پوستت اما پوست شیر
I found myself sitting in a modest entertainment venue, formally dressed, surrounded by thousands who shared my ancestry. A chirpy, well-groomed man stood in front of us for two hours, singing songs of bitterness and sweetness as his adoring fans retraced the constellations of these two sensations in their own lives.
Imposter syndrome used to run through my veins. Reaching far for dense words unfamiliar to my tongue. Performing customs unknown to me. Holding myself to a standard I simultaneously knew of but was still discovering.
But as I sat there, letting the music of a legendary icon of fifty-five years transport me to a far-off land I had never set foot on, memories came flooding back to me. Memories of a short-lived life touched by […].
After each segment of the performance, at which the chirpy man in his old age would take a sip of water, wipe his brow, and recuperate in the shadows, a large screen would light up with his appearance, slightly more youthful than his concert form. His projection sat in a brownish leather chair, staring directly at the spectators, and would proceed to speak lyrically of four ‘revelations’ he had learnt of over the course of his life. They were each accompanied by their own symbol, simple in style but hearty with subtext.
[صلح]
I found myself constrained by the maturity that plagued my childhood. Eldest child, older brother, first grandchild. The one in the family born on soil fused with a family’s past and his own presence. Perhaps even responsible for the future of second and third generations too. The need to behave, to act responsibly, to understand where those immediately around me were coming from with little to no understanding whipped me into this shape quite suddenly. An eight-nine-ten-year-old trapped by the mellowness of a developing adult. A family’s migration, financial hardship, a divorce, and disconnectedness from a sense of community left little peace for the curly haired boy wanting to become a clown, a chef, and an opera singer all in one go. As the old story goes for many people, far too many to make my story of peace even the slightest bit original, a refuge was found in the books I would read. Geronimo Stilton, Captain Underpants, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and the cream of the crop, the Harry Potter series. An IKEA bookcase filled up over the years, genres and plotlines, themes and characters turning into peace offerings for a heart trying to find its place in his own world. On the verge of destitution, one house after the next, home became the literary worlds that whisked me off into trances I could not escape. I guess you could’ve called me an addict from a young age, an addict who still hasn’t recovered from his addiction for a good story he can find his peace in.
[زن]
I found myself in the arms of matriarchs as I grew up. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I can vouch for this. My maternal grandmother was the first person to hold me after I came into this world. My aunties cared for me over the holidays like I was one of their own. And my mother, my angel of a mother, carried the weight of the world on her shoulders as the concrete and stone pierced her fierce skin so my brother and I could only see the rubble fall at our feet. Only know that I am older I have mustered the strength and the character to pay and unpayable debt to the women who shielded me from arrows and spears in my formative years. ‘Woman, life, freedom’ as a revolutionary moto has not appeared from thin air in the recent case of civil unrest and brutality. My entire life, these principles, this unified code, has been something to live by. For over forty years now, women, like those in my own life, have fought for my freedom before their own. They have fought to have me be myself no matter what anyone tells me. They have fought to help me belong no matter where I go. And they have fought for the rights and liberties they have been denied in their lifetimes. My life, my freedom, is forever indebt to lion-like women around me.
[وطن]
I found myself in a bustling street in the heart of Western Sydney, where there used to be a small restaurant serving the food of my compatriots. Kebabs, stews, rice dishes, salads and all the sides and condiments one could dream of. A food coma is no joke. It is a living breathing thing that takes root inside of you and expands itself outwards like a balloon and fills your insides with warmth. The restaurant, Homeland, was a staple location in the landscapes of my family’s get-togethers. Laughs and banter would fade to rumbling bellies and a dead silence as soon as the hot plates would arrive at our table. Shortly after, after the slowest in the herd had finished their grazing, the food coma would hit, and the journey home would be the biggest obstacle any of us had ever encountered. Whilst everyone enjoyed their meals, I did too. But I couldn’t help but notice the foreign words on the menus, and on the stand of magazines in the corner. The prints of scenic locations postered on the walls. The fact that no knives were ever brought to the table, as if it was inappropriate or dangerous to eat with them. These observations floated around in my mind as my belly was warmed by steamy saffron rice and succulent lamb meat. I don’t ever remember finding an answer or solution to these observations. A feeble-minded child only understands so much about cultural connection or lack thereof. Like the memories that one holds onto, only to unwillingly lose them one day, Homeland disappeared from my family’s outings. Maybe it was the quality, maybe it was the distance, or maybe it simply happened like most things in life. But despite losing Homeland itself, I felt as though my homeland was coming home to me.
[عشق]
I found myself in the community of a large sandstone institution on unceded Gadigal land where I thought the practice of a community could never prosper. Cutthroat soon-to-be graduates and their coursework seemed to be the school of fish I had found myself in, until, in the latter half of my first year, where I found a community of like-minded individuals wanting to tell stories; stories of intensity that could capture the human experience in all its forms. And after mustering the courage, I found myself at the helm of a storytelling experience. As a director. One who could not only unify an entire creative team and their ambitions, but also one who could harness a vision of cultural connectedness and inter-ethnic solidarity. It gets lonely from time to time. But the love of a community, its memory, the butterflies it gives you when you reflect on photographs, is what’s made me reach this point. Wings stretched out, ready for take-off, and a heart filled with a fuel that runs directly to the soul.
زندون تنو رها کن
ای پرنده، پر بگیر
At the conclusion of each of the chirpy man’s revelations, the four projected symbols would merge into one frame, diamondlike and then quartered into four homes of their own. Much like the memories I carry with me wherever I go, I know that at some point, my life may also renew with revelations.