The Shipwrecked (2 page)

In “Mermaid Café,” Mitra Eliyati describes the tension, anxiety, and fear a crowd experiences as it is easily manipulated into attacking a tavern and destroying it as a relic of the past. The story is told through the eyes of a young adolescent boy who is infatuated with the mermaid figure perched at the top of the door. In his eyes, the inanimate figure is transformed to flesh and blood when he catches a glimpse of a woman behind a curtain crossing herself. The story juxtaposes the youth's sincerity and honesty with the pretense of piety from a hypocritical crowd that frequents the tavern but is ready, in the name of public morality, to lie, cheat, and destroy.

“Dogs and Humans,” by Fereshteh Molavi, is set against the chaotic backdrop of postrevolution, when fear
and confusion dominate and shots are routinely heard. It depicts a period of social upheaval and rapid change. Drawing a parallel between a dog and her puppy and a woman and her sick child, the narrative style and complexity of the story resists a simple answer to how the characters have come to where they are and what their fates will be. Instead it acknowledges the contingent world they live in, where nothing can be taken for granted.

Sofia Mahmudi goes further with textual experimentation in “Grammar.” The protagonist wryly ponders his life and his death posthumously as a study in grammar. His existence and the details of his demise are expressed through comparing them to parts of speech. Is the protagonist trying to gain control over his environment by searching for himself in confrontation with syntax?

In “The Burnt Sound,” by Behnaz Alipour Gaskari, a young schoolgirl is imprisoned in solitary confinement for spray-painting political graffiti. She clings to every sound that comes through her prison wall. The heartfelt songs she hears from a garage next to the prison inhabit her cell and become her constant companion. She fantasizes about the young apprentice, whom she has never seen. She hears the daily shouting, and the abusive vulgar language of the shop owner and his street-smart roughnecks. The boy is obviously being harassed and possibly sexually abused. He stops singing his sweet, melancholy songs and takes drastic action. Did he do it out of revenge or desperation? Has
he finally tragically escaped from his own prison in the process?

Corporality and violence are interlinked in the “The Bathhouse,” by Shahla Zarlaki. It is set during the Iran-Iraq war at the time of air raids, when Iraqi bombs were dropping all over Iranian cities and neighborhoods. Women's bodies are violated when a bomb explodes near the bathhouse, sending the women into chaos and darkness. The sound of the explosion may have caused the miscarriage of a pregnant woman, who has collapsed on the bathhouse floor. The violence of war becomes a reality in flesh and blood that defines the violated body.

In “The Queue,” by Shiva Arastouie, the protagonist has been denied her degree for some unexplained reason. She is instructed to go to a certain office to obtain it. Now married, she has been cloistered in her home, and the act of trying to retrieve her degree forces her to confront her sheltered existence in contrast with her years as a student, when she was capable and independent. Ultimately, after standing for hours in a queue, and exhausted from waiting a whole day in the heat and noise of a crowded street, she is turned away without her degree as the office closes. She returns home defeated only to once again be forced to observe her life—this time from the outside.

In Zohreh Hakimi's story, “The Wandering Cumulus Cloud,” a married daughter who is subjected to domestic abuse pushes back against the dominant tradition of the
paternalistic laws, asking for divorce and seeking to expose the oppressive gender order. Her father's primary concern is the family honor, the scandal a divorce would present, and the disruption of social order. She is told to be a dutiful wife and accept her lot, or to be a slut who embarrasses the family and is unwelcomed in the parents' home. The father urges her to go home, and “just be patient for a while.”

“Intercession,” by Mitra Davar, incorporates echoes of the religious festival of Ashura and its rituals into the everyday life experience. The age-old pageantry, sacrificial slaughter of animals, and self-flagellation of the ceremony mingle with the protagonist's memories of a lost love and her reflection on her marriage and children. The story portrays a belief system, with all its superstition and sacrifices, told to be capable of performing miracles and relieving hardship and misfortune. In reality it is a potent tool of persuasion, of conviction, and of political hegemony. As the protagonist muses, the dead “seem to be with us for ever and ever.”

“A Bloody Day of Ashura,” by Masih Alinejad, captures the frenzy and anxiety of a political demonstration that ends in violent confrontation with the security police. A group of activists joins a protest march, mindful of state violence and security police. When a member of the militia on the side of the security police is injured in the process of trying to provoke the crowd to violence, a member
of the group steps forward to protect him and quells the growing violence of the crowd.

In Moniru Ravanipour's story, “Tehran,” the themes of change, loss of trust, and betrayal are played out against the cityscape. The city—full of luxury goods, choked in traffic, and bared of its tree-lined streets—becomes the site of transition from hope to despair that followed the short-lived halcyon days of the revolution. The city becomes a repository of varying values and experiences, and a metaphor for hypocrisy, deceit, and corruption.

The protagonist in “Unsettled, Unbound,” by Fariba Vafi, finds there is no place to hide from the watchful eyes of her inquisitive landlord. The intrusion that invades her privacy leaves her no moment of rest. The only remedy is to leave the abode that once held the promise of peace, tranquility, and relief from the chaos outside. Better to be unsettled and free than to be constantly under the watchful eyes of an intruder. She challenges the sexist, patriarchal assumptions of the culture by giving up the comfort of the place in order to be free, to move at will, and to define a new life for herself.

The collection of short stories presented here provides a glimpse into the cultural and social currents of contemporary Iran and gives us a small sample of the rich literature produced by Iranian women in the postrevolutionary era. In spite of all the sociopolitical problems, economic hardship, censorship, and prohibition from
publishing, an impressive number of Iranian women from diverse backgrounds have achieved great literary success and recognition. Their writing, from a variety of perspectives and experiences, broadens the literary discourse. The emergence of feminism and sociopolitical awareness has enabled female writers to challenge the sexist and patriarchal assumptions of the culture, to break down traditional gender barriers and, through each writer's distinct literary voice, to transform consciousness and experience.

—Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone

¹
Parvin Paidar, “Gender of Democracy: The Encounter between Feminism and Reformism in Contemporary Iran.”
UN Research Institute for Social Development
, 29 (October 2001).

²
Nazila Fathi, “Women Writing Novels Emerge as Stars in Iran,”
New York Times
, June 29, 2005.

The Shipwrecked

Moniru Ravanipour

SHE CONSIDERED WRITING
, “the woman was sitting in the cellar.” But she had never seen the cellar. She had to write, “the woman was in the hallway” or someplace dank and salt stained, “with the blistering cold of the island and the winds of December.” Then she remembered that the island isn't so cold in December and it is in early January that the weather takes a breath and is rid of the heat and humidity. She had to write, “January, and four lit candles in that small dark room or cellar,” which must have been wet, because wherever you are on the island, if you dig even a few inches into the ground, water will seep out. Grandmother, who is buried in this old cemetery, always said, “Here everything floats on water, everything. We're just fooling ourselves thinking we live on solid ground.” Grandmother was right, there is no dry ground on the island, and it's worse in a cellar. Its floor must be wet. There are cracks in the ceiling and the walls are salt stained.

She could write, “the woman was alone with a wet wooden bed and a blanket in which someone was wrapped.”
And the blanket was new, checkered pink and white. At times like these they usually take the best things and then the pink-and-white blanket gets muddied. Dirt and mud stick to it and bloodstains slowly spread on it resembling a crab reaching out its claws beseechingly in every direction. A crab, a crab that wants to escape, escape in every direction. A crab that has lost its mind, that reaches out its claws in every direction yet remains in one place. In one place, on the checkered blanket, and only its claws stretch out and reach the edge of the blanket, the blanket that will surely get muddied or stained with a mix of blood and mud if Golestani is not tied to something, to a tree, for instance. Afterward Golestani must have fallen: first his knees buckled, he tried to remain on his feet, but the next hail of bullets mowed him down like a storm that uproots a tree, and then sparrow-like, he shuddered and a pair of hands untied him. And still bent over, Golestani slid to the ground headfirst, and then those hands took hold of his feet and dragged him. Dragged him to the side so that they could tie the next person to the tree. A tree that smelled of gunpowder, that had long smelled of gunpowder. But what tree, what massive tree is there at the harbor that can withstand this? A palm tree certainly can't: with the first person and the first barrage of bullets it will be done for, and a silk-tasseled acacia will never let you tie someone to its trunk and kill him. Ten days before she died, Grandmother saw with her own eyes the silk-tasseled acacia tree that had been pulled up by its
roots from a town square, wailing like a grieving woman and heading toward the sea to drown itself.

It was never revealed who shot the seagull, but in a mournful arc it had flown off the silk-tasseled tree and Grandmother said a drop of its blood must have fallen on the tree.

She got up. She didn't want to think about Grandmother and the memories that never left her. She must write the story, the story of the cellar, and not think about anything, not about Grandmother, not about the silk-tasseled tree, and not about the island's palm trees that have been sapped of their strength. No, they didn't tie him to a palm tree. A palm tree couldn't endure it, even if it was its first time. No, there are other ways. For example, they could have hit him on the head, rendered him unconscious, and then tied his hands behind him and stretched him out on the ground facing the sky and shot him straight in the heart. If they did shoot him in the heart, there would have been no need for a final bullet in the head, surely there would have been no need . . .

Mrs. Golestani hardly said anything. She was dazed and dumbfounded. Mrs. Golestani's chopped words were of no use. But it is as clear as daylight that a man like Golestani wouldn't easily let them tie his arms and legs and pin him down on the ground. He must have struggled and thrashed about, and then they struck him on the head, and this, this shows that there must be mud on the blanket.

She picked up a cigarette. Outside the window the sky was black and the wind was spiraling in the palm trees. The wind's strange, ominous howl! It was near and far, and something, something was rippling before her eyes. Just like when the breeze blew over Grandmother's silk
minaar
, Grandmother's green lace headscarf.

The cigarette had unraveled. Bits of tobacco were dangling in front of her. She walked up to the window. She heard the rustlings; it seemed a group of people were secretly, fearfully emptying the coffins. It seemed out there in the dark, people with shovels were throwing dirt in the graves. It seemed everything was still continuing, all the things that had started six months after Grandmother's death. “Come on Friday nights,” Grandmother had said. “During the week the dead go to the sea. It's not good to recite the prayer for the dead over empty graves.”

Terrified, she looked at the calendar on the table. She was relieved. It was Monday night. All the dead from the cemetery were now in the sea, even those after Mr. Golestani had been buried by night. Now, none of the dead were in their place. The dead only slept in their own graves on Friday nights, and during the week they were in the sea, in the depths of green waters, someplace where they could have open discussions without fear and foreboding and speak their minds and shout as much as they wanted. Now the island was safe and the dark was not frightening and she could peacefully write her story. Without being afraid of Mr. Golestani and without being afraid that in the dark
his slim, long hands will suddenly grab onto the window ledge and he will climb up and look at the sheets of paper and say, “Girl, this isn't the time for such nonsense.” And she will answer, “Oh, Mr. Golestani, not everyone has to think like you . . .”

Now it was Monday and the cemetery wasn't terrifying. The sea filling up with corpses one night or one day and the island emptying of life, the dead, tired of putrefying deep in the waters, pooling their anger and returning to dry earth . . . no, these tales were not for now. The island was still full of living people and she could peacefully write and ignore Grandmother's superstitions. She just had to focus on the story and fill the sheet of paper that was still blank.

Well, the woman was sitting in the cellar . . . in what state could she be at this moment? The night before they were on their way back from a party, and the woman had told it like this: “I was looking in my handbag for the key when two people emerged from the dark and said, ‘Mr. Golestani, if it isn't too much trouble, we have a simple question,' and they took him away.”