A football coach had said somewhere that the end of a game is the beginning of another. When it comes to the New Year, I can't tell whether it is the end of the previous year or the beginning of the next? I know, however, that it is impossible for something to start without something else to end. A game must end before players can prepare for another -- the final whistle must sound--. A year must end for the next to begin --. There must be a calendar showing the end of the month of Esfand on the spring equinox --. Life must end for the next --. Death is, it cannot not be --….
A few nights before the Iranian New Year, at 9 pm, I was driving through *Galubandak Intersection*, usually pretty quite at that hour. The bustle around the Grand Bazaar of Tehran during the day is usually replaced by the hiss of the broom of city sweepers. But tonight, it is swarming with people who hurriedly go for last minute shopping, back and forth through the intersection. It takes me 10 minutes to cross it. I look at the people in front of my car. They are the same people, the 40 million, the 23 million, the 13 million or whatever their numbers. Whatever you say; what difference does it make? It is as if an earthquake has hit, "shaking" all out of their homes running, to and fro, grabbing things along the way, and rushing back home to make everything "new". This earthquake comes every year.
Earthquake is like the New Year. The earth trembles, shakes everything, destroys everything, and for those who remain… the year is renewed. They have to build and buy everything anew. When earthquake hits, you are "forced" to build everything anew. You can't say you can't.
Earthquake is also sad; demolition, dust, soot, sickness, hunger, crime, cries, and the grave. Cold nights, cold bodies, cold stones. But day will come one day. You have to build. Can you not build? Like that old man in Zendegi Va Digar Hich ("Life and Nothing More," 1991), is it possible not to like the toilet bowl and not want it? Or like that young man, the family of whose suitor is against his marriage to their daughter/beloved; when earthquake hits and takes every one except the suitor and the young woman and love and a box of tomatoes and the *Red Crescent* plastic and the night… as if the earthquake has come only for them to make love in the midst of wails and flails. Earthquake must come and you must fall in love again. Is it possible not to fall in love again?
The year coming to a close was the year of earthquake, the year of destruction. I am not talking about the streets. Earthquake wasn't there. A wind came from the north and people only caught cold. For me, on the other hand, it was dance and quake non-stop. Those many dark hours spent next to a window through which no light shone and that shimmer of light was the last remnant of the fire of hell that was burning. But I sat there for my cells to absorb the word "burn" and I kept saying, "Destroy! Be destroyed!" and earthquake came and the bountiful river of destruction started to flow. And those many hours that I fixed my gaze on the earth and talked to the cold stone, in that enchanted cemetery south of the city. I sat and sat until it broke, it blossomed. At night, my eyes were open when father came in and laid down next to me on the ground and I buried my head in his arms and his soft beard -- that he didn't take with him to the place he went -- it was still on his face and it caressed mine and I asked him to "say something" and he stayed silent and only held me tighter to the blue felt shirt, that I had bought for him, that was getting soaked with my tears. Like {Maryam}, who didn't know how to handle her solitude; when she came in and sat on the chair in the room and said: "Tell them to leave. I'll be here." And she was; until the very last moment. And wasn't it she, who when the brouhaha grew to the point that she was being visited by nightmares during her waking hours, she brought about the quake only to become the first victim of it? And I destroyed myself, too, wholly… and the New Year came.
When blood gushes out of wounds and when God speaks like {Saint Francis of Assisi}, it is the New Year, spring comes and love comes, smack in the middle of cold, so calms and quiet that you cannot tell whether the nightmarish sleep has come to an end and the dreamy wakefulness has begun, or the bitter wakefulness has ended for the sweet dream to start? Awake or asleep, dead or alive, on the earth or above, the New Year came and its name, too, like in the fairies, is "companion" and "friend", and it smells of the sea and the sent of fresh water, and it wasn't for nothing that, for the first time, love showed its face somewhere outside of perdition, and snow, which knew how much I had missed it, celebrated and came, and came so much that I could feel the squeaking sound of its compaction under my feet and remembered that I am the survivor of a frightful quake and I am unable not to be able. I cannot not build. And I will build. I will build…
***
Mother says earthquake comes to wash sin. I say: then way doesn't this gray sack of sin benefit from this shaking of the earth? She says, "There are believers…." I say, let them go -- we may go as well. Is "faith" anything but our sufferings,and the pains we have endured? -- Let them go for the quake to come. Let it destroy things down to the earth. Then the New Year will come, spring will come, any time of the year -- wasn't it the case that winter came this year and went without a single flake of snow landing on our heads? Let earthquake come for the New Year to come, any time it wants to, in high noon, in dead cold. When the dust settles, had we been saved, we would not be able not to be able. We would make love until the morning and we will tell stories to our children, whom we would raise on the rubbles, for them to build and make love, and for them not to get scared when the quake comes, because they will live on. You can be sure of that; just let it get destroyed, destroyed….
یک مربی جایی گفته بود که پایان هر مسابقه فوتبال، آغاز مسابقه بعدی است. عید که میشود، نمیفهمم که این پایان ِ سال قبل است یا آغاز سال بعد؟ اما میدانم که نمیشود چیزی تمام نشود و چیز جدیدی آغاز شود. بازی باید تمام شود، تا که رفت و برای بازی بعد آماده شد -- سوت پایان بازی باید باشد--. سال باید تمام شود برای سال بعد --. تقویم باید باشد و آخرین روز اسفند را نشان دهد --. زندگی باید تمام شود برای زندگی بعد--. مرگ باید باشد، نمیتواند که نباشد--.
چند شب مانده به عید ساعت ۹ شب از *چهارراه گلوبندک* که رد میشوم، که شبهای دیگر خالی ِ خالی است و هیاهوی صبح ِ *بازار* جایش را به سکوت جاروی رفتگرها داده، امشب اما قیامت است. از ترس این که آدمهایی را که شتابان و هیجانزده و مشعوف از «خرید شب عید» وسط چهارراه از این سو به آنسو میدوند را زیر نکنم، ۱۰ دقیقه طول میکشد که از اینطرف چهارراه به آنطرف بروم. آدمها را نگاه میکنم، همانهایاند. ۴۰ میلیون، ۲۳ میلیون، ۱۳ میلیون؟ هر چه شما بگویید؛ چه فرقی میکند؟ انگار زلزله آمده؛ همه خانههایشان را «تکاندهاند» و دویدهاند بیرون و جنسی برداشتهاند و دوباره به خانههایشان میدوند تا همه چیز را «نو» کنند. این زلزله هر سال میآید.
زلزله مثل عید است. زمین میرقصد و خودش را تکان میدهد و همه چیز را ویران میکند و آنها که میمانند، سال نوست برایشان، زندگی نوست. همه چیز را باید از نو بسازند و دوباره بخرند. زلزله که بیاید، «مجبور» که از نو بسازی همه چیز را. نمیتوانی بگویی که نمیتوانم.
زلزله تلخ هم هست؛ آوار و گرد و خاک و از دستدادن و سیاهی و بیماری و جنایت و گرسنگی و گریه و گور. شبهای سرد، بدنهای سرد، سنگهای سرد. ولی روز میشود روزی. باید بسازی. مگر میشود نساخت؟ زندگی نکرد؟ مثل آن پیرمرد ِ زندگی و دیگر هیچ ِ {کیارستمی} مگر میشود کاسه توالت را دوست نداشت و نخواست؟ یا آن پسری که خانواده دختر محبوباش با ازدواجشان مخالفاند و زلزله میآید و همه را به سرای مرگ میبرد و دختر میماند و پسر و عشق و یک جعبه گوجهفرنگی و پلاستیک ِ *هلال احمر* و شب... که انگار زلزله آمده است فقط برای این که آنها، با همراهی نوای مویهها، به هم عشق ببازند. زلزله که بیاید، باید که باز عاشق شوی. مگر میشود باز عاشق نشد؟
سالی که دارد میرود، سال زلزله بود، سال ویرانی. هیچ کاری اما به خیابانها ندارم، که زلزلهای در کار نبود؛ بادی از شمال آمد و همه سرما خوردند فقط. اما یکسر رقص و زلزله بود برای من؛ انبوه ساعتهای سیاهی که چشم دوختم به پنجرهای که هیچ نوری از آن به بیرون نمیتابید و سوسویی که بود، تهمانده شعلههای جهنم بود که میسوزاند، اما نشستم و نشستم که سلولهایم درک کنند واژه سوختن را و مدام میگفتم که «ویران کن! ویران شو!» و زلزله آمد و موهبت ِ ویرانی جاری شد. و انبوه ساعتهای سفیدی که چشم دوختم به خاک و حرف زدم با سنگ سرد، در آن گورستان جادویی جنوب شهر، و نشستم و نشستم تا شکافت، تا شکفت. شب، چشمهایم باز بود که پدر از در وارد شد و آمد کنارم روی زمین دراز کشید و سرم را فرو بردم در آغوشاش و ریشهای نرماش -- که از اینجا که میرفت با خود نبرده بودشان -- باز روی صورتاش بود و کشیده میشد به صورتم و به او گفتم که «حرف بزن» و او هیچ نگفت و تنها مرا میفشرد به سینهاش تا پیراهن آبی کرکیاش، که خودم برایش خریده بودم، خیس شود از اشکهایم. مثل {مریم} که نمیدانست از پس تنهاییاش چگونه برآید، که شب او آمده بود و نشسته بود روی صندلی اتاق و گفته بود «بگو بروند. خودم هستم.» و بود؛ تا آخر آخر ِ کار ماند. و مگر جز این بود که خودش، وقتی هیاهو آنقدر بالا گرفته بود که کابوس را در بیداری تجربه میکردی، زلزله را آورد و خودش، ویرانی ِ خودش شد؟ و من نیز ویران کردم یکسر خودم را... و عید شد.
خون از زخمها که بیرون زد و مثل {فرانچسکوی قدیس} خدا سخن گفت، عید شد، بهار آمد و عشق آمد. درست وسط سرما. آنقدر آرام و بیصدا، که نمیفهمیدی خواب ِ پرکابوس تمامشده و بیداری رؤیایی شروع، یا بیداری فرساینده پایان یافته و خواب شیرین آغاز؟ اما خواب یا بیدار، زنده یا مرده، روی زمین یا هوا، عید شده بود و عشق آمده بود و نامش نیز، همچون افسانههای پریان، «همراه» بود و «همدم»، و بوی دریا میداد و بوی زلال آب، و بیحساب نبود که اولینبار، عشق جایی بیرون از این توده زوال اتفاق افتاد و برف، که میدانست دلم چهقدر برایش تنگ شده است، جشن گرفت و آمد و آمد و آنقدر آمد تا «خرپخرپ» ِ فشردهشدناش را زیر پاهایم حس کنم و به یاد بیاورم که بازمانده زلزلهای خوفناکم و نمیتوانم که نتوانم. نمیتوانم که نسازم. و خواهم ساخت. خواهم ساخت...
***
مادر میگوید زلزله مال گناه است. میگویم پس چرا این توبره خاکستری ِ گناه سهم نمیبرد از این خانهتکانی ِ زمین؟ میگوید: «مؤمنانی هستند...» میگویم بگو بروند -- ما نیز شاید رفتیم. مگر «ایمان» چیزی جز آن خوندلهایی است که ما خوردهایم، رنجهایی که بردهایم؟ -- بگو بروند و بگذار زلزله بیاید. بگذار ویران کند، یکسان با خاک. آنوقت عید میشود. بهار میآید، هر موقع سال که باشد -- مگر جز این بود که امسال زمستانی آمد و رفت و هیچ دانه برفی بر سر ِ ما ننشست؟ بگذار زلزله بیاید و عید شود، هر موقع که میخواهد باشد، ظل ِ گرما، چله سرما. گرد و خاک که فرو نشست، اگر مانده بودیم، نمیتوانیم که نتوانیم. تا صبح به هم عشق میبازیم و به بچههایمان که روی خرابهها بزرگشان میکنیم، قصهها میگوییم و میآموزیم که بسازند و عشق ببازند و اگر زلزله آمد نهراسند، که آنها خواهند ماند. مطمئن باش؛ فقط، بگذار ویران شود، ویران....
from the north and people only caught cold. For me, on the other hand, it was dance and quake non-stop. Those many dark hours spent next to a window through which no light shone and that shimmer of light was the last remnant of the fire of hell that was burning. But I sat there for my cells to absorb the word "burn" and I kept saying, "Destroy! Be destroyed!" and earthquake came and the bountiful river of destruction started to flow. And those many hours that I fixed my gaze on the earth and talked to the cold stone, in that enchanted cemetery south of the city. I sat and sat until it broke, it blossomed. At night, my eyes were open when father came in and laid down next to me on the ground and I buried my head in his arms and his soft beard -- that he didn't take with him to the place he went -- it was still on his face and it caressed mine and I asked him to "say something" and he stayed silent and only held me tighter to the blue felt shirt, that I had bought for him, that was getting soaked with my tears. Like {Maryam}, who didn't know how to handle her solitude; when she came in and sat on the chair in the room and said: "Tell them to leave. I'll be here." And she was; until the very last moment. And wasn't it she, who when the brouhaha grew to the point that she was being visited by nightmares during her waking hours, she brought about the quake only to become the first victim of it? And I destroyed myself, too, wholly… and the New Year came. 
