will move exceptionally slower than even those in the wintry locations, a slowdown so significant so as to offset the gains of the day and return it to relative normality.

 

Yes, this may seem farfetched. But I kid you not. I swear, this time round the Nobel will be mine. Albert will no longer stand in my way.

 

 

 

Yours,

Dr A.S. Shole

The number falls.
One by one. Sometimes they fall in groups.
Like migratory birds.
But they are not migratory birds. 'cause sometimes, more often than not, they do not return.

People leave. They always do.
That's why the weaker ones choose to leave first.
It's easier to break hearts than let our own be broken.

Sometimes though, we long to brandish a blade to sever a link.
But those borne of blood bends when forced.
To straighten when the world seems to turn in on itself.

We all want to run.
But we run for different reasons.
Like when we eat.
Or love.
And hate.

She collects hair.
In a jar she keeps by her lamp, next to her Bible.
She says every strand has a story to tell.
Even the orange ones.

I collect smiles.
In a jar in my head, next to my bible.
I say every twitch has a story to share.
Even the inside out upside down ones.

I was one of the many sceptics when the nation hoped (and still do) with bated breath for a political change in the form of the Pakatan Rakyat, even though they had scored an unprecedented and astounding upset in the March 2008 elections. In the subsequent aftermath, many harboured a distinct glimmer of hope that PR will surely end the not so secret of Barisan National's political and social tyranny, and take over the political and administrative helm of Malaysia.

 

The existence of an opposition finally being able to hold their own is definitely very healthy. Their presence has kept BN on their toes for many months after the March elections, giving them a thoroughly tight yank on their balls and opening their eyes to the fact that the people now have a viable alternative to BN. Many thought the reign of BN, the sole government of Malaysia ever since independence, was at an expedient end.

 

But I do not wish that to happen, for the same reason that it will probably not happen. Not in the near future anyway, unless something extremely drastic were to grip the entire nation and cast it into a revolution.

 

First and foremost, PR is a relatively new establishment (for lack of a better word). They are akin to a new born gazelle tossed into the savannah. Gazelles know they must learn to run before they can walk in order to survive, and they want to. But like all newborns, their legs are weak, feeble. The young are thus prone to the disastrous nature of the universe they live in. They can barely keep their legs rooted to the ground. Such is the case with PR. They are mere offspring walking the tried and tested road. They are yet to possess the muscle memory needed for crucial reflex actions. PR still lacks the experience of time, trial and tribulations to move its limbs as one, making it a really awkward entity that seems to pull its core to the four corners of the world. If PR can somehow pull off an upset in the next elections, I fear the sudden gain in tremendous governmental power will get to their politically young head (as a unity) and the loose political understanding that binds the 3 main factions of PR will unravel in definite bickering. Such bickering is already evident right now! PR may be lauded for allowing individuality, but the current extent of individuality insults our intelligence. 'Pakatan' my stinking foot konon.

 

No, in terms of moving as a cohesion, BN still has the upper hand, although this has been marred in recent generations to something more recognisable as an UMNO iron-fist. Therefore, I do not want PR to win unless they can be sure that they can substantiate their win, and hang on to it; even if for only a term. For if PR were to win, and then go their separate ways during the term over some squabble, BN will walk back in on red carpets and the people will take a few other generations to regain their ability to hope for a clean and healthy political scene; BN will rule for yet another 50 years.

 

In addition to PR being a young conglomeration of sorts, their apparent leaders too are 'young'. As charismatic as they all are, they have never been given the opportunity to lead in the biggest of scenes save for Anwar and Nik Aziz. Even these two esteemed (it is submitted here) men have enough silly moments to make me cringe each time I imagine them anywhere near the helm. These people (PR leaders) have always been the opposition; they have almost always only been criticising and picking on the mistakes of the government. Will they be able to substantiate their position when they do finally take over the government? The recent failings in Perak and the hushed hoo-hahs in the other PR ruled states prove otherwise. The leaders of PR were utterly inapt, ridiculously short-sighted and repulsively slow in dealing with these matters. In my eyes, they are not yet ready.

 

These are the two major failings of PR that have confirmed my earlier suspicions after the March 8 elections: they are not ready. So, until the day that they have grown and iron out all the kinks and weak links so as to be impregnable to definite failure (as they are now), I vehemently do not want them to win. If they cannot do that, then please, get out of the way. They failure as a federal government will do no good for the political scene: BN will use it to fuel their war against political freedom and democracy. They will use it ala May 13. That is my gut feeling, and I still stand by it.

 

However, even after March 8, PR was and has never been my hope for the betterment of Malaysia. They are too…volatile…an entity. Their union is based on simple and loose understanding. Their component parties are of very different political and social backgrounds and aspirations. I have no idea what can come of this. Their sole goal now is to topple BN, that is what binds them together. What then after?

 

No, PR is not my answer. My answer came a year or so after the March elections in the form of the UMNO change of power. All Malaysians know that the apparent convention of our local scene is that the president of UMNO is the Prime Minister. So when Abdullah announced his resignation, I saw a glimmer of hope. This hope was inevitably crushed when KuLi (Tengku Razaleigh) could not mount a proper challenge for the Presidency due to the obviously unfair electoral system (brainchild of Mahathir. One of the things that I admit is most foul). KuLi was Malaysia's best and nearest bet to a political revolution, for the better. He is a man of vast experience, of strong character and of reputable intellect. He would have made an impeccable and indomitable Prime Minister, a possibility surely not missed by Mahathir when KuLi was ousted from his DPM post. If KuLi were to claim the helm, I can see the cronies and smelly old hands thrashed out of the cabinet, to be subsequently peopled by fair and more importantly, abled, individuals. The moral-bound KuLi (which, rumours has it, lost him his ascendency in the UMNO elections) would have weeded out corruption . I can see KuLi setting us back in the right direction; in my eyes, I was looking up to him as the man who will give us our independence from self-tyranny: the final revolution Malaysia needs to realise her greatness in the international stage.

 

But like I said, that dream and vision and hope was crushed. By the very system that Malaysia must be rid of. A system that cannot be rid off unless the person in power decides to be rid of it. Goddammit, it is a fucking cycle so very vicious.

I woke up, drew the curtains apart and it was a decent sunny day. Not the best of Manchester days, but I'll take it.

There was this woman who was circling the wooden owl in the garden across the road from where I live. I could see her clearly through my 3 by 3 window. *shrugs*

Got my teeth brushed, admired how bad I looked in the mirror, and then decided I needed my morning wake-up call. As I went to get my mug by the window, I glanced at that lady, who was by then staring cock-hard at the owl. *errr...?*

Then, while I was making my coffee in the kitchen, I noticed from the window there that the lady was out cold already lying on the grass by the owl. Hmph. Must be a drunk hobo or a whacked Brit sunbathing in her raincoat.

I watched her for close to 20 minutes from my room window as I read about the Perak fiasco, and she didn't move a muscle. I could not see if she was breathing. Passer-bys took double glances but walked on, probably thinking the same as I: hobo.

I could not take it anymore, I have no freaking idea if she was dead or alive, hobo or not. It surprised me that it took me so long to finally decide to go check on her. I grabbed my hoodie and rushed out all commando *cough*.

When I got to her, another 3 guys were already shouting at her trying to wake her up.

We then discussed what to do with her.

Is she dead?
Naw, she's breathing.
Do we call 999?
Dude, it's a waste of their time.
RSPCA then.
*silence and cock-stares*
She should be fine right?
What if she's got a heart-attack.
Then she's dead.
Go shake her man.
Dude, why must I do it? You go.

A kid then grabbed a skateboard and prodded her with it. No response.

So there I was, thinking whether to go check on her or not. I was actually thinking of how dirty she was. OMG. I am a freaking snob and a hypocrite while we are at it!!!

Who would have believed I was playing with cadavers just over a year ago!!

Pathetic.

I walked up to her and felt for a pulse. Yup, she's a live.
While the guys slapped her around a bit to try wake her up, I checked her pulse.
Steady, a little lower than normal, but steady.

She soon came around, blurry-eyed.
Owh hello love. I'ma aight. Just the alcohol, I'ma aight.

We helped her up, asked if she was okay. She said she was fine "Thank you love".
And porceeded to attempt to roll a cigarette.

Fuck, alright. She's okay. We left her there, and after her smoke, she went back to playing dead until the next group of worried people wake her up.

Why did it take me so long to react? Why didn't I just go up to touch her and feel her pulse? What is wrong with me?

Hypocrite, hypocrite. Fuck this shit.