In A Moment Of Neglect I Might Fly

by hilzoy

The woman who wrote the letter I posted last night made it through the demonstrations, and has posted another letter, about the woman who was shot in the video:

"I'm here to let you know I'm alive but my sister was killed...

I'm here to tell you my sister died while in her father's hands

I'm here to tell you my sister had big dreams...

I'm here to tell you my sister who died was a decent person... and like me yearned for a day when her hair would be swept by the wind... and like me read "Forough" [Forough Farrokhzad]... and longed to live free and equal... and she longed to hold her head up and announce, "I'm Iranian"... and she longed to one day fall in love to a man with a shaggy hair... and she longed for a daughter to braid her hair and sing lullaby by her crib...

my sister died from not having life... my sister died as injustice has no end... my sister died since she loved life too much... and my sister died since she lovingly cared for people...

my loving sister, I wish you had closed your eyes when your time had come... the very end of your last glance burns my soul....

sister have a short sleep. your last dream be sweet."

I didn't know who Forough was. My loss:

"The Captive [ Asir ]

I want you, yet I know that never
can I embrace you to my heart's content.
you are that clear and bright sky.
I, in this corner of the cage, am a captive bird.

from behind the cold and dark bars
directing toward you my rueful look of astonishment,
I am thinking that a hand might come
and I might suddenly spread my wings in your direction.

I am thinking that in a moment of neglect
I might fly from this silent prison,
laugh in the eyes of the man who is my jailer
and beside you begin life anew.

I am thinking these things, yet I know
that I can not, dare not leave this prison.
even if the jailer would wish it,
no breath or breeze remains for my flight.

from behind the bars, every bright morning
the look of a child smile in my face;
when I begin a song of joy,
his lips come toward me with a kiss.

O sky, if I want one day
to fly from this silent prison,
what shall I say to the weeping child's eyes:
forget about me, for I am captive bird?

I am that candle which illumines a ruins
with the burning of her heart.
If I want to choose silent darkness,
I will bring a nest to ruin."

There's more here. -- I just wanted something else to think about in the midst of death.

Comments

[david kilmer]

I feel sick.

[tagimaucia]

More Forough:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nHd41wlOK80

[J. Michael Neal]

This is very, very moving. I confess that I am skeptical that the woman who made this post last night happened to be the sister of the most prominent victim today, so I don't take the post at face value. Perhaps the woman who was shot preferred to wear the hijab in public, perhaps what she really wanted was a son, or something else entirely. Howeverm this message makes her seem more human than the mere video could. Perhaps that is enough.

I wish I were better at appreciating poetry, because Forough Farrokhzad seems to be worth that effort.

[byrningman]

She's not saying she's her biological sister. She means it either in a poetic, solidarity kind of a way, or else if Iranian culture is anything like Arabic culture, then it is common for men to call each other 'brother' and for women to call each other 'sister', which is theoretically a Muslim custom, but I don't know if it is common beyond the Arab world.

[baf]

It took me a few repetitions of "my sister" before I realized it wasn't meant literally.

[Warren Terra]

I have to say, the poetical meaning of "my sister" didn't really get through to me until I read byrningman's comment, perhaps because I took it literally when the writer claimed to know about the desires, ambitions, and favorite authors of the victim.

Now that I have read byrningman's comment, the letter becomes much more moving for me, because I was previously having a reaction somewhat like J. Michael Neal's.

[Charlie Martel]

The Persian poet Rumi wrote this 800 years ago, and as I read it this morning I thought of the young Iranian woman whose life was stolen yesterday:

"Who is the self? A delicate girl that flows out when we draw the sword of selfless action."

(from the poem "A Delicate Girl").

Thoughts and prayers to the Iranian people.

[ThatLeftTurnInABQ]

I didn't know who Forough was. My loss

Me neither, and thank you for posting this.

Because the US govt. has little if any positive leverage in Iran, it is easy to feel helpless while watching events unfold. But there is one area in which we are most definitely not helpless, and that is to use things like these deeply moving letters, and pointers to aspects of Persian culture which we were previously unfamiliar with (such as the poetry of Forough), to humanize the Iranians in our eyes and in the eyes of our fellow citizens here in the US to whom we can forward these things.

Spread them far and wide. Every American who reads this sort of stuff is somebody who potentially may be less inclined to think of "Iran" as an abstract proper noun, and more as a collection of real people, who have lives and culture, hopes and dreams, favorite poems and concerns about the width of their eyebrows (what a very human touch, that).

Perhaps that will not make a difference in future relations between our two nations, but it seems to me that it cannot hurt, and might help. I'm reminded of the incident during WW2 when Secty of War Henry Stimson removed Kyoto from the list of cities on the atomic bomb targeting list, because he knew enough about Japanese culture to make a point of resisting the idea of destroying a place with such deep historical and cultural resonance.

If at some future time and place there is an American who is making decisions that dramatically effects the relationship between us and Iran, and that person knows something of Persian poetry because of the story of this woman and her "sister" and small seeds of sympathy for them spread in the wind, then regardless of what else happens in Iran over the coming days and weeks, perhaps something good will have come of this tragedy to help in some small way to redeem it. Perhaps.