Around the university there is an alley that I call my secret hiding place. There is nothing secret about it; you just need to walk a few feet away from the entrance door, and it will be in plane sight, yet nobody seems to care there actually is another path to reach the campus beside that crowded, noisy lane everybody seems to be deeply interested in.
Whenever I feel misanthropic and dealing with people becomes too much, I run to my save haven. It is such a quiet place that it is almost surreal. Sure, every now and then cars pass by, and I see some pedestrians once in a while, but there seems to be an unspoken rule that nobody should make a noise.
The alley is wide, and the mighty trees of the autumn stand tall, their heavy branches bending, trying to reach the ground to get free of the restraint they have been bound in from birth. The fallen leaves dance with the rhythm of the wind, and I feel a shiver down my spine.
I walk along the alley, careful not to make a noise to disturb the silence. I think about everything and nothing at all and stare at the tall, dark colored buildings, wondering if they know how I feel. Sometimes I feel like one of them; surrounded by so many like me, yet alone.
My feet carry me to the stone stairs of the park at the end of the alley. They're wide and clean as if they are the stairs of a grand castle. The park is small and the highway can be seen in front of it. It is as if the park is the end of the world where serenity ends and reality begins.
There is nothing unique about the park; there are a few trees here and there and some benches that are colored red, green and orange with shiny paints. Nobody walks in there except a gardener in green that mows the yellow loan from time to time.
In the corner of the misshaped park, there is a slide for children. I calmly walk there and sit on the small steps, turning my back on the park. I rest my chin on my hands and stare at blue sky, the white clouds and the gray asphalt, the trees and the people that pass by. They do not notice me, but I watch them carefully, trying to understand what is going on in their minds. They look so busy that most of them do not even notice the park.
A glance at my old watch reminds me that my time is up. I stand up, wipe the dust from my clothes and walk back to the campus, to people and to everything that seems to matter.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Consent
The young woman tried to take in everything around her with frightened eyes. The hallway was crowded. People in white passed her without taking a glance at her; she felt invisible.
"Can I help you?"
The woman looked at the nurse and nodded. She just wanted the pain to be over. Before she had a chance to talk, her neighbor-she didn't know her much; she even didn't know why the older woman had volunteered to help-replied.
"Yes, she's having a baby." The neighbor pointed her finger at the woman. She didn't seem to know or care that the pale-looking woman was in great pain.
"All right, where is her husband? We need him to sign this form." The nurse waved a piece of paper in the air.
"Oh, he's not here. He's in the garrison. You see, he's a soldier, and he's under duty until tomorrow."
"What about her father?"
"Her parents live in another city. She's alone."
"We have to wait until her husband comes back. There's nothing we can do without his consent."
"I can't stand anymore." The pregnant girl whimpered and fisted her sweaty hands.
"You can take her to that empty room." The nurse pointed to a room a few feet away and went back to writing on a big notebook.
She felt her neighbor-she didn't even know her name-painfully grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the room. Her back hit the hard bed, and she whimpered once more. How much longer did she have to take this pain?
"Is there anyway we can call your husband?" She shook her head, trying to concentrate on the neighbor's voice.
"Well, you better try to sleep then. They won't call the doctor until your husband's here." The woman lay down on the bench in the corner of the room. She was already half asleep.
"But I can't sleep. It hurts too much." She protested as she felt the cramps. Everything was getting blurry.
"Somebody help me, please!" The woman finally screamed, tears escaping her eyes and running down her hollow cheeks. The nurse came to her room after a few minutes of agony.
"I can't take this anymore. Do something!" She was breathing heavily. A white blur came closer to her bed.
"You must be patient until the doctor comes."
"You don't understand! Do something!" She screamed as she grabbed a handful of the woman's uniform in her fist.
"What do you want me to do? It's your first child, isn't it? How old are you?"
"Seventeen," She whispered as she lay her head down on the pillow. It suddenly hurt to speak.
"You need to relax. I'll see if I can find a doctor." The nurse was gone, the neighbor was asleep and she felt abandoned. It seemed she was the only one left on the planet.
She closed her eyes and opened them, again and again. The scenes kept changing, but the pain was there. It was always there and never went away, as long as she remembered.
She could hear screams, but she could not recognize the voice; it was a stranger, but his voice was gentle and his cold hand on her feverish forehead was soothing, and he kept repeating that it was going to be all right, and everything was black and then nothing.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
She opened her eyes slowly. There was no sign of sun; rain drops were hitting against the window, making a soft, rhythmic sound.
"You're awake." She turned her head to the right; the muscles in her neck protested. She knew that woman; it was that nurse.
"Your husband is not here yet." She could not understand what the nurse meant. She felt numb and frozen.
"You have a baby boy. The doctor decided to do the operation without your husband's permission. You were dying, but you're fine now. Everything's fine. I'll go get your baby."
The tired woman stared at the rain drops and slowly nodded as she cleaned the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. Yes, everything was fine.
The neighbor on the bench was softly snoring.
"Can I help you?"
The woman looked at the nurse and nodded. She just wanted the pain to be over. Before she had a chance to talk, her neighbor-she didn't know her much; she even didn't know why the older woman had volunteered to help-replied.
"Yes, she's having a baby." The neighbor pointed her finger at the woman. She didn't seem to know or care that the pale-looking woman was in great pain.
"All right, where is her husband? We need him to sign this form." The nurse waved a piece of paper in the air.
"Oh, he's not here. He's in the garrison. You see, he's a soldier, and he's under duty until tomorrow."
"What about her father?"
"Her parents live in another city. She's alone."
"We have to wait until her husband comes back. There's nothing we can do without his consent."
"I can't stand anymore." The pregnant girl whimpered and fisted her sweaty hands.
"You can take her to that empty room." The nurse pointed to a room a few feet away and went back to writing on a big notebook.
She felt her neighbor-she didn't even know her name-painfully grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the room. Her back hit the hard bed, and she whimpered once more. How much longer did she have to take this pain?
"Is there anyway we can call your husband?" She shook her head, trying to concentrate on the neighbor's voice.
"Well, you better try to sleep then. They won't call the doctor until your husband's here." The woman lay down on the bench in the corner of the room. She was already half asleep.
"But I can't sleep. It hurts too much." She protested as she felt the cramps. Everything was getting blurry.
"Somebody help me, please!" The woman finally screamed, tears escaping her eyes and running down her hollow cheeks. The nurse came to her room after a few minutes of agony.
"I can't take this anymore. Do something!" She was breathing heavily. A white blur came closer to her bed.
"You must be patient until the doctor comes."
"You don't understand! Do something!" She screamed as she grabbed a handful of the woman's uniform in her fist.
"What do you want me to do? It's your first child, isn't it? How old are you?"
"Seventeen," She whispered as she lay her head down on the pillow. It suddenly hurt to speak.
"You need to relax. I'll see if I can find a doctor." The nurse was gone, the neighbor was asleep and she felt abandoned. It seemed she was the only one left on the planet.
She closed her eyes and opened them, again and again. The scenes kept changing, but the pain was there. It was always there and never went away, as long as she remembered.
She could hear screams, but she could not recognize the voice; it was a stranger, but his voice was gentle and his cold hand on her feverish forehead was soothing, and he kept repeating that it was going to be all right, and everything was black and then nothing.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
She opened her eyes slowly. There was no sign of sun; rain drops were hitting against the window, making a soft, rhythmic sound.
"You're awake." She turned her head to the right; the muscles in her neck protested. She knew that woman; it was that nurse.
"Your husband is not here yet." She could not understand what the nurse meant. She felt numb and frozen.
"You have a baby boy. The doctor decided to do the operation without your husband's permission. You were dying, but you're fine now. Everything's fine. I'll go get your baby."
The tired woman stared at the rain drops and slowly nodded as she cleaned the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. Yes, everything was fine.
The neighbor on the bench was softly snoring.
My Mother Never Worked
Version: Two
After hearing that my mother had to do undergo surgery on Thursday, I tried to imagine my life without having her around. I tried not to picture her running around, doing endless chores with that small smile on her face. I tried to imagine going home without her standing at the doorway, waiting for me patiently. I tried to forget the feeling of her cool hand on my feverish forehead whenever I was sick, but that seems impossible. My life without her would be empty and miserable.
Yet, it is funny that I usually don't bother to thank her for the delicious meal she has cooked or the kitchen that she has cleaned. I don't bother to ask her if she needs any help or if there is anything wrong in her life. Yes, I know you and I have taken our mothers for granted, and I'm afraid when we finally realize what a treasure they are, it just might have been too late.
People expect too much from housewives: "Be a perfect cook, perfect woman, perfect wife, perfect mother. Be perfect in everything you can think of. It is your duty! You do not have any jobs, what are you doing with your time?" Have you ever heard them complain? Have you ever seen them give up? It is just who they are: Loveable creatures who will love you until the last day of their lives.
No insurance, no payment, no holidays, it sounds insane to me; it is as if they are machines, designed to work and suffer silently; still, I believe the biggest sacrifice they make is giving up on their dreams. Can you imagine yourself doing that, giving up on something you love? But you and I know they do that every day, because to them it is the family that matters the most.
Knowing that women give all they have to make living comfortable for their family without asking anything in return, or even accepting the tragic ending of "My mother never worked" makes me certain that just because we live in the twenty first century does not mean that injustice does not exist anymore.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Nothing is true; everything is permitted.
Nothing is true; everything is permitted.
Mr. Hussein said this sentence in the critical and creative writing class. For some unknown reason, I've been unable to stop thinking about it. It somehow reminds me of Dostoyevsky's famous sentence in brothers Karamazov which was something like: "If God does not exist, everything is permitted."
In my opinion these two sentences are pretty much the same. We can say that God is the ultimate truth, right? Then if we claim that the first sentence is true, could we claim that God does not exist?
Let's forget about Dostoyevsky for a second. Can we say that there is no truth? Mr. Abednia argued that that there is no single truth. Every body sees things differently, ergo nobody can be purely objective.
I do not like this explanation very much.
Let me give you an example: In the class, I said that there is a board on the wall. Mr. Abednia asked me what the color of the board was and I did not answer, because I was aware that each of the students would have a different opinion about the color, which is exactly my point! We have different opinions! Just because I think the board is green and somebody else blue does not mean that there is no board.
I think truth is like water. If we pour it in a glass, it would be in a shape of a glass. If we pour it in a bowl, it would become like the bowl, but that does not mean that water has become something else. Water is water no matter how it looks.
Ok, I don't know what I'm writing anymore.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
What is writing and what should it involve?
Version: Two
According to some dictionaries, writing is a method of representing language in visual or tactile form. Writing systems use sets of symbols to represent the sounds of speech, and also have symbols for such things as punctuation and numerals.
Writing, in its textual form, began after accounting, calendaring and trading became too complex, and a need for recording historical events emerged. Throughout history, writing developed from ancient scripts on stone and clay tablets to parchments, to the form which we are familiar with nowadays.
Indeed, the description above seems solid and concrete, but why something seems to be amiss? Is this what writing really is?
If we accept that the definition of literacy, according to National Council of Teachers of English, is the ability to read and write and use numeracy, to handle information, to express opinions, to make decisions and solve problems, as family members, workers, citizens and lifelong learners, then we must also accept that our classification of writing is too limited.
The problem starts with the fact that along with writing, we always imagine pen and paper, and in modern times, computers and text messages, whereas I believe it has a much broader meaning. Billboards, prescriptions, restaurant menus, equations and even road signs can be considered pieces of writing that we fail to notice in our everyday life.
Let's broaden our view even further; have you ever heard people say that their life is written, or do you agree with existentialists on the fact that humans are the authors of their own destiny? Do you think that the notes on a music sheet are a form of writing, or a ballet dancer is writing something with each movement of their body?
Do you think that animals will ever be able to write? For example, do you think that if we teach a monkey the alphabet of a certain language, it would be able to write, or do you believe that writing is exclusively a human ability?
In my point of view, writing is a means of creation, and creation is a unique gift that makes mankind different from any other living thing. Creation is what brings us closer to what our souls seek, and writing is the language that helps us reveal this in different forms, even if it's something as simple as a note on a get-well card.
Considering our second question, do you believe that what we learn is enough to make us good writers? And by good writers, I mean writers that can create something valuable and original that can have an impact, if not on the world, their society or the people they associate with, then at least on themselves to show they indeed want to understand and change. Do you think that learning Grammar, punctuation and understanding what supporting sentences are is enough to make a writer out of us?
The answer is no. Of course, these are some of the tools we need to have, for if we create something that is full of flaws, our efforts would be fruitless and the disadvantages would be much more than the benefits, but by no means are they enough.
In order to be a good writer, first, we need to develop our understanding of the world, our ways of thinking, analysis and criticism, and learn to voice our objections and support them when needed. We need to see and read well, gain knowledge, evaluate the information and finally write something-it doesn't necessarily have to be on a piece of paper-that shows that we indeed want to change the world for better.
I do realize that my definition of a good writer appears idealistic or even impractical, but then again maybe that is why we are here. Perhaps we need to bend some rules, break some others and pay a price to make humans, even if it is just ourselves, into writers they are meant to be.
Version: Two
According to some dictionaries, writing is a method of representing language in visual or tactile form. Writing systems use sets of symbols to represent the sounds of speech, and also have symbols for such things as punctuation and numerals.
Writing, in its textual form, began after accounting, calendaring and trading became too complex, and a need for recording historical events emerged. Throughout history, writing developed from ancient scripts on stone and clay tablets to parchments, to the form which we are familiar with nowadays.
Indeed, the description above seems solid and concrete, but why something seems to be amiss? Is this what writing really is?
If we accept that the definition of literacy, according to National Council of Teachers of English, is the ability to read and write and use numeracy, to handle information, to express opinions, to make decisions and solve problems, as family members, workers, citizens and lifelong learners, then we must also accept that our classification of writing is too limited.
The problem starts with the fact that along with writing, we always imagine pen and paper, and in modern times, computers and text messages, whereas I believe it has a much broader meaning. Billboards, prescriptions, restaurant menus, equations and even road signs can be considered pieces of writing that we fail to notice in our everyday life.
Let's broaden our view even further; have you ever heard people say that their life is written, or do you agree with existentialists on the fact that humans are the authors of their own destiny? Do you think that the notes on a music sheet are a form of writing, or a ballet dancer is writing something with each movement of their body?
Do you think that animals will ever be able to write? For example, do you think that if we teach a monkey the alphabet of a certain language, it would be able to write, or do you believe that writing is exclusively a human ability?
In my point of view, writing is a means of creation, and creation is a unique gift that makes mankind different from any other living thing. Creation is what brings us closer to what our souls seek, and writing is the language that helps us reveal this in different forms, even if it's something as simple as a note on a get-well card.
Considering our second question, do you believe that what we learn is enough to make us good writers? And by good writers, I mean writers that can create something valuable and original that can have an impact, if not on the world, their society or the people they associate with, then at least on themselves to show they indeed want to understand and change. Do you think that learning Grammar, punctuation and understanding what supporting sentences are is enough to make a writer out of us?
The answer is no. Of course, these are some of the tools we need to have, for if we create something that is full of flaws, our efforts would be fruitless and the disadvantages would be much more than the benefits, but by no means are they enough.
In order to be a good writer, first, we need to develop our understanding of the world, our ways of thinking, analysis and criticism, and learn to voice our objections and support them when needed. We need to see and read well, gain knowledge, evaluate the information and finally write something-it doesn't necessarily have to be on a piece of paper-that shows that we indeed want to change the world for better.
I do realize that my definition of a good writer appears idealistic or even impractical, but then again maybe that is why we are here. Perhaps we need to bend some rules, break some others and pay a price to make humans, even if it is just ourselves, into writers they are meant to be.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Alienation and Superstitions
Alienation: Dr. Sharyati has given a fine example of alienation in one of his articles: He mentioned Charlie Chaplin's movie "modern times", in which the tramp changed from a human being who was capable of feeling, expressing emotions and being human to a factory worker whose job was just to screw nuts. In the movie, the tramp lost himself, and that is what alienation means.
Religious alienation: "is nearly the most common of all forms of alienation. For by putting forth clearly defined moral rules that often conflict heavily with natural human instincts, religion tends to guarantee that those who follow their gut instincts become sinners and thus alienated. The majority of people in a religion were socialized as children in it, and this is a clear case of involuntary exclusivity. The socialization process in regards to religion reaches to such a deep extent of the human psyche that years after deviating from the most rational people still feel as though they are sinners, deep down."(Alienation definition by Alexander Chapman and Leoy Chan)
I believe religious alienation is exactly what some of our people are suffering from. This alienation prevents them from seeing the truth, and unfortunately, there are some people who are benefiting from this. Prison does not have to be a confined place. This is a prison in its worst kind." A prison that you cannot smell, taste or touch, a prison for your mind."(The Matrix)
So you see, our problem is much bigger than what it looks like. Is anyone surprised that some people believe in some silly superstitions? As long as this problem exists, not much is going to change.
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
AN: This is a reply to Mr. Naghipoor's nice article "more superstitions".
Religious alienation: "is nearly the most common of all forms of alienation. For by putting forth clearly defined moral rules that often conflict heavily with natural human instincts, religion tends to guarantee that those who follow their gut instincts become sinners and thus alienated. The majority of people in a religion were socialized as children in it, and this is a clear case of involuntary exclusivity. The socialization process in regards to religion reaches to such a deep extent of the human psyche that years after deviating from the most rational people still feel as though they are sinners, deep down."(Alienation definition by Alexander Chapman and Leoy Chan)
I believe religious alienation is exactly what some of our people are suffering from. This alienation prevents them from seeing the truth, and unfortunately, there are some people who are benefiting from this. Prison does not have to be a confined place. This is a prison in its worst kind." A prison that you cannot smell, taste or touch, a prison for your mind."(The Matrix)
So you see, our problem is much bigger than what it looks like. Is anyone surprised that some people believe in some silly superstitions? As long as this problem exists, not much is going to change.
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
AN: This is a reply to Mr. Naghipoor's nice article "more superstitions".
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Responsibility
I'm scared these days.
The Election Day is getting closer and closer.
Some are defending the candidates they want to vote for, some others are bashing the other candidates, and there are some who prefer to sit in the back seat and do nothing at all.
I feel like I am stuck in the middle. I try to keep an open mind. I try to consider every aspect before making a decision, but it is easier said than done.
The biggest problem is that I do not know how to get to know the candidates. Frankly, I do not trust what people say. It is worse when it comes to newspapers and the media. I get so frustrated sometimes. Why does politics have to be so complicated?
And I am scared. I am afraid that I might make the wrong choice. I know it sounds silly. It is just one vote after all, but it is all I can do for my country at the moment, and making a wrong choice sounds like betraying my people to me.
Voting is a big responsibility, isn't it?
The Election Day is getting closer and closer.
Some are defending the candidates they want to vote for, some others are bashing the other candidates, and there are some who prefer to sit in the back seat and do nothing at all.
I feel like I am stuck in the middle. I try to keep an open mind. I try to consider every aspect before making a decision, but it is easier said than done.
The biggest problem is that I do not know how to get to know the candidates. Frankly, I do not trust what people say. It is worse when it comes to newspapers and the media. I get so frustrated sometimes. Why does politics have to be so complicated?
And I am scared. I am afraid that I might make the wrong choice. I know it sounds silly. It is just one vote after all, but it is all I can do for my country at the moment, and making a wrong choice sounds like betraying my people to me.
Voting is a big responsibility, isn't it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)