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saghi ghahraman

saghi ghahraman
In Poetry

Morning Is Overwhelming

At 4:30 a.m.,
Morning is overwhelming

Water is heavy over the riverbed-body, there
on the Mill Dam

Outside Margaret’s window
Night lingers, longing to seep in, to enfold

I’ve counted all the turns the wind took,
before blowing away

In a minute I’ll go out in to the outside
To build my house across the road

It is that hour again, when everyone has a door,
to open and shut

Is it morning, when it’s 4:30 a.m.?
Is it not?

Are you awake, if the clock says it’s 4:30 a.m.?

I don’t know
I am not from here

Are you aware of the hour’s sly hand
Ticking on the wall on the Carnegie Hall 
All the while you are building your house,
by the fireplace

I know nothing beyond the windows of the house

I am building tonight

I saw the moon, yesterday, before noon, crazy

Walking up the streets, pretending, hah, to be a lone star

I am not sure now, but here in the Owen Sound, a Moon,
Idling down the road, or even up, when the time is indeed reserved for the Sun,
is unheard of.

The night is loud, selfishly dark

I’m getting out of the house

To build my house on the

backstreets of the Harrison Park.

Should I turn left?
Right?

I am not sure.

Who am I to know!

I am not from here.

If I had the means, I would call Ruth;
She’d know

She said she would go out of her way to

find and match all the answers to the question, leave it in the fridge for me to have some,
if I wished, with my tea

Now if only she’d tell me how she keeps

the head of the goddess inside the hat of mayoral calm,

I’d stop looking

It is loud

Night is in to stay till 7 a.m.

I am not particularly sick

I am not particularly not

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

When it’s light outside, I’ll go to build my house

On the right corner of 9th St., when

it hits one of the Second Avenues.

The Avenue is a good spot, almost perfect, covered by a layer of cobwebs specially made for the intersection where I am always un-delivered, between the two post offices.

But, who am I to know

I am not from here

If Judy doesn’t hold my hand, I’ll be lost and find I’ll never be found

When Judy ran, I ran.

She said, “Nice”

I said, “Yes”,

But I said “Nice” afterwards, honestly

it felt as if nice turned suddenly nice, regardless

Then I stopped and walked into the Bay Shore,

To build my house.

They say, that’s what everyone does,

If only Ann keeling would give me a hand to cut a patch of the asphalt for the bed;

I am used, can’t help it, to life on the roughs

“I wouldn’t,” she’d say,
“Surely you can learn,” she’d say, “to love delicate body of waters,

Chirping of birds,

Murmur of the Summer winds,

The Fish fished with tender baits,

Faint falling of the leaves,

Gentle descend of Snow, and

Glory of the salty sweat when you’ve done a day’s of work all day long all day long,”

Now, couldn’t I just learn?

I don’t know

.
Owen Sound Ontario Winter 2005

saghi ghahraman
In Nonfiction

Influential Iranian Women

saghi ghahraman blog

Influential Iranian Women 

Saghi Ghahraman

 

 

Saghi Ghahraman is a well-known name in the Iranian LGBTQ community. The queer activist lives in Canada. She is a co-founder of the Iranian Queer Organization (IRQO), an advocacy group for LGBTQ rights in Iran that was based in Toronto since 2007. It was active until 2019 when she voluntarily dissolved it to comply with Canada’s NGO laws. In those years, she helped over 1,000 Iranian LGBTQ refugees resettle in a safe country.

Before anything else, Ghahraman believes that she is a poet, or rather a queer poet. “I consider poetry part of my identity,” she says. “I started very early to express myself through writing poetry. Poetry was also a big part of my upbringing, like politics. If I lived in a different time and place, I might have dedicated my life, the old-fashioned way, to activism. But I would be a poet, regardless. I see the world through writing poetry. When I read my own poetry, I am reading it for the first time, and I explore the world of the poem. I am both the writer and the audience. It’s my connection to the outside world.

“My poetry allows aspects of my political life to take space within my writing. Professional and political are both secondary to poetry.”

Ghahraman was born in 1957 in the northeastern Iranian city of Mashhad: “I was born and raised in a clan descended from the Qajar dynasty, concerned with politics and political dilemmas, deeply familiar and exposed to corruption, oppression and abuse of power. Growing up, I was well-educated in classic and modern literature that addressed the politics of their respective periods. A few of my extended family members were either imprisoned or exiled for opposing the Pahlavi regime.

“As a teenager, I was aware but not actively involved. On top of it all, my uncle was employed in Savak (Shah’s secret police), exposing us to insider tales of interrogations, tortures, and such. My father, a high-rank officer in the army, opposed the Shah’s regime and widespread abuse of power. In high school, I composed essays and fiction, and stealthily wrote slogans of protest on blackboards! The fear of the Shah’s agents was overwhelming in high school but during this time my focus was on writing essays, poetry, and fiction. It was in university and after the revolution when I joined a political party and started working steadily towards the cause. I worked with the [Communist] Tudeh Party of Iran, and its Women’s Organization until I fled Iran [in 1984].

“I joined the Tudeh Party of Iran during the [Islamic Republic’s] Cultural Revolution in universities when all the students and educators were sent home for over two years [between 1980–1983] . By then I was convinced that the revolution itself was the next problem one must fight with. But the power imbalance between horrified masses and the leading group that had assumed power was shocking.”

When the Islamic Republic officially outlawed the Tudeh Party, Saghi and her family escaped to Turkey and, in 1987, she immigrated to Canada after she was granted asylum: “When I arrived in Canada in December of 1987, I immediately started working with a branch of the Tudeh Party in exile, reading material in English, writing about my own vague understanding of my gender identity and sexual orientation, exploring life, mothering my kids, and investigating how to safely get a divorce.

“I was still carrying the fears that my husband had instilled in me around divorce. I am extremely grateful for my gender identity during those early years I came to Canada. It was my guiding light. It was my own private mentor. It was because of my gender identity that I could see things, wrong and right, that others in the community saw only two decades later. In the beginning, in Canada, the Iranian community and locals thought of me as an extremely modern woman. Though as it turned out, a few years later, I was not modern. I was Queer. My interpretation of things was different.”

A year after arriving in Canada, Ghahraman left the Tudeh Party and started publishing her works in Persian-language journals published by expatriates. As of now, she has published three poetry books — “Of Lies”, “The Whore is the Savior” and “Saghi Ghahraman, That’s All” — and one collection of short stories, When “You Are Lonely, It Is Painful to Be a Cow.” Her English works have appeared in Amnesty International’s 2000 Collection of Poetry, Diaspora Dialogue’s TOK, and the Calgary-based quarterly The Filling Station.

Through the PEN Writers in Exile program, Ghahraman was a visiting editor at Descant, a quarterly literary magazine that published new and established contemporary writers and visual artists from Canada and around the world, and a writer-in-residence at the Owen Sound Public Library in Ontario. She showed her Collection of Photos in 401 Gallery, Richmond Toronto, and Last Studio Chicago.

About IRQO which she founded, Ghahraman says: “In 2008 when I registered IRQO as an NGO with two silent partners, securing a reliable connection with rights organizations was my priority. But there was another reason for a strong and outspoken IRQO, and that was to bar Western media, tabloids, Gay exclusive media, and loud gay activists such as the late Doug Ireland and Peter Tatchle from grabbing at any news about the gay Middle East to create commotion and bring more harm on the community. Also, the US government used the Iranian LGBT cause as a weapon against Iran’s regime which again brought more harm than protection.

“Another pressing problem was the wave of gay men and Trans Women who fled to Turkey to claim refugee status. The UNHCR wasn’t very familiar with sexual orientation, gender identity, and local cultures. Police were brutal when dealing with LGBT asylum seekers. Town folks were hostile. Rape and murder happened on numerous occasions. An organization to serve as a bridge and representative was extremely needed.

“These were the main concerns for me, personally, and why I committed myself to IRQO from 2007 until 2019. During this period, we did a lot more than we had planned. Our achievements were huge. IRQO and I were trusted by the UNHCR, Amnesty, Human Rights Watch, and gay rights organizations, which helped the work we were doing. During this time, IRQO prepared several Universal Periodic Reviews to address human rights violations.

“During the 15 years IRQO was active, less than a few LGBT activists in Diaspora were willing to come out and work in person. As an organization, we were constantly juggling between having both a public and underground presence. Another common obstacle we faced was that almost all members of the Iranian LGBTIAQ suffered from PTSD, prescribed drug dependency, suicidal tendencies, plus physical injuries caused by sex-adjustment surgeries. That meant colleagues and team members disappeared with symptoms for unknown periods.

“It all changed in recent years and now there [are] many queer activists inside Iran and in Diaspora. The younger generation of queer activists are filling the gap, be it in art and literature, journalism and media, politics, and activism, and constantly raising awareness.”

However, Ghahraman warns: “In recent years, LGBT activity became riskier in Iran, more alienated from the mainstream and its institutions. Isolated attempts to paint the walls and bridges with the LGBTIAQ motto was linked to Israel and US, rather than the genuine bravery of isolated LGBTIAQ activist. If we talk about a more current ‘current’, there is going to be added hostility against the LGBTIAQ and their involvement or assumed involvement in this recent uprising for the murder of Mahsa Amini in the hands of Iranian morality police. Islamists who assumed power in 1979, took their first steps against civil society by stripping women of civil rights and the LGBT of their human rights. Their hostile approach was not an ideologic approach, but a tool, a weapon. They’ll need this weapon now more than ever.”

Co-founding the Gilgamishan publishing house was another contribution of Ghahraman in giving voice to the Iranian LGBT community: “A couple of months before Tehran’s International Book Festival in 2009, when writers in Iran complained about censorship and books banned by the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Mehdi Hamzad, one of the leading voices [among Persian-language bloggers] wrote: ‘As gay writers, we don’t even exist, and can’t even have the privilege to whine over censorship.’ That was the spark. So other leading bloggers in Iran and I discussed it and decided to prepare manuscripts of poetry and fiction by bloggers, and submit them for publication to Afra, one of the pioneers of Iranian publications in exile in Canada.

“We created the blog Iranian LGBT Book Festival on the same day of the Tehran International Book Festival with around 25 titles. A year later, we decided to register a publication exclusively for the work of the LGBT. Hamseresht, the strongest voice of the time among Iranian LGBT bloggers, who came up with the idea of a digital publishing house of our own, suggested Gilgamishan for its name, referring to the first mythical gay figure, most famous among the gay community for his same-sex love affair.

“Gilgamishan is run and moderated by volunteers who edit, do layouts, and design covers. All works are digital and submitted to Library and Archives Canada. This, and the permanent column we published on Radio Zamaneh, a popular and well-known Farsi-language media based in the Netherlands, were big steps, especially because it was through these publications that we were able to transform the face of Iranian LGBT in the eye of the mainstream. Students’ Park which is a very large park in the center of Tehran, has been known as the gathering and socializing center of Iranian LGBTs for many decades, is no longer the only point of reference. Even with their pseudonyms and obscure whereabouts, these writers added to the picture of the gay, lesbian, and trans women and men in mainstream media and within families.”

DECEMBER 19, 2023
IRANWIRE
saghi ghahraman
In Nonfiction

Why Women Write

I begin with my name, because My Name is the first identifying factor in my mind when I am Observing or Reporting my self. I don’t have an understanding of my gender, whether female or male, but I’ve been living in the skin of a woman all my life. Even though most of the time I was unaware of this body, still it means I have more understanding of how a female body functions, feels, whereas, my understanding of a male body is only second-hand knowledge.

Right after my name, the other factor of my identity is how I choose to manipulate and be manipulated by words within my poetry and fiction.

I was raised to become a writer; more precisely, a poet. My parents never mentioned any other calling or career when I was growing up; writing was the obvious choice. Regardless of what my parents thought, the force behind the desire to write, was the fate my grandmothers shared, both victims of rigid rules of an exiled clan of the Qajar Dynasty. I’m doubtful about their gender identity and sexual orientation since both were labelled Hysterical Women and, Unwilling to commit to wifely duties. I had the strangest urge to discover how they felt, as victims of brutality, one dying at 28, battered by her husband, the other dying at 38, chained to the wall of a room in her father’s mansion. Even though I haven’t seen either one of them, I believe I’ve inherited their memories of mental struggles. When I write, I am very much aware that my mind is greater than a single self in the sense that I am more than my single self.

Of Lies, my first collection of poetry was published on 1997, the 2nd, and The Whore Is the Savior, on 1998, the 3rd Saghi Ghahraman, all in all, 2003, my collection of short stories, But When you’re On Your Own, It’s Painful To Be A Cow, also on 2003. It was around year 2000 that I joined PEN Canada, as a writer in exile, and a year later, initiated and moderated the Writers in Exile Club, where many of us Writers in Exile heard our own voice, reading our own poetry and fiction in English.

English language, to me, was a huge refuge; I wrote in English what couldn’t be imagined or blurted out in Farsi. Or, I wrote in English what my mature self experienced in Canada, away from the Farsi sphere of my memories. I wrote the long poems of “My Mother’s Mother”, “The Minister of Labor”, also, “The Child Is 18”, “The Iceland”, “Cross Dressers” in English, all of which losing originality when translated into Farsi.

To write in English, back then in the 2000s, I read many ordinary things like cook books, magazines, and teen novels to build my vocabulary and learn words I wouldn’t come across otherwise. I kept a list of words I learned.

When I left Iran, I was afraid of anything that sounded like Farsi because it sounded threatening, intimidating. Farsi made me feel like I was on the brink of being arrested and tortured. For me, this was not a friendly language, not like a Mother Tongue should feel. These were words that came out of the mouth of the regime and its supporters. I didn’t feel safe with those words. I started thinking in English before I could speak English. Dreams appeared in English because in my dreams, those were foreign, but safe words and sounds.

When I wrote the ‘Minister of Labour’ I wrote it in English, because it was my experience in the English World of Canada – I had no similar experience in Iran. In this piece, the narrator is a refugee, a woman, a lesbian, a victim of the politics of the kind I met in Canada.

I must add that after living in Canada for 35 years, I don’t Speak English, my mind keeps English words far from reach when I need to express myself.

I haven’t published any new work after 2003, I was busy creating and running Iranian Queer Organization with a number of colleagues. The organization was voluntarily dissolved in 2019, when I decided it was time to let go, .

Here, I would like to relate to the topic of the Panel: Why Women Write.

Not all women write; only those who are writers. Which, could mean that the person, even if born with a male body would write. And wouldn’t write, in a female body, if the person was not a writer.

Not All Women Write. Putting every female body in one box, is not only suffocating, but it also is comparable to the oppressive patriarchy that considers any female body identical to the next. Patriarchy believes any female body feels and wishes and aims in the exact same way all other female bodies and minds would, or, patriarchy would like them to be exactly the same.

So, I think by saying Why Women Write, without mentioning that some of these women are living in the skin of a man, or some women aren’t writing as women, we dismiss a big portion of reasons many of us write.

But, why do those women who write, write?

Some of us, living in the skin of a woman, write to state the fact that We Are Not Women. In other words, we are Queering Womanhood via writing our selves.

Writing, then, is an act of protesting the uniform identity forced upon us.

I believe that Freedom and Equality for women would not actualize unless the borders of manhood and womanhood are blurred, starting at the level of gender and sex boundaries, not the other way around, not starting in the workplaces and state-politics.

As a writer, I have an open relationship with my audience, my readership. I’m not committed to pleasing them and they’re not committed to read me, and keep reading me.

.

Text above is what I shared at the online panel, Why Women Write on Feb 6, 2021

 

Saghi Ghahraman 
Toronto, Canada

saghi ghahraman
In Poetry

A Certainly Thoughtful Individual

Over a rollercoaster of thinkings I am thinking.

I think thinking the way I am used to, feels like falling.

I keep bits of my fallingfeeling out of how I am feeling.

It’s called living the total of a lifetime over, again, over, and over.

It happens when you don’t live minutes or hours or days and years, when they first happen, in a decently culturally chronically proven settling order of feelings realized every every every time.

So, you feel now lost now found and again, thinking over a rollercoaster of thinking constantly, making living turn into a constantly thinking of constantly.

Saghi Ghahraman
Toronto Jan 1, 2025

saghi ghahraman
In Fiction in Translation

Auntie

     Women are detail oriented. They tend to grasp meaningful facts by piecing together tiny bits of information. Mostly, women don’t bother with generalities, but details linger in their mind like pearl inside the seashell and they make a necklace out of it if they find a string.

     Men – or men like my aunt’s husband – if they hear of someone’s suicide, babble for hours about inflation and depression. If they hear of some wife getting a divorce, they hand you an account on divorce rates in society. His audience, therefore go on cracking roasted watermelon seeds, or if they’re scheming through the newspaper, they sink their faces deeper in the pages and nod occasionally; the most tactless ones dose off.

     But my aunt wraps up banalities, and quickly gets to the details, each detail glittering like a shining red spark in a dark night. Women abandon their chores and follow her words closely.

     “In mourning receptions,” my aunt says, “women shed one ounce of tears and go right away to their questions. Not why the person died, but how. How he died is more important. My aunt says women don’t feel like leaving the service if they don’t find out what were the words the person said right before dying, or if they don’t hear about a relative of the deceased having a revelation, and how it was linked to the death. If they don’t hit upon pieces of worthy details, death will walk with them shoulder to shoulder on their way home, urging them to chat with him.

My aunt says nothing about the real news, which is of a little girl who set herself on fire. She talks of the flames flying high up. And of the next-door neighbor’s wife, who asked her man when she noticed the flames: “Are they boiling pitch to insulate the roof?”

Cats jumped on the roof, mewling. And then the stench filled the whole world, the stench of scorched human flesh.

The womenfolk slap the back of their hand with fury; their eyes fill with tears which drenches the eyelashes and do not drip.

Auntie points with her hands at the girl’s nylon dress spread in the air when fire caught on, and the pieces of dress landed on the branches of the walnut tree. The girl screams.

Auntie lowers her voice: “Patches of the girl’s skin was stuck to the mosaics in their yard.”

The women say: “Stop it … don’t say more…”

Mesmerized under the spell of fire, the women narrow the circle round auntie. Like a witch, she has hypnotized them.

Neighbors stick one end of the hose into the watertap and hold the other end over the girl.

Auntie says: “Have you seen a broom? The girl had turned into a dripping broom.”

The women slap their kneecaps with sorrow.

Auntie leaves the room, and walks back in. Her grim face full of creases, she brings down palms of her hands to her skull, whacking her head: “oooy, oooy, I’m ruined, oooy, ooy!” This is how the stepmother looked and acted when she saw the girl’s scorched body.

The women say in a collective voice: “May god burn you in the heart, woman!”

Auntie says that in the way to the hospital the stepmother pressed her purse to the girl’s body, and the driver banged his fist on the wheel and said: “Damn you, you don’t even leave her injured body to rest.”

The women wail bitterly.

Auntie’s husband has been in the room for some time: “They had wrapped the child in a blanket; stepmother’s purse couldn’t have touched her wounds.”

The women look at Auntie’s husband, and then look at auntie, meaning: “How do you put up with him?” The thought suspends in the air, everyone felt it. The women want to know what the girl’s father did.  And auntie is not a fool to finish her tale with a simple he cried!

The father hits his head hard to the tree trunk. Auntie says it was the same tree still sputtering with blazes. The father weeps a tearless cry. “I did not know. I did not know. I leave in the morning and come back at night. I didn’t know what was happening to her.”

A woman in black chador swallows her tears, and wails: “How would you not know? She was so sallow!”

Another black figure pours out: “If you’d looked at her hands, you’d know.”

The courtyard is buzzing with the voices now: “You’d know if you looked at the rags she wore.”

“If you looked at her hair, at her eyes.”

Earsplitting bout between husband and wife is nothing more than a pouring rain replaced by a shining sun soon after. It travels from one end to the other in the block, from wall to wall, door to door, and no one pays much attention. But, if you peeped from the keyhole and saw the baby having banana milk shake while the girl washed the dishes, thirsty, and parched lipped, you’d be sure the news would sell in the neighborhood. News of the girl being pulled by the bunch of her golden tresses is like the news of the storm bringing down trees in town. The husband, the wife, and their baby taking their threesome stroll in a sunny day could be received while cooking a meal. But the girl fallen on her aunt’s feet, begging, called for the Telly to hush down.

The women grow quiet to hear the girl’s crying: “Maamaan!  … my legs are burning… Maamaan!”

The wailing following it pierces into the backrooms of every house.

None of the men pays attention to the father whacking the girl. The red stamp on the report card is so big everyone can see. But the women see, even in their sleep, the girl pressing her burning body on the walnut tree in the yard.

The new bride of the neighboring house weeps: “Why didn’t you draw the match while still in the room, to burn the rugs down with you? Why didn’t you burn your stepmother with you? Why didn’t you burn her house down?”

Auntie’s voice is louder than the neighbor’s daughter-in-law: “Before she pours gasoline on herself, the girl sweeps the house spick and span, washes the baby’s diapers and hangs them on the tree branches.”

Auntie remembers to mention at the end, that the edges of the diapers burned by the flames.

On the fortieth day of the girl’s death, women come back to visit auntie. The stepmother has come back to her home. From the men’s point of view, all is well now. The womenfolk cook; send the kids to school; mend their husband’s socks and think about what would it be like now that the husband and wife start over. They come to auntie. She is the only one who wouldn’t say: “It’s over, the little girl is gone, she put herself on fire.”  She says: “For two whole days, the stepmother’s sisters washed and cleaned the house. You could hear them from behind this wall, sweeping and scraping the yard. They chased the cats off the roof top. Planted a couple of violets in the patch of the garden, only they withered at the end of the day… . The father came home in the afternoon, and stared at the blackened leaves of the walnut tree, which the sisters could do nothing about. The wife talked nonstop. No one could understand what she was saying, but she was heard.

The narrow alley had become quiet; it hadn’t seen a heavier silence ever. Then a wailing was heard.

The neighbors are divided.

Some say: “The father is hurting…”

Some say: “To be a woman, and a stepmother…”

Auntie’s husband says: “They hit the road; won’t be back till late night.”

Auntie is sitting in the yard: “They won’t be back.”

She listens to the voices wind carry from home to home. The walnut tree smacks its brunt branches on the wall, and hisses. The cats mew. Auntie strikes her chest with her fist, swinging with the rhythm of the mantra.

Day after, women come to visit auntie. Auntie’s husband opens the door as wide as his belly and blurts: “They’re moving out any day now… the rental office sent two people over.”

Auntie’s neighbors’ throw a look at Auntie’s husband, and another that carried a different meaning at Auntie, and go home empty handed.

 

 

Fariba Vafi 
Even When We Are Laughing

Translated by Saghi Ghahraman
2006 Toronto   

saghi ghahraman
In Fiction in Translation

We Are Here

Baroj Akrayi

 

_______________

Eight Thirty Five A.M.

I switch on the lights.

The long hallway.. and then, there is a room, its door open, and the light from the hallway reaches to the foot of the bed.

I leave my jacket on the arm of the chair which is by the telephone table.

“Who is this?”

I am about to take off my hat: “Hello..”

A cat peeks from the end of the hall, and runs back. The walls are covered with old photos in old frames.

“Who are you?”

I turn left where her voice is coming from. She is sitting on a large, comfortable chair, her back to the window. The cat is on her lap, his head hidden somewhere in the folds of her dress.

“Good day!”

She looks up, and peers about my chest. She is wearing a red knit hat. Her gray, worn out hair is fallen on her old, blue dress. The creases on her face, tiny and uneven, have crawled down from the eyes towards her neck.

“You.. haven’t been here before, have you?”

She lifts her hand from the cat, and smoothes the folds of her dress. The band of her black bra has slipped over her shoulder blade.

I say: “No. It’s the first time..”

She turns her face from me, quickly. The cat jumps down her lap; stands by my feet, looks at my shoes a bit and runs in to the hall.

I say: “I should fix your breakfast.”

“Breakfast..”   She grabs her walking sick. Stands up with afford. Puts the tip of the cane further a bit, lifts her right foot a little and puts it down beside the cane. Then lifts her left foot, and brings it down beside the right one. Again, she lifts the cane, and puts it down a little further.

I look up: A young couple standing by a truck; wearing work cloths, hands empty; they’re smiling. She’s taken two steps. I take two steps after her. A woman is standing by a piano, her calf flashes out the slit of her long, black gown. She is looking at the camera.

“They fix breakfast!..”

She opens the door to the kitchen:

“The door to the balcony’s must always be open a little..”

I pass by the row of small photos in small frames. Open the door to the balcony. A layer of thin fog has covered the lake. Then everything is crisp and clear up to the other end of the lake where the evergreens are brown, with a thin hallo of fog round them.

I turn back.

She is sitting on a chair, at the table, which is full of dirty cups and packets of pills.

“I don’t want anything. Don’t need help, either.”

She picks up a cup to find a place for it on the table. She can’t, and puts it back again. By the sink stands a small flower pot with weathered flowers.

“Should we throw this away?”

Stretches her arm to the old radio, on the windowsill.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

Her back towards me, she shakes her head: “I don’t eat anything. Don’t want anything.”

Her arm shakes; and her fingers seem to be searching for a voice in the buzzing of the waves. *

The cat comes in from the hallway. Jumps on the chair, then on the table, and stands there. Looks at the cat, and turns to the radio. A man’s voice says something, lost in the wheezing. A young woman says something, and her laughter is heard over the wheezing. The man says something again. The woman laughs again. She pulls her hand back. Picks up the cat, lays him on her lap. The cat turns and hides his head somewhere in the folds of her dress.

“Are they speaking Russian?”

She looks at me, and turns quickly towards the radio – now a woman, as if in the wind, sings with a scratchy voice.

She pushes the cat aside with her right hand. Stairs with narrowed eyes at a dirty cup she’s picked up off the table; her nose creases. She puts it down.

“No! It must be Polish.” I fold my arms on my chest: “Yes.. it’s Polish..!”

She says nothing.

The cat comes a bit forth from under the table and stares at my shoes. The woman still sings in the wind, her scratchy voice comes and goes.

She stretches her hand toward the radio.

Turns it down.

Looks at my beret. “Polish.. it is Polish.” She turns it off.

I say: “That’s what I guessed..”

She takes her glasses, which are hung round her neck with a string, and puts them on. Her gray eyes are larger now.

I say: “I’ve been there.”

She takes her hand to her chest, pulls the slit of her dress up a bit:

“Where?”

“Verso!”

“What year?”

“Ninety.”

Looks me up and down. “Ninety years ago?”

“No, year 1990.”

Looks under the table.

I say: “It’s a beautiful place.”

She turns to the window. The lake. With that thin fog on the surface, and then the row of the brown evergreens, and the hallow of fog.

“Verso was beautiful..” She blinks facing the radio.

The cat is now standing in the doorway of the kitchen. I sit on the chair.

She scratches behind her back: “So, you’ve been in Verso?”

“I’ve been there for twenty days..”

And then, so she doesn’t ask any place’s name, I laugh and say: “Look, I ask you something in Polish, would you tell me what it means?”

She looks at me, weary.

“I’ve asked many people, they don’t tell me or..”

Scratches the back of her hand: “What?”

I say: “kurka wodna”

“Say it again..”

I say: “Kur..ka   wod..na”

She widens her eyes which she had narrowed, less creases on her face. Then, she laughs with her mouth shut. Shakes her head. And looks at my scarf: “ Was it a woman?”

“Who?”

She looks at me. Shakes her head, and laughs.

I say: “What does it mean?”

She laughs again. Then she looks under the table.

“It’s something woman only.. I mean mostly.. I think.. say to men. It has no..”

Shrugs her shoulder: “special meaning!”

“What do you mean?”

Only looks at me.

“How would women say something to men only, that has no meaning, special meaning?”

She grabs her cane. Folds her hands round the curve of the cane and rests her chin on her fist: “Coffee would be good now.. right?” She looks at the cat. The cat puts his mouth on his paws, and shuts his eyes. I hang my scarf on the chair’s arm. Take the coffee pot from the pile of dirty dishes. Pull up my sleeves.

I stand the way my back isn’t turned at her, and drizzle detergent on the sponge. “Wash only that one. I hate the sound of water..”

She laughs. “Word by word, it means soggy hen. No particular meaning. But.. women say it to men.. I think.”

I epen the tap. * “Why only women?”

She hangs her cane on the chair’s arm: “Don’t know. Or maybe it’s not so. I..” She laughs: “I haven’t heard it for ages.”

She shakes her head.

I keep the coffeepot under water. Froth slides quickly down. I fill it half way and put on the gas stow. I turn around and rub my hand dry on my pants. The cat is toying with my scarf hanging on the chair’s arm. I bend and pat him on the back. He sits up. Then falls on his back and lifts his paws up to my wrist.

“How old is this beauty?”

“Kazek?.. When I took him in he was very small; this big.” She shows the palm of her hand. “..and how long have you been in this country?”

“Ten years.”

“Ten?”

“Yes,” I sit down. “ten years.”

She wipes her glasses with the hem of her dress. Her thin, anemic thighs shows. I steal my eyes. Her tits are small for her black bra.

“But I came at the time of the war.” She puts her glasses on again. Eyes the stow – now perking of the boiling water is heard.

I get up.

“There are cups on that cupboard. On the left.”

The cups are arranged neatly, and tastefully, in single row.

“How many spoons?”

“Two. No. Three. Sugar, two spoons.”

That’s what I do. Two spoonfuls of sugar. Three spoonfuls of coffee.

I place her cup in front of her. Then I begin to pick up dirty glasses, to clear the table.

“No! Not now.” She lifts the spoon. “You’ll bring lunch, too?”

“Maybe.. I don’t know.”

“So leave the cups for later.” She spurted her coffee.

“Watch it. It’s hot.”

“But it’s good. I love coffee.”

“Ok, what do you want for lunch?”

“What? Don’t know.. whatever.. no, choose what you please.”

I pick up my scarf. Kazek jumps to grab the edge of it. I bend. He rolls on his back and lifts his paw up to my wrist.

I get up: “So, then.. Do widzaio.” *

She looks at me.

I say: “Do widzanio!”

Stretches her hand to my head. I bend a little. Grabs the lip of my hat with two fingers. Careens, and pulls my hat sideways. Hits me in the chest with her fist and turns towards the evergreens with their brown color paled in the fog.

* see you later (Polish)

Twenty After Nine A.M.

I turn on the light. Her mouth is agape, and her skinny legs with blue veins are left out of the blanket. I lean on the threshold.

“Good morning, Madam!”

I can hear the faucet leaking in the kitchen. Her mouth shuts. Her Adam’s apple goes up, down, and her mouth falls open, again.

I almost yell: “Good morning, Madam!”

She lifts her head. Looks at the window. Her gaze stretches along the walls. Slides over my face. Reaches the wardrobe on the corner, and suddenly returns and fixes on my face. She pulls the hem of the blanket up to her chest: “Who are you?” And smiles with panic.

I say: “Good morning, Madam!”

“Yeah..” pulls herself up a little. Lets go of the corner of the blanket, which she was holding on to: “Yeah,” her face lights up: “you’re the one who calls me Madam?”

“Yes, Madam. I’m the one who says Madam.”

She lifts her hand to check: “It’s chilly.. but it’s ok. No, it’s not ok. My feet’s not under the blanket.” She looks at me: “It’s ok, isn’t it? But, you say it’s very cold, right? You’re going to make coffee, right?”

I take off my winter jacket: “Yes. With bread, cheese and butter.”

“Cheese, and butter. But it’s cold. It’s raining, isn’t it?” looks at the window.

Branches of trees are covered with frost, behind the window.

“No, madam, it’s snow. It’s going to snow.” I put my jacket carefully on the arm of the chair.

She turns her head: “Don’t like snow. Now that it’s cold I don’t like snow a bit.”

Hides her face in her hands and begins crying.

“What about coffee? Don’t you like coffee?”

Pulls her hand away from over her mouth: “Coffee, yes, I like coffee, but it’s very cold again.” She is about to cry again when my cell phone rings.

“Hello..”

“Me. Where are you?”

“At madam’s place.”

“Gonna be long?”

“She’s not out of bed yet.”

“Her pill..”

“I know.”

“You know where it is?”

“Yes.”

Inhales.

“Where are you?”

“I’ll go on with my coffee, then.”

“Anything wrong?”

“No.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Bye.”

She says: “Yes? Was it for me?”

“It was Larissa, told me to make you coffee.”

“Rings too much.”

“Who?”

“This..”   Points at the phone on the table.

“Rings all night. When I wake up, doesn’t ring. Why, you think?”

“Maybe someone’s calling you.”

“Who’d call? Besides, when I pick it up, no one talks.”

Water keeps peltterin in the sink.

I pick up the phone. The cable is cut and hanging down the chair’s arm.

“Your daughter, maybe it’s your daughter calling.” I put the phone back on the table.

“Did I have a daughter?” Looks at the window: “Is it going to be lots of snow?”

“Aren’t you going to get up?”

She grabs the blanket: “Yes! But it’s cold, isn’t it?” Pulls the blanket up: “Can I stay in a bit longer?”

I see the veins of her hands: “Ok.. I go make coffee. Then I’ll call you.”

She curls under the blanket: “Thank you for coming here later. Thank you for coming here today. Lock the front door.”

“I’m not going. I’m going to make coffee.”

She closes her eyes: “With butter and cheese?”

“Yes, with butter and cheese.”

I turn off the light.

I go to the kitchen. Open the window an inch. The lake is frozen and the wind has picked up a dust of snow, whirling along the way. I turn the tap open. Fill the coffee pot half way and put it on the stow. I turn the water off. Open the fridge door.

The faucet leaks.

“I was talking to you! Hear me?”

I go down the hall. At her door, I turn the light on: “Yes, madam? Did you say something?”

“The phone.. did you hear it?”

“No. No one called.”

“So, why is the light on?”

The faucet leaks.

I turn the light off. Go back to the kitchen. Turn the tap tightly shut. The fridge door is left open. I spread butter on the slice of bread, a slice of cheese on each bread. The buzzing of the pot gets louder and lauder. Then less, and less, then it is boiling. I turn the burner off. Pour boiling water in a yellowed white cup. Two spoonfuls of instant coffee. Three spoonfuls of sugar. Stir it. It foams. I pull the spoon out. An disk whirls and whirls and shrinks, and shrinks some more. Then it’s a bobble going round slowly. I close the window. Go back, and open the bedroom door.

Her mouth is open and the blue veins of her legs are left out of the blanket.

“Madam, breakfast is ready!”

The faucet leaks.

Louder: “Coffee’s ready!”

Her head titters a little. Her mouth shuts. Her Adam’s apple goes up, down, and her mouth falls open again.

I am almost shouting: “Coffee is ready!”

Lifts her head: “Who are you?” And keeps looking at me.

“Coffee’s ready.”

“Yeah.. you’re the one who calls me Madam?”

“Yes, Madam. I’m the one who calls you Madam. Coffee is ready!”

“Coffee is good. And you’re good too when you make good coffee and call me Madam..” She tears her grey eyes wide open: “Didn’t it ring?”

“No, get up, your coffee’ll be cold.”

“Cold coffee is not good. Cold coffee is not good at all!”

“Yes, it’s not good. So get up and drink it before it chills.”

She touches her cheeks with her hand: “It’s cold, and you say the phone hasn’t ring either.”

“No it didn’t. This phone doesn’t ring.” I start to lift the phone for her to see the cut cable, but I change my mind, and turn around: “Do you want me to bring your breakfast here? So you can have your breakfast here, in your bed?”

She lifts her hand off her face: “Coffee is not good if it’scold. How many times should I say this?”

“Yes, it’s not good, but it’s not clod yet. Get up!”

She weeps: “But when I sleep it rings.. I know.”

“You must get up now.. I gotta change your diaper, too.”

“I know I gotta get up..” She grabs at the bar above her head: “but because you’re here it doesn’t ring.” She tries: “No, today I can’t..” and lets go of the bar: “Who do you think is the caller, hah?” She opens her eyes wide.

I stand by her side: “I don’t know.”

Grabs hard at my hand: “And then, sometimes doesn’t call, comes here,” She points with her chin to the hall: “walks over there. Walks to the kitchen over and over I don’t know why?..” She looks the way I feel the fear, too: “You know what I mean?”

The faucet leaks.

“Give me your hand!” I hold her hand: “Now we count: one, two..”

She says: “three!.. but it’s not happening.”

I grab her under her arms, and lift her up in one move.

She sits up: “E.. it did.”

I exhale: “Ok?”

She looks at me: “That’s so good. Coffee is so good.” Hugs her arms: “You’re good too, to come make good coffee.”

I bend. I push her flaked feet in her slippers. Pull the wheelchair closer. Put her hands on the arm of the chair. She looks at her slippers: “No. It’s very cold.”

“Do you want me to bring your breakfast here?”

She lowers her face on her palm.”

“Yes?.. Do you want to have breakfast here?”

“But what should I eat?”

Coffee. With bread, and butter, and cheese!”

“With bread and butter, and cheese? But it’s too chilly. You said it’s raining? Yes?”

Outside the window, branches of trees are covered with frost.

“No, madam, snow. It’s snowing.”

Ten Past Ten A.M.

“Anybody home?” I switch the light.

“Turn it off!”

I turn it off and in the dead light of the windows I go in to the bedroom.

“Good morning!”

In the dark, she say: “Get out.. all of you!”

I wait till my eyes get used to it: “It’s only I.. no one else!”

When she moves, her outlines shape in the dark: “I mean all of you who come here.” She’s trying to pull her pillow up. She can’t.

I hunch over.

“Get out!”

I pull my hand back: “So.. I get you water to take with your pill.”

“I don’t take pills.” She pauses: “I said it a hundred times.”

As I go out I turn the light on. The room yellows behind my back.

“Turn it off!”

I go to the kitchen. Open the faucet. Her voice disappears in the buzz of water. I keep the cup under the tap, when it fills, I turn it off. Silence. I return to the bedroom. Place the glass on the night table. She pulls the blanket up over her withered tits: “I said, turn it off!”

“How beautiful is this woman!”

A beautiful woman sitting of the fence of a garden, smiling.

“Don’t talk about that picture at all! And turn the light off, it’s blinding me.”

“You have such pretty hair.. did you know that?”

“And you’ve said that a hundred times. And I’ve said that to all of you, it’s my daughter’s photo, and she’s gone, somewhere.”

“But she’s pretty, with that shawl over her shoulders, look!”

She doesn’t look: “So what.”

She lifts her hand from her forehead, and rubs a finger over her bruised cheek.

“When did you get that bruise?”

“Bruise?”

“Here.. on your cheek.. it’s bruised.”

She looks at my finger: “Does it hurt?”

I look at her.

“So where is my pill? Don’t I take a pill?”

“Yes, you should take your pill..” I pick up the packet of pills.

“You charge lots and do nothing. Can’t you turn the light off?”

“No, I got to see what I’m doing.”

“So give me the pill, now that you can see!”

I drop the pills in her palm.

“Five?”

“Yes, five.”

She turns and looks at the photo: “She didn’t send a letter. Never.”   And drops the pills in her toothless mouth.

I say: “Must be very busy.”

Picks up the glass: “Must be. How much do you charge to do nothing, and write no letters to anyone?”

She takes five mouthfuls of water. I extend my hand. Gives me the glass and pulls the blanket up again.

“What do you want to eat?”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday..”

“What day is Wednesday?”

“and it’s 10:30 in the morning.”

“What day is 10:30?”

“Wednesday!.. now, what do you like to eat?”

“Don’t mix up things on the table.” She raises her voice: “I’ve told you a hundred times. All you know is to charge money.”  Panting, she sinks her fingers in her grey hair: “How much do you charge?”

“How much did you charge when you worked?”

“I never worked. Besides, my son..”  She puts her finger over the bruise on her cheek: “Did you say it’s wounded?”

“Yes. It’s wounded.”

“Did I have a son?”

“No. You had a daughter.”

“So who was the one who was injured?..” She takes her hand away: “No. It was my mother who had a daughter. And my husband had a factory..”

She ponders for a bit: “But.. I had a husband.. didn’t I?”

I don’t say anything.

“Didn’t I?”

“ Yes.. you did!”

“He must be out drinking beer, again.”

“No. He’s at work.”

“Did you see him?.. When you were coming here?”

“Yes. He was heading to work.. what do you want for breakfast?”

“Turn off this light.. I told you a hundred times but you don’t listen!”

“It’ll be dark, hard to see a thing.” I look at my watch.

She looks at the worn, filthy floor.

I say: “What time your husband comes home?”

“I never know time.” She looks at me: “Did you see him today? I mean when you were coming here?”

“Yes, he told me to come over and fix your breakfast. He’ll be home later.”

She looks at me.

“Do you want milk in your coffee?”

“Did I want coffee?”

“Yes, you did.”

“So, then I don’t want milk.” And looks at me with dismay.

I pull her walker closer: “I better change your diaper.”

She looks at me.

I pull the plastic gloves over my hands. Walk down the hall. Fill the washing tub with warm water, and go back to the bedroom. She is still looking at me. I put the tub down by her feet. I place her hands on the Walker, and grab her under her arms. She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her a chance: “We don’t talk now. You must get up.” I hold her hands tight over the walker: “One.. two.. three!” She gets up. I pull her soiled underwear down to her shaking knees. Pull out the shit-full diaper, and eye around the room for the waste basket.

“Did I shit too much?”

“Yes, not bad.”

“Can I see?”

I show her.

“Yes, not bad.”

I crimple the diaper and throw it in the basket. I tug on the curtains and pull’em back, open the window, wind blows in.

“It’ll be cold in here.”

“I’ll shut it in a bit.”

I soak the cloth in warm water. Pull a handful of tissue paper, and clean between her legs. I rub the wet cloth over her wrinkly legs.

“I’m getting tired.”

Between her legs I put a fresh diaper: “Alrighty..” I pull up her undies: “done!”

“I must sit.”

I hold her under the arms. Her muscles titter beneath my hands: “Sit!”

She lets go of the walker: “It’s cold.”

Sits down: “What day is it?”

“Wednesday. I must check on someone else, too.” I shut the window.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“Yes.”

“When people are in a hurry, can’t they write?”

“Write what?”

“Letters. Can’t they write letters.”

“No, when they’re busy, and in a hurry, they can’t write.”

“But I didn’t work. Did I?”

“No. You said you didn’t.”

“But I had a husband, right?”

“Yes, and your husband had a factory. Now, what do you want for breakfast?”

“What about photos? Can’t they send photos?”

I pull out my gloves: “Look at this! Didn’t she send this?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Ok.”

She pulls the blanket up to her chest: “..but I wanted to.”

“Now I should get your breakfast.”

“I don’t want it!”

“What about coffee?!”

Draws her feet under the blanket: “Turn it off!”

I tie up the edges of the plastic bag.

“Turn off!”

I pick up the tub.

“I said turn the light off!”

Eleven Thirty A.M.

“Good day Capitan!”

He scratches behind his ear: “You.. or me?”

I extend my hand: “You, Capitan!”

He wipes his hand with his worn robe-de-chambre. Smiles and shakes my hand: “Yeah.. I must not forget.”

I give his hand a light squeeze: “No, Capitan, you mustn’t forget.”

He looks at himself: “Ok?”

I say: “May I?”

“To do what?”

“To come in.”

He pulls his hand out of mine: “Yes, I must not forget.”

Turns towards the mirror in which a corner of the kitchen window shows.

I switch the light on: “Don’t you want to take a shower, Capitan?”

He frowns in the mirror. “Maybe..”

“Maybe what, Capitan?”

He sticks his nose closer to the mirror: “maybe today is Tuesday.”

I take off my jacket.

Points at the bathroom: “Here?”

I hang my hat on the doorknob. “That’s right Capitan, there.”

“But, are we.. I mean, am I.. going somewhere?”

“Capitan, they’ve got great menu today..”

“Good food is very good.” He thinks for a bit: “I like good food very much.” Checks his teeth in the mirror: “Maybe I brush my teeth, too..”

Turns around and stares about my chest: “But..”

“But what Capitan?”

He pulls open the drawer under the mirror. Looks for something. Can’t find it.

“Did you lose something?”

He pushes the drawer back in. Pulls it out again. Looks inside. Can’t find it. He pushes it in. “If, maybe.. Maria is going to be there, too?” He looks at me.

I open the bathroom door. “Maybe.. but, where, Capitan?”

He pulls the drawer out: “There, where they’ve got.. maybe.. good food.”

“Yes, maybe she’ll be there, too.”

He pushes the drawer back in and starts towards the kitchen. Stops midway, and goes towards the bathroom: “But.. should we pick up some flowers, too?”

“Yes, we’ll get some flowers, too.”

He stops right in the doorway, thinks for a bit, and starts again. Holds on to the sink in the bathroom with one hand, and takes off his robe with the other one. Bends, and holds on to the tub with one hand. Takes off his short, and extends it towards me. I hang the short, and the robe on the hanger. He raises his left foot and put it in the tub: “Shave my beards too.. yeah?” Raises his right foot. I hold on to his fat upper arm. He sits down on the stool. Looks at me: “Maybe? Yeah..?”

“Sure, Capitan. Sure!”

I hold up the hose.

“But see that it’s not cold..”

I adjust the cold and hot flow: “Is it ok?”

Holds the back of his hand under: “A little warm a little cold is always good.”

Takes the shower-hose from me. I put on my plastic gown. He looks at me with his dripping face. I point at the shampoo. Bends his head. I take the hose from him, drizzle a little shampoo on his thin hair.

“Claw on it!”

He claws on his head.

“Claw on it!.”

Smears the foam on his face: “I did. Now pour water..”  Lifts his face up. Looks at me with shut eyes. I raise the shower-hose to his face. He turns his head around: “It’s enough.. maybe.” I pour water on his body. He wants to get up.

“Wait..” I shut the water: “Don’t you wanna wash your body?”

He rubs his eyes with his palm: “Maybe it’s enough.. I say..”

I give him his towel: “Dry yourself!”

He rubs it on his face and his hair: “Capitan!” And laughs gingerly.

I grab on his wet arm. He pulls himself up. Puts his right leg out of the tub: “But..” Puts his left leg out: “Do we.. I.. have money?”

“Money for what?”

Sits on the toilet bowl: “If we maybe invite a lady to have coffee with us?”

“A lady?”

He looks at me: “Maria.. well, always had money.” He pauses: “right?”

“Right.” I squeeze the shaving-foam tube in his hand.

He rubs it on his face: “Maybe today they have pastries, too.. right?”

The lips of the razor blade is covered with dried foam. I hold it under water: “But, Capitan, sweets are not good for you.” I beat the razor to the side of the sink-bowl a couple of times.

“You, a doctor?..”

“No, I’m not.” I bend over his face.

“So maybe the other one was a doctor.”

“Up your head!”

He does: “The one who was tall.”

“We don’t talk now Capitan. I am shaving you.”

“If she is not here.. then maybe she’s gone to the hospital, right?”

I turn his face. “Yeah..”

“But.. maybe she shouldn’t have gone to the hospital.”

I slide the razor on his chubby cheeks.

“Right?”
“Capitan, no talking!”

“I’d never go.”

I hold his chin lightly.

“I don’t like. I mean I didn’t. Did you know that?”

“Capitan! Didn’t I say no talking? I am shaving your face.”

He gets up and rubs his face with the towel. A tread of foam remains by the side of his nose. “What did you say?”

“I said, they have good food today.”

“But hospital food.. Maria too didn’t like.”

“Today they have the New Year special. You should shave..”

“We’ll get a bouquet, too, right?”

“Yes. We must shave! And we’ll get a bouquet, too.”

“But it was nice of them to bring flowers, right?”

“Yes, Capitan. It was. I must shave you. We have no time.”

“It’d slipped my mind. Maybe because I was in a hurry, right?”

“We won’t forget Capitan! I promise!”

“So then maybe we must hurry up.”

 He picks up his toothbrush and looks at it, then drops it the sink.

“Don’t you want to brush your teeth?” I pick up the toothbrush.

“I say if we must hurry up..” He takes the robe.

“You should wear a suite!”

He walks in to the hallway.

I say: “Capitan!”  and drop the toothbrush in to the sink.

He turns right and the light turns off in the hall.

I walk up the hall: “Capitan!”

Everywhere is dark. Only a corner of the kitchen shows in the mirror.

Eleven Forty A.M.

“Let me be!”

 I push aside the empty plate.

“You know why I’m asking. Like, when you opened the door..?”

She pulls the ashtray closer to her arm: “You can say, for example, I saw her cat, or..”

She pushes aside her plate, untouched: “her slipper was left by the door..”  She turns and faces the window.

It snows in the train station.

“I saw nothing!” Looks at the empty ashtray: “maybe I didn’t want to see.”

“When you opened the door?”

An old woman passes us by with her walker. She looks at her, and then turns to look at the clock on the wall behind her.

Ten minutes left from lunch brake.

Trails her finger along on the table: “You know.. in a house with a dead woman in it, with all the doors and windows shut.. there is a weird hush.. isn’t there”

I say: “She was on the floor?”

She picks up her cigarette: “She was in her bed. I called her a couple of times. Then.. I noticed the silence. I thought she was moving, when looked again..” She looks at me.

“Yes..?”

She pulls her thin shoulders up a little. Bends her head. Her hair spreads on the table. Two old men pass by, bent on their walkers.

She lifts her head: “When I touched her hand it was ice cold!”

She fishes the lighter from her jacket pocket. Peers at it: “I called here. They told to come in and call the hospital from the center.” She lights her cigarette and exhale towards the window: “Should I say more?” And looks at me.

I say: “Even talking to someone..”

With her finger she picks speck, which is not there, form the corner of her eyes: “I don’t know. But..” she touches the corner of her eye again: “look..” laughs: “if you want to write it..”  picks a teardrop with the tip of finger: “Should I tell you more?”

“..”

“I called the hospital from here. The said I must be at her home in ten minutes.”

“You went there alone, again?”

“They had stretchers. Three people. When I opened the door, her neighbor from across the street.. you know her, don’t you?”

“..”

“She stuck her head out of the door.”

“Did you tell her?”

“She brought a candle. Her hand couldn’t hold the matches, it kept falling. A few times. Then she cried.”

“They didn’t like each other, did you know?”

“Then she threw the matchbox on the table.”

“Did you lit it?”
“Me?”  She buttes her half-way-burnt cigarette: “You know, when my grandmother was in the hospital, I was young, very young, six, or seven. One day when we went to visit..” she pulls another cigarette: “there was a lake down there. We were sitting in the balcony in the hospital. I saw her looking only at her coffee cup, and I felt her dying. Believe me? It scared me so much I couldn’t look at her again.”

She looks at me: “Do you believe me?”

I nod.

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Do you understand? Do you even understand me speaking Swedish?”

I keep looking at her.

“The next day when mother shut the T.V. and hastily put on my cloths, I asked nothing” She picks up her lighter. “Believe me?” She smiles and only the corners of her lips are stretched to the sides.

“Don’t write these, you see, you can’t explain things like this even by talking.”

I look at the clock on the wall behind her. It’s a bit past twelve.

I say: “Larissa.. if I write these same words, should I give your real name?”

She picks an imaginary speck from the corner of her eye: “Don’t write..”

She lights her cigarette again: “Don’t..!”

Twenty past Twelve

She pulls out her false teeth; looks older, and laughs louder: “The one who used to laugh like this.”

Then she puts the teeth back in, looks like herself.

I say: “Don’t remember, I mean, I don’t know.”

She bends her face to cry in her cupped hands.

I say: “Hello!”

She takes her hands ways from her face: “But you don’t understand.. I laughed just the way she used to.”

“Waite, maybe I remember in a little while.” I place the plate on the table. “Fish.. still warm.”

Pushes the plate aside: “As if now you understand..”

“It was Anita, wasn’t it?”

“The one who laughed like that!”

I take a seat. “The fat one?”

“Yes, the fat one with huge.. legs.”

“The one who came to the restaurant with her walker?”

She pauses: “So it was that one, not the other one.”

She picks up an empty glass and shakes it in my direction. I take it from her hand, and go to the kitchen. The window pane is clouded. I trail a finger on the cold steam. At the bus stop, woman, with a pram, is shifting on her feet.

“She used to have lots of chocolate.”

I come back in to the room with a glass of water: “Yes, too much chocolate is not good.”

“Now they’re sitting at that damn table, plying cards.”

I put the glass down on the table. She picks it up: “Who could you trust?”

“Didn’t they call you?”

Takes a mouthful: “I haven’t been there for three days, have I?”

“No. But, where?”

“To the restaurant. Haven’t I been sick?..”

“Yes.”

“So?”

I point at the glass: “You don’t want to finish it?”

“I will. What’s the rush?”

“You want your lunch now?”

“I paid more then the others.”

I walk to the kitchen.

“Do you understand? I paid more!”

I come back. “No. Paid for what, I mean.. chocolate?”

 “Chocolate?”

I put down the plate and a fork on the table: “Money.. you said you paid more then the others.”

Looks at her shoes: “I paid more then the others. Twenty crones more then all of them.  Now, they’re all sitting at that shitty table, playing cards. And no one ever knows who wins.. and who loses. And then, they didn’t call me. How would I know? Now, you don’t have to lie here, you must’ve seen it. Don’t pretend you haven’t!  And if you do, I wont believe you for a minute. Because I’ve given more money then all the others. There, in that long room by the lunchroom. You’ve seen it. Of course you have!”

“Maybe.. but I never look.”

Picks up the knife. “Cards were hers. They weren’t new, but anyway, her cards. Only here, in the corner, there is a rip..”

I put some fish and chips in her plate. She sinks the fork in a piece of fish: “Do I have to eat?”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

He puts the fork down: “And you must be in a hurry..!”

“Look..” I search for words: “I’m not in a hurry. I got to deliver lunch for a couple of others. Look..”  and I point to the bag by the kitchen door.

“So why didn’t they wait for me? Was it my fault I got sick? They get together in that eatery that doesn’t even serve decent food, and pretend they don’t know.  Well, people don’t get sick intentionally.. and no one likes to die either. They could’ve called me. They could phone. And she.. what was her name again?”

“Who?”

“The one who..” And opens her arms wide.

“Anita?”

Yeah.. who cares what’s her name! She wouldn’t like it. I mean she wouldn’t like it if she knew they left me out. Especially if she knew that I’m sick, you understand?”

“Yeah.. but you should eat. And I got to go.”

She puts the fork into a piece of potato: “How would I know if they’ve actually bought flowers?” Drops the fork. It hits the lip of the plate and falls under the table: “Of course they haven’t bought flowers. And even if they have, they haven’t taken it there.”

She ducks her head under the table: “Who would take it? ha?..” looks at me: “it was only I who could still walk.” and pulls her feet away.

I find the fork under the table: “Yes, but you must eat now..”

“Eat?”  Pushes her plate away: “No, what we have to do is to collect money again for the next one. I mean everyone should get together and pitch in. But I don’t trust them anymore. And if I do, this time I will not give more then the others.”

“That’s wise. But you should eat!”

“How do I eat with no fork?”

“I’ll get you one.”

“Would you trust them? And don’t think you’re obliged to lie.”

I go to the kitchen.

There is no one in the bus stop.

Five Past Thirteen P.M.

“I’m coming.”

I fidget about in the foyer. I know he is switching his walking stick from one to the other hand, and while steadying his weight on his other foot, mumbles.

“Who are you?”

“Seniors Care Center.”

“What?”

“I have your lunch.”

Now he is steady for sure and is trying to open the door. His cane clacks on the door: “Where?”

I say it again.

It opens.

I say: “Hello.”

His jaw wiggles.

I wait for him to size me up. He passes his cane to the other hand, and stands aside.

“I should change your diaper, too.”

He backs to the wall: “Toilette?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”  And leaning on the cane turns and walks to the washroom.
On the wall, a picture frame wiggles. I hold it with a hand. A man, in army uniform, frowns. I pull away. It stay awry. The smell of decay, and piss, and shit and something else I don’t know sours my breath.

The old woman peeks at the toilet from the kitchen table. I walk to the end of the hall. She looks at me.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

 I place the food on the table. “Are you alright?”

She creases her nose: “I am..” points her chin at the bathroom: “but..” she skews one eyebrow: “he is not!”

I nod.

She lowers her voice: “So, what’s going on?”

“It’ll be fixed.”

“What?”

I put my jacket on the chair’s arm: “I’ll be back.”

I go to the bedroom. Get one diaper from under the bed. Put on my gloves. And go back to the hall.

“I’m in here!”  He’s leaning on his hands on the sink bowl.

“Ready?”
His chest wheezes

I leave the diaper on the toilet seat. Pull down his dirty, wrinkly sweat pants, and his shorts. Pull the diaper without looking out from between his legs. I try not to breath. Grab a handful of toilette paper and clean him. A few times, and each time, before I dump them in the bin, I look at them till they’re paler and paler. I push the fresh diaper through his legs and tell him: “Hold this!”  He does. I pull up the hem of the diaper, pull up his shorts. And his sweat pants. I stretch back, breathless. Then I open the tap. In the mirror, he is looking at the ceiling.

“Comfy?”

“Guess so.”

I throw the gloves in the bin. Plunge my sweaty hands under water.

“I brought lunch.”

He looks at me.

I shut the tap. Go to the kitchen.

The old woman crushes her cigarette in the ashtray: “What was it again?”

I pick up my jacket: “I said, it’ll be fixed.”

“What will be fixed?” Her eyebrows jerk up.

“He’ll go.”

She lowers her voice: “Really?” And whispers: “Where?”

I bend, and in her ears I whisper: “You know where.”

She careens to the hall: “When?” and looks at me again.

I hold in her face two of my right hand fingers.

“What are you saying?” Pushes the food-containers away.

The click clack of the cane comes from the hallway. I pick up the pen and write on the corner of the puzzle on the newspaper: “In two days he’ll be transferred to the hospital.”

She takes the newspaper to her chin: “Where are my glasses?”

It’s on the table. I give it to her. She puts it on. Her lips — moves.

She lifts her head: “For good?”

The click clack nearer the kitchen. I cross over my words. Her face lights up, and suddenly her nose creases. With an eyebrow, she points at the door behind. I pull aside.

“Anything else?”

The old man hangs the walking stick on the back of the chair. Then he turns and holds on the edge of the table. “No!.. but..” he bends more and more and sits down on the chair: “I’ve lost my walking stick.”

“Your walking stick?”

“I lost it here in this house.”

I point at the cane on the chair’s arm: “Here it is.”

“This..” he swallows: “is not mine. I mean..” coughs: “my hand was used to the other one.”

I shake my head.

He shows me his palm: “The other one was mine..”

I put on my jacket.

“You know what I mean?” and looks at the woman.

The old woman has opened the container and is looking for a fork.

Thirteen fifty five p.m.

Lies back and stairs at the ceiling.

“one.. two..” I squeeze one drop in her left eye: “three!”

I smooth the edge of the table cloth, and leave the eye dropper carefully beside the tiny blossoms embroidered so perfectly on the fabric.

She tries to get up. I hold her hand. She sits at the edge of the bed. Looks this way, and that: “Where is Fredrick?”

“Fredrick?”

She laughs: “Yes. He was right here. See if he is under the bed.”

“Under the bed?”

I bend over and pull the bed-skirt up. It’s dark: “Not here, I mean I can’t see.”

“Look again!” points at the table lamp: “Use this!” she points at the side of the bed touching the wall: “Maybe he’s fallen from that side.”

I turn on the lamp. Put it on the floor. Draw the sheets back. My hand moves under the bed and comes back with the cane: “This?” I show her the cane.

“Yes, that’s Fredrick. Give it to me!” She takes it.

I put the lamp back on the table.

“Better leave it on!”

“Do you want me to warm up your food?”

“I’ve eaten. Half hour ago.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“I’ve had my coffee.. half hour ago.” She looks at me: “Have you seen today’s paper?”

“Today? No.”

“It’s there.  No! Go get it and then sit down.” She plants the tip of the cane on the ground: “Would you?” She fists her white, blue-veined hand on the curve of the cane.

I go to the kitchen.  Small flower pots are lined up on the window sill. Red, three leaf flowers. I pick up the newspaper form the table top. Behind the flowers is the forest; branches of trees are bent under the snow.

I go back: “This one?”

She takes it: “Was it on the table?” She puts the cane down on the bed.

“Yes.”

Leafs it through.

The room is warm and bright. On the night-table there is a picture of woman with beautiful lips, smiling.

“Is that you?”

She doesn’t look up. “No, it’s my daughter..”  Extends the paper: “You find it.” But she changes her mind and pulls back. Again pages through the paper: “Aha.. right here!”  She opens the page all the way, and holds for me to look: “Have you read this?”

“No.”

“Read it!”

I take the paper from her. Big headline: “Love has nothing to do with age.” And beside the article there is a photo of a man with a tie and glasses.

“It’s an article?”

“Yes.”

I pretend to read.

“No rush. You can read it later.”  She puts the cane on her lap: “For your own sake. I’ve read it. You read it too, later.”

I fold it: “Ok! Do you need it anything?”

“No!.. I’ve had my coffee.” She points at the wardrobe with her cane: “Could you open that?”

I open it.

“Down at the bottom. Under the newspaper..”

I lift the paper.

“There is an envelope.. down at the bottom.”

“Ok?..” I see the envelope.

“Give it to me..”  She hangs the cane on the bed rail. Takes the envelope: “My money..” Opens the envelope and shows it to me.

“Ok?”
She puts the money back in. Closes the envelope: “Now, put it back.” And extends her hands.

I take it.

“And close the wardrobe door.”

I do that.

“Now only me and you know.”

I laugh: “We know what?”

“Where my money is..”

“Why should I know?”

She laughs: “Fredrick knows too..”

“So what?”

“So we have someone we trust.” And runs an eye on the bed: “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“Fredrick!”

I say: “Right there. You hung it there yourself!”

She says: “Leave it there.” And smiles.

Fourteen Fifteen P.M.

I ring the bell.

“Don’t ring!”

I open the door.

“I have to tell you everyday not to ring the bell..”

I say: “Hello!”

She frowns.

“How are you fairing?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

Facing the window, she blinks: “What time is it?”
I check my watch.

“You don’t have say a word!  I eat at 1:00 o’clock, not at this hour!”  picks up the remote control: “I’m watching T.V.” and presses a button.

“Here’s the paper!” I pull the newspaper out of the bag.

She doesn’t look.

“I leave your food in the kitchen!” and as I walk out of  the room I put the paper on the table.

“Where’re you going?”

I turn around.

She’s put her hands on the arms of her chair, her fingers wrinkled and tensed.

“Shouldn’t I leave the food on the table?”

She frowns: “And you also should leave the garbage out. Two bags. Everyday I got to tell you, there are two bags. And then, I’ve been waiting for three hours.. and then, you must make the bed too. And then, if I don’t tell you, you won’t do it. and then, you wanna tell me what time is it? What time is it?”

“Would you turn the T.V. down?”

“No!.. And then, all of you, bring the food in whenever you feel like it, to put it then on the kitchen table whenever you want to.” her voice rising with every phrase: “then, one gets impatient of course, and you, all of you, instead of doing your job and be on time, hover over my head and command: “Turn it off! Turn it down! What’s this?! What’s that?! No sir, I can’t!” and shuts the sound completely off.

“Why are you yelling? I hear you fine!”

“No you don’t! I yell if want to. I stop yelling when I want to. You can’t choose when I’m not suppose to yell..”   out of breath: “I ask what time is it, and then..”   coughs: “the (chamber) pot is under the bed. You should make the bed, too. I haven’t had my coffee yet. Arriving at four..”  covers her legs with the blanket and looks at the T.V.

I go to the kitchen. Leave the food on the table. Watch her from the kitchen. Facing the T.V. her chest heaves. A woman in her nightgown turns her finger in the number disk of the phone. Lifts her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. Sits down on the table edge. Her lips move without a sound. At the other end of the cord, a man is holding the receiver clutched between chin and shoulder, and at the same time, pours himself a drink.

She turns and looks at me: “Why are you looking at me?”

I smile.

“Why’re you laughing?”

I go back to he room: “Is it a good show?”

“How would I know?” and turns back: “I only watch!” and yells: “And you, instead of coming to work three hours late, at four thirty, and standing idle looking at me and the T.V., go about your chores. It’s four thirty and you’re still..”

I say: “No! no! no! you’re wrong. They have omelet tomorrow, not today!”

She looks at me: “Really?.. No omelet today? It wasn’t you the other time.. it was the girl.. what’s her name?.. the one..” shakes her finger towards the window: “who delivered the food late. All of you come late! All you know is to arrive at four thirty. All of you deliver food late.”

I pull up my sleeves.

She looks at my wrist: “What’s today’s lunch?”

“Look! It’s twenty past two.”

“The clock is there.” Points at the T.V. with her chin.

 There is an old manual clock on the T.V. top. The tall hand is lost and the face is cracked at the corner. The small hand is on the four, and the minute-hand is on the six.

I pick it up. “This one is not working. It’s broken!”

“You’re not working.” She swallows: “All you know is not working. None of you know how to work. I called a few a people today. I even called my sister.. they all said it’s only this neighborhood.. it’s only you guys who don’t know how to do your job..”

I put the clock back.

She turns the sound up.

“It’s a good music, isn’t it? You wanna dance?” and extend my hand. Puts her hand on her chest: “Me? With you? Never!.. I’ve had three boyfriends, and I married one but..”

“You don’t know how to dance?” Sill I haven’t pulled my hand back.

“Don’t know how? I’ll never with you! Besides.. my legs.. “ and points at her hair. She fixes her hair with her fingers, and points at me to draw my hand back.

I draw my hand and point at the picture on the cupboard: “Did you marry him?”

A man, with a fishing rod, smiles at the camera.

“Him?” she points at the picture: “Yes, I mean I don’t know, this one. Or, it was the other one. You know. Maybe I’ve told you. No, I haven’t told the other one. These things are private. I shouldn’t tell. And you.. I mean you should only do your job around here. Not arriving at four while I’m staring at T.V., starving.  Because, I believe it was him, yeah! He liked only men.” Looks at the T.V: “I found out later..”

A young woman in a blue suit is standing by the map. With a stick she points up and down on the map, and smiles.

“Did she say minus fifteen?”

I haven’t been listening: “Yes, very cold!”

“Is it?” So where is my food? You don’t do your job right.  Did you take the milk out of the fridge?  No!  Did you make the bed?  No!  Did you leave the food on the table?..  How many times do I tell you..?! You should put it on the table.  With a glass. It’s four thirty again, and you’re still talking.”

“Alright. It’s not the one you married.”

She looks at the photo: “Marriage..? I guess it was him. Because he wore the ring for one day only. He’d go only with men. But he was nice, too, because he died soon. Maybe it was him. Isn’t that Philip? I don’t know. Anyway, his ring is right there,” Extends her cane to the cupboard: “in the bottom drawer..”  pulls the blanket up on her legs again: “and he didn’t work. None of you work. The African guy doesn’t work at all. Did you empty the pot? Don’t you come here to work?.. And you don’t work. Why you keep looking at me?”

“I’ll empty it right away.”

“And don’t forget the milk. Did you make the bed?.. You should take the garbage out..” She turns the sound up.

A fat Santa Clause with white beard and white hair, and his red costume and a —-  mangule hat, in a snowy night walks towards a house. A light from the window is splashed on the snow.

I walk passed the hall, open the door to the bedroom. The pot is turned over, and it’s shit all over on the floor.

Ten Past Fifteen

“And here is the spoon!”

Whit her left hand she holds the edge of the plate: “Isn’t it cold?”

“No!”

Mounds the rice in a corner of the plate. Plunges the spoon in, and lifts her head: “Is the light on?”

I nod.

She looks at the whole of my face: “Is it?”

“Yes, it’s on.”

“What time is it?” Takes a spoonful up to her mouth.

I pull up my sleeve: “Ten past three.”

She puts down the spoon. While chewing, lifts her left hand. Pulls her worn sleeve up a little. Presses her finger on a black surface wrapped round her wrist.

“It’s fifteen, and twelve minutes, and twenty three seconds. Fifteen, and twelve minutes, and ..”

Pulls the sleeve down: “Are you looking at me?”

I shrug.

Stares at my face: “Are you?”

“No!”

I turn around.

The light is on in the balcony. Candles blink in the neighbor’s apartment.

I turn back.

Her hand fumbles on the table.

I put the glass of milk closer to her hand.

She picks it up. “Did you say the light is on?”

“Yes, it’s on.”

“Are you the one who’s got a Latin American wife?” Takes a sip.

“No, he’s away on holiday.”

“Don’t you go away on holiday?” wipes her mouth.

I get up: “Not for a while..”

An old clock, in the shape of a wardrobe, is on the window sill. Its face has been white, long ago. The hour-hand is a bit past eleven, and the other hand is frozen on four. The second-hand stumbles. Every time it pulls back a speck, titters, starts, as if it can’t.. and then jumps forth.

“Are you in a hurry?”

I turn around.

A whitish patch has seeped in on her wrinkly cheeks.

“No..” I am searching for words: “No, not in a hurry..”

“I thought you were.”

“No.”

“Did you put it by the bed?”

“Put what.. by the bed?”

“Did you hear what I asked?”

“Yes, but what?”

“My pills..”

“Yes. I did.”

“And a glass of water?”
“I’ll do it now.”

   I take a glass under the tap. It fills to the rim. I walk in to the hall. Cold, and white. Without any photos on the walls. I turn the light on in the bedroom. A bra with worn bands is thrown on the bed. I put the glass of water, beside the pills, on the night table. I lift the lead of the pot. Smells of shit, but it’s empty. I go back. Lean on the door frame of the kitchen.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

I press my back to wall. It gets dark everywhere. The sound of spoon scraping on the plate. I turn around to switch the light, but I change my mind and stay still on the spot. Specks of snow hit on the pane. She is sitting with her back to the blinking candles. Panting.. and the sound of chewing and swallowing.

“Did you say you were in a hurry?”

There must be no trembling in my voice. “No!”

“Where are you?”

“Here!” I switch the light on. “Want some milk?”

She spoons in rapidly in the plate: “Is it gone?”

I look at her glass: “Yes.”

I take milk out of the fridge. Fill up the glass. She picks it up. I put the carton back in the fridge.

“Did you say the lights were on?”
“Yes, they are.”

I sit down at the table.

“Are you looking at me?”

“No.”

I sit down, lean forth and press to the table edge. Fondle with the leg of the table. It’s attached to the top with peech’o’mohre.

I grab the mohre between index and thumb. Try to turn it towards myself. It doesn’t turn. I press harder. Turns a little. Chews and swallows, and pants heavily. It turns. It turns easily to the end. About to fall off. Now I turn it the other way. It closes up. I turn it again, open it, before it falls I turn it again, the other way.

“Are you in a hurry?”

I say: “No.”

Five Past Sixteen

Across the street a fat, dark figure is searching his pockets. By the time I get to the pedestrians line he’s turned around a couple of times. I cross the street.

Turns around and looks at me.

“What are you doing here?”

Steps back: “Me?”

“Shouldn’t you be at home?”

He lifts his trembling finger up: “I..”

“Want me to take you home?”

“I.. I should confess..”

“Let’s go.”
Lights of a car titters in a distance.

“Don’t you have mittens?”

The car passes us by, and our shadow runs on the walls.

I grab his hands: “Put them in your pockets!”

He pushes away my hand: “I confessed, didn’t I?” and looks defensive.

“Confessed what?”

“That I don’t know where it is?”

“You should be at home.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“What?”

“My home.. do you know where it is?”
Wind blows.

“Yeah.. I know.”
“Do you live around here?”

I start ahead.

“You’ve a car?”

I grab at his arm: “I don’t. This way!”

“He had one!” pulls away: “Did you use to have one?”

“Let’s go.”

“Didn’t you?” Looks at me. “Did I know where I lived?”

Wind hits on my forehead. I lower my head: “Yes, you did.”

“And do you know were you live?” searches in his pockets: “Does he know where he lives?”

We walk side by side.

“My paper..?”

I pull at his sleeve: “At home.. you’ve got many at home.”

If we take a short cut we’ll have to walk up-hills, and there is a short flight of steps.

“Really? So why do you say it wasn’t in the papers?”

“Let’s go. The newspaper is at your place.”

“Instead of stairs upwards, they should’ve made stairs downwards.”

No more than ten stairs now.

“And there shouldn’t have been any snow, or it should’ve been much less..”

We reach a dark and narrow street. Lights of a car stretch our shadow along. We pull aside. Our shadow falls in the hole; moves on.

He searches his pocket.

I say: “You have one.. you have one at home!”

“But there wasn’t anything in it. I mean my neighbor said there wasn’t anything in it.”

I turn right, and pull on his sleeve.

“But I waited for too long, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“I didn’t see.. right?”
I don’t respond.

“They must’ve written, if they say so. And I say I haven’t seen, because I haven’t, right?”
My feet are frozen.

“Did I know where my home was?”
“You did. Yes..” I pull his sleeve: “This way!”

“That time that I knew where it was, it also turned this way?”

“Yes. It did.”

We go towards the old building. There candles and fake-stars were burning lighted behind the windows.

“Did you see his car?”
“It’s late. Let’s go.”

“Late for what?”
“To go to bed.”

“Yeah.. but you’re rushing.. maybe because you know where it is.”

I shrink my neck inside my yoke: “Maybe. Let’s go.”

“Did I have of those, too?” Points at the windows.

“Yeah.. you did..”

“Are you sure I had those?”

“I am.”

“Do you know how to make those?”

Candles turn off, and on again every few minutes.

“No. I don’t”

“So how did you know where I lived?”

“Let’s go. I know your house.”

“Is it far?”

“No. We’re almost there.”

“Had you gotten there?”

“Where?”
Covers his mouth: “There..” coughs: “I didn’t go. Then they said I couldn’t make it. And they said it was in the paper..” pauses: “Did you say I had one?”

I stand by the steps: “Yes. You have.”

“Do we have keys?”

“It’s open. You don’t need keys.” And I hold the door for him.

Turns around and looks at me.

I press the button for the elevator.

“It’s not too long since he didn’t come that time, right?
I press the third floor button.

He looks at me in the mirror, and turns around: “Do you know me?”

I step out of the elevator. The lamp at end of the hall is half dead. Blinks.
“If they said accident in the paper.. then it’s correct.. right?”

I press on the door knob.

He walks in, in the dark.

I turn on the light.

He is searching in his pockets: “I don’t have it! I knew it.”

I go to the kitchen: “It’s here..”

He walks in.

I turn the light on: “Look..!” A mound of newspaper is on the kitchen table.

He stands beside me: “It’s written in these?”
I nod.

“Even a photo will do. His car was red. I recognize it.”

I look at my watch.

Goes and sits at the table. “Do you want to take a look?”

I forgot what time it was. Maybe didn’t even look. I look again: “No. I got to go.”

“Where?”
“Home.. my home.”

“Do you know where it is?”

Sixteen Thirty Five

And with all respect to Hushang Golshiry, “Where is home?”

A Novel by Baroj Akreyi
Translated by Saghi Ghahraman – 2007

Baroj Akreyi
Wars Are Permanent Around Here
Balinde Poetry

saghi ghahraman
In Interviews

Queer activism in Iran and in the Iranian diaspora

Interview with Saghi Ghahraman

We had the immense pleasure to interview Saghi Ghahraman between the summer and autumn 2022 about her trajectory and activities as a poet, queer activist and . As she defines herself in her blog (https://saqighahraman.wordpress.com/)  Saghi Ghahraman “is ‘a counterrevolutionary figure known for promoting immoral issues’, according to an Iranian Ministry of Culture official, 2007. She fled her native Iran after being arrested for working with a communist organization’s women’s branch. She has been living in exile in Canada for since December 1987, and is devoted to providing a voice for the Iranian gay, lesbian, and Transsexual community. To this end, she co-founded the IRQO (Iranian Queer Organization) and acted until 2019 as the president of the organization at Which Point She Voluntarily Demolished IRQO within Canadian laws for NGOs. She also chief-edited the journal Cheraq (www.cheraq.org), IRQO’s online monthly magazine and coordinates Gilgamishaan Publications (www.gilgamishaan.com).

 

Note: Saghi Ghahraman has “intentionally used terms that are consistent with their time to provide a clearer image of the past and the road we’ve taken to get to this point, where non-binary people have taken the lead in the Iranian LGBTIA community”. 

 

The text between brackets has been added by the interviewers for contextualisation needs.

 

  1. Could you tell us about biographic trajectory?

In Iran before and during the 1979 revolution, as a young citizen and an activist (perhaps revolutionary and leftist).

I was born and raised in a clan descended from the Qajar dynasty, concerned with politics and political dilemmas, deeply familiar and exposed to corruption, oppression, and abuse of power. Growing up, I was well-educated in classic and modern literature that addressed the politics of their respective periods. A few of my extended family members were either imprisoned or exiled for opposing Pahlavi’s regime. As a teenager, I was aware but not actively involved. On top of it all, my uncle was employed in SAVAK, Iran’s Intelligence & Security Agency, exposing us to insider tales of interrogations, tortures, and such. My father, a high-rank officer in the Army, opposed the Shah’s regime and widespread abuse of power. In high school, I composed essays and fiction, and stealthily wrote slogans of protest on blackboards! The fear of the Shah’s agents was overwhelming in high school but during this time my focus was on writing essays, poetry, and fiction. It was in university and after the revolution when I joined a political party and started working steadily towards the cause. I worked with the Tudeh Party of Iran, and its Women’s Organization until I fled Iran [in 1984].

After the 1979 Revolution and as an Iranian exiled person: your life as an activist among other activists and other exiled Iranians?

I joined the Tudeh Party of Iran during the Cultural Revolution in universities when all the students and educators were sent home for over two years [between 1980–1983] . By then I was convinced that the revolution itself was the next problem one must fight with. But the power imbalance between horrified masses and the leading group that had assumed power was shocking. The Tudeh Party of Iran – a communist party with a long history in Iran’s politics and literature, and with strong ties with then-USSR – and its leadership that had returned from exile, seemed a tolerant and steady path to fight the wrongs the leading group and the obscure governing kept committing.

My involvement was with the party’s Women Organization. We went door to door, during times when only women and children were at home and engaged them in conversations about the challenges of married life, literacy, news, voting, the ongoing war with Iraq, and such. In higher-level circles of the Women’s Organization of the Tudeh, members read and discussed books, articles, critiques, and current events. We were not allowed to discuss politics! Members weren’t supposed to have opinions other than what was published and distributed weekly. This was the case for all activists working with any groups in those years. That was how groups controlled and led the vast number of members who joined them. It seemed logical. But also suffocating. There’s this false image of activists and political activism during those years that almost no one cares to clarify. There was nothing glorifying about it. Nothing open-minded and tolerant about it, and the reason was that generations of Iranians were thrown from one failed social movement into another one in the late 19th century. Even though Iran was never named officially a colony, colonial politics ruled, and collective efforts of groups were aborted and manipulated by Russia, Britain, and then America. My generation grew up under a Coup regime and arrived in an engineered revolution. None of us, as a society, had any education and training in either politics or activism. The history of activism before the revolution, and for the first decade afterwards, consisted of hush-hush, badly translated ideas and books, underground militia bravery, isolation, jail, torture, and execution. Nothing can move people from financial and cultural poverty into a life where one is aware of being alive and thriving as a simple human being. My comrades, mostly, lost their lives in jail, or got out and lived with trauma either in Iran or in Diaspora. The idea of social activism in Iran replacing political activism has come around in the past two decades. Still new, but it is promising. A big change from what we used to have.

… and with other exiled Iranians ?

With other exiles in Canada, it was a completely different ground, a different battlefield. In Canada, I freed myself from anything that could bar my way or slow my pace. While anything I would do in Turkey would mean a futile death for myself and my family, any form of death in Canada would be a part of my chosen activism. Soon after arriving in Toronto, I was working fiercely with a group of Tudeh Party and its Women Organization in exile, I was observing the Communist Party of Canada, observing institutions of thought and how all of them stripped me from my own identity, and I just gave up and started a wild war against traditions that directly and effectively challenged my identity and self the way I remembered myself. My opponents were the other exiles in Canada, all Iranians in Diaspora, and eventually, anyone who read and heard and met me. At this stage, I was faced with threats, death threats, attacks, insults, isolation, and more, both by my husband at home, and other Iranians out there. I separated from my husband a year after arriving in Toronto and divorced him the next year. My children suffered because of my reputation throughout childhood and youth. For them, it was constant trauma everywhere they were. It was between 1990 to 1995 when I introduced one issue after another that was taboo within the culture, such as marital rape, gender identity, same-sex attraction, open relationships, and the unveiling of words and images that were considered indecent in my poetry and fiction. It was like bombarding society and culture every step I took. The community responded with rage, fear, hate, but also with awe, and love for the figure I was. At that time, many political activists and literary groups in Diaspora shunned me, and yet others cherished me, wanted to include me, own my name. I never allowed that. I must add that not everyone in Diaspora were exiles. Exiles were a small number, while most of the Diaspora were immigrants who were not persecuted and forced to leave, thus their mental health, relations with back home, and financial possibilities were very different from the condition of exiles.

What was it like to be a queer (and eventually a queer activist) then (if you identified as queer before or during the revolution)? What relationship can you describe between your gender/sexual identification and political activism? Also, how did this relationship evolve since the 1980s?

We are talking about Iran in the 60s and 70s. I knew about “homosexuality”, same-sex attraction, gay figures, and family friends who were gay, or lesbian. But it was mostly whispered, and hushed information. I couldn’t talk about it out loud or discuss the topic. I knew I was different, but I wasn’t completely clear about it, didn’t have a name for it. I was always considered odd among relatives, in school, among friends, but not queer – the term wasn’t known in Iran back then.  So, being odd only meant that I would be a loner, but respected. It meant that others would look up to me, and listen to me, but not get very friendly. I can say it had its benefits. My gender identity helped me have a much more sensitive undersigning of normalized gender segregation, literary characterization of female identity, and The Tudeh Party’s misogynistic view of women. It saved me from falling into the pits of Women’s Rights, for example. Still, all these were not very known to me rhetorically. I acted on instinct more than information.

When I arrived in Canada in December of 1987, I immediately started working with a branch of the Tudeh Party in exile, reading material in English, writing about my own vague understanding of my gender identity and sexual orientation, exploring life, mothering my kids, and investigating how to safely get a divorce. I was still carrying the fears the IRI, and my husband had instilled in me around divorce. I am extremely grateful for my gender identity during those early years I came to Canada. It was my guiding light. It was my own private mentor. It was because of my gender identity, that I could see things, wrong, and right, that other in the community saw only two decades later. In the beginning, in Canada, the Iranian community and locals thought of me as an extremely modern woman. Though as it turned out, a few years later, I was not modern. I was Queer. My interpretation of things was different.

  1. Exile and the Iranian diaspora

Like many Iranians who have been leaving Iran since the 80s, you had to endure a long journey. Before arriving in Canada, you spend many years in Turkey. Could you talk about your experiences there?

It was the year 1984. A very different time in Iran compared to what the young generation recalls. Cultural cleansing was viciously at work. The regime issued absolute travel bans and shut down all borders. No airplanes, buses, trains, or ships left Iran’s premises. It was at a time when a huge number of persecuted persons fled illegally and risked their lives. My husband, baby, and I were among them. We left through the mountains of Iran’s north-western border with Turkey.

It was also a difficult time for Turkey. Martial Law was in effect. The Turkish police were vicious and suspicious, and citizens were still in shock, albeit on a much lesser scale compared to what was happening to the people of Iran. For many refugees, arriving in Turkey meant freedom from the regime. For me, it was entering a very brutal domestic imprisonment that lasted until we arrived in Canada 5 years later. My husband first threatened me when we were halfway up the first of five mountains before crossing into Turkish soil. He said: you’ve been gambling with both our families’ lives. If you take one wrong step from here on, I will personally take you back to Iran and hand you over to [Iran’s] border police. I had reason to believe he would do just that – I had agreed to leave Iran with him out of fear that he would report me before I escaped. He made that threat on several occasions during our stay in Turkey. The second time he threatened me was a year into our stay when I said I have decided to divorce him. He said if I mentioned the word again, he would have someone murder my parents in Iran, and take a photo of their slain bodies for me to see. Again, I had reason to believe he would do what he said.

Aside from that, both of us had to hide many details from the Turkish police otherwise we would be deported. Refugees had no protection in those years especially those of us with connections to communist groups, or Kurds. I was a member of a communist party; he was a Kurd, raised in the mountains with family members who led the fight against the regime and ruled regional mountains in the Bani Sadr’s era. We used to hide many details from our neighbours. Residents in every neighbourhood were instructed by police to keep an eye on refugees living on their block. Our personal letters were delivered in opened envelopes, our phone was tapped. There was no way to connect with other activists even if I was not under the same roof with a mentally and emotionally abusive husband. Comrades would pass by each other with blank faces. On one occasion I met a cell member whom my husband invited to have supper with us in a café. We both pretended we didn’t know each other. So, to answer the question, I had no connection with any other activists while in Turkey.

This is an example of the lives many women refugees had in those years in Turkey. There were no laws to protect us. There was nothing our families could do from across the border. We could be abused, killed, or disappeared and no one would be able to find a trace of us. I was extremely afraid of my husband at the time. My mental and physical strength was spent on keeping my children – I gave birth to my daughter while in Turkey – and myself safe until we left that country.

What was it like in Canada?

We arrived in Toronto, Canada in December 1987. I started working with the Tudeh Party and its Women Organization from day 1. At the same time, I looked for ways to get a divorce. Again, my husband threatened to kidnap my kids and take them back to Iran if I mentioned divorce. I had already checked with lawyers and police who said he could, as the children’s father. Several Iranian men kidnapped their kids and went back to Iran as they couldn’t stand their suddenly empowered wives in the western culture and workforce. So, again, I believed he would do it if I pushed for divorce. But in Canada, I didn’t feel as vulnerable as I did in Turkey. I threatened back. The procedure took over two years, and I got my independence back. I left the Party and the Women’s Organization at the same time. Their agenda for Women’s Rights and Freedom was just a meek parody of anything resembling rights and freedom.

I was writing again at that point, after about 10 years, and was confident my poetry and fiction would be a strong force against the vileness of my culture and its taboos.

The Iranian community in Toronto, and in Diaspora in general was a young one, and not as large in those days. Refugees in Canada and Europe consisted of members or affiliates of political groups who fled Iran when each group came under attack and lost legitimacy. Most of these various Marxist groups were fanatics in their political beliefs. Men didn’t believe in women’s freedom, were afraid of the western lifestyle, and were lost without their political leaders. Most of them suffered traumas when in hiding or in jail. Their social status was suddenly reduced to none. Employment was another disappointment since they didn’t qualify for office work at the levels they were used to. They loved to have meetings and discussions about the cause and engage in long, futile conversations. Women had a completely different approach. They relied on their leftist background as inspiration and looked at adult education and the job market to better integrate with their host country and the many benefits for newcomer women and children – as it seemed so back then.

Iranians in exile or in Diaspora built everything from scratch. The first Farsi radio programs, first Farsi monthly magazines, Farsi Sunday Schools, social meetings, literary programs. The community was trying to cope with trauma. Many committed suicides. Many were admitted to mental institutions and never came out. Many faced charges and stayed in prison for years. Many husbands were indicted for domestic assaults, many children were given to foster homes. It was chaos back then. Contrary to what many might assume, belonging to the leftist camp didn’t mean the person is educated, open-minded, and tolerant. I can even say that those who had no leftist background were much more open to the idea of freedom, equality, and tolerance. It was within and against this community in Canada, the US, and Europe that I began my fight and for the next 10 years I was fighting a real war with the Iranian community in Diaspora. My ideas were shocking to this audience. I would constantly attack every aspect of the system and faced the expected consequences. The topic of marital rape, gender equality, open relationships, and motherhood without patriarchal obligations were some of the issues I brought up and fought for at a time when many Iranian women in literary circles denied that females can receive sexual pleasure. Canadian laws and institutions served as a friend to me. Saved for a tiny group of Iranian women, I had no friends nor a friendly environment between 1990 to 2008 when political differences and the Iranian Queer Organization’s (IRQO) [she created in 2009] put more distance between myself and the non-LGBTIAQ Iranians. But interestingly, I have been loved and respected as a controversial figure all along. I published 4 collections of poetry and a collection of fiction, blogged, and wrote on social media about gender identity and sexual orientation. I published photographs of my body in nude and BDSM poses, and during menstruation. The community in Canada stopped looking at me as a member of the community, but as a detached poet and activist. I can say that my words reached Iran more than they did the folks in Diaspora.

Why did you create IRQO (The Iranian Queer Organisation) there, and what problems did you encounter?

IRQO was created in Canada simply because it wasn’t possible to create and maintain an organization of that nature and calibre in Iran. It was created in Canada because the founding members resided in Canada. I believe the more important question is why it was created to begin with, for which I’ll need to provide some backstory. Prior to the year 2000, Gay and Transgender Women in Iran had a vast online coming-out that started in “Yahoo Rooms”. In 2000, blogging was introduced in Iran through Hossein Derakhshan and became the main virtual space for gay men and Transgender Women who used it to interact, connect, exchange information, and provide support. In those years lesbian and trans men, and more so bisexual and intersex people, had less presence. Lesbians and Trans Men caught up shortly after, followed by bisexuals. Intersex individuals didn’t use the online space to come out. In 2007, when we decided to create IRQO, there was already a very active and influential cyber-community of LGBTAIQ and their leading figures who were outspoken in their online comments, posts, and exchanges. They created waves for issues that were important to their group. For example, when Persian Blogs – a blog space provider – shut down all LGBT weblogs for indecency, gay bloggers wrote an open letter and protested, forcing the provider to reopen their blogs within a week. Trans Women also made waves and were a force against sex-reassignment surgeons who provided risky procedures.

Despite their force, this community of bloggers was extremely vulnerable, and the regime could, at any time, either remove their online venues, or physically kidnap, arrest, or blackmail them into silence. No one would know, and no one would care. The unofficial reports of the murder of gay and Trans Women were horrifying. I believed that it was crucial for them to have connections with the outside world, media, and human rights organizations, and to get reliable help when needed. It wasn’t possible to reach out directly from Iran. So, I created a network of bloggers with whom I would consult at every step. This was absolutely important because I didn’t want to impose on the community or endanger them by taking the wrong approach and potentially triggering Iran’s regime against those who resided in the country.

In 2008 when I registered IRQO as an NGO with two silent partners, securing a reliable connection with rights organizations was my priority. But there was another reason for a strong and outspoken IRQO, and that was to bar Western media, tabloids, Gay exclusive media, and loud gay activists such as the late Doug Ireland and Peter Tatchle from grabbing at any news about the gay Middle East to create commotion and bring more harm on the community. Also, the US government used the Iranian LGBT cause as a weapon against Iran’s regime which again brought more harm than protection.

Another pressing problem was the wave of gay men and Trans Women who fled to Turkey to claim refugee status. The UNHCR wasn’t very familiar with sexual orientation, gender identity, and local cultures. Police were brutal when dealing with LGBT asylum seekers. Town folks were hostile. Rape and murder happened on numerous occasions. An organization to serve as a bridge and representative was extremely needed.

These were the main concerns for me, personally, and why I committed myself to IRQO from 2007 until 2019. During this period, we did a lot more than we had planned. Our achievements were huge. IRQO and I were trusted by the UNHCR, Amnesty, Human Rights Watch, and gay rights organizations, which helped the work we were doing. During this time, IRQO prepared several Universal Periodic Reviews to address human rights violations.

During the 15 years IRQO was active, less than a few LGBT activists in Diaspora were willing to come out and work in person. As an organization, we were constantly juggling between having both a public and underground presence. Another common obstacle we faced was that almost all members of the Iranian LGBTIAQ suffered from PTSD, prescribed drug dependency, suicidal tendencies, plus physical injuries caused by sex-adjustment surgeries. That meant colleagues and team members disappeared with symptoms for unknown periods.

It all changed in recent years and now there is many queer activists inside Iran and in Diaspora. The younger generation of queer activists are filling the gap, be it in art and literature, journalism and media, politics, and activism, and constantly raising awareness.

What are the main changes you have witnessed in the diaspora political scene these past decades?

Two changes have had an important impact, both positive and negative, on the LGBT in Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Iraq, Middle East, and North Africa. The first one happened in the early 2000s, when the west began to take notice of the LGBT cause in the region and used it as a weapon against local regimes. This impeded the movement in Iran but made the activities in Diaspora thrive and spread vastly and encouraged other opposition groups to open their doors to LGBT issues and figures. The second took place around the time the Iran Nuclear Deal was signed. Following that, Iran’s lobbies in the West earned strength; with new venues for more direct communications, the LGBT were quickly off the agenda for Western powers. This was almost at the same time as the Green Movement in Iran and there were crackdowns on all social movements for years to come. The regime’s quick and strong attack on the Green Movement as well as freedom of expression, press, and social media, forced the LGBT community within Iran to move out of cyberspace’s larger stage and into WhatsApp to connect in small, trusted, neighbourhood groups, for meetups and group chats. Thus, the strong public presence of Gay, Trans Women, Trans Men, and Lesbian Bloggers, who were building momentum towards an actual coming out through their virtual presence, vanished. Only in the past 2 years are the voices and words of LGBTIA+ activists gaining momentum once again.

Can we talk about a LGBT movement?

There has been no basis for a social movement in Iran in the last century. The closest Iran came to anything resembling a social construct that would leave room for a social movement was during the past 40 years of the Islamist reign in Iran, and that only meant a constant crackdown on the attempts for a social movement for rights.

In the case of LGBT, we used to call it ‘Movement’ to encourage individuals and offer hope. Even though online presence of LGBT bloggers and activists was as vast as other social groups, it was not as experienced, educated, trained, and connected. Also, the online presence didn’t extend to actual interactions between activists. The online presence itself was not consistent. Every pseudonym could disappear, and others would surface. It was difficult to establish who was behind the blogs, how long they would keep at it and when they would disappear. It was difficult to plan and execute plans. One of IRQO’s achievements was to create a steady and consistent point of contact, and a pillar for the everchanging face of blogs to reach out to. In recent years too, when Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram replaced weblogs, and with the absence of IRQO, this non-movement changed shape, faded in many ways, and lost big portions of political weight. But in exchange, individual figures who are not interested in the politicizing of the LGBTIAQ cause, have found subtle ways to take a vast space in Diaspora’s outlook, and obscurely carved a place for themselves within other social groups. We are dealing with a wildly spread and vaguely constructed LGBTIAQ body that both craves and fears determined collaboration and mutual perspectives. Aside from all other factors, one reason for this is the confusion over the huge array of increasingly growing new definitions within gender identity and sexual orientations, boundaries blurred with intersectionality, that in recent years, haven’t allowed members of the community to come together under a shared definition. It will have amazingly beautiful outcomes in the future, but in my opinion, impacted the collective efforts so far, when a sense of belonging within the community was needed.

In recent years, LGBT activity became riskier in Iran, more alienated from the mainstream and its institutions. Isolated attempts to paint the walls and bridges with the LGBTIAQ motto was linked to Israel and US, rather than the genuine bravery of isolated LGBTIAQ activist. If we talk about a more current “current”, there is going to be added hostility against the LGBTIAQ and their involvement or assumed involvement in this recent uprising for the murder of Mahsa Amini in the hands of Iranian morality police. Islamists who assumed power in 1979, took their first steps against civil society by stripping Women of civil rights, and the LGBT of their human rights. Their hostile approach was not an ideologic approach, but a tool, a weapon. They’ll need this weapon now more than ever.

  1. Poetry, activism, and selfhood

You said, “you cannot divide your life as a poet, as a person” (Poetry of witness, 2016). How did your poetry entangle with your life? Where is the place of poetry and literature in your professional and political life?

I consider poetry part of my identity. I started very early to express myself through writing poetry. Poetry was also a big part of my upbringing, like politics. If I lived in a different time and place, I might have dedicated my life, the old-fashioned way, to activism. But I would be a poet, regardless. I see the world through writing poetry. When I read my own poetry, I am reading it for the first time, and explore the world of the poem. I am the writer, and the audience, both. It’s my connection to the outside world.

My poetry allows aspects of my political life to take space within my writing. Professional and political are both secondary to poetry.

We have found that in recent years, you have also incorporated queer concepts into your poetry. What do you think of Claudia Yaghoubi[1]‘s  reading of your work, when she says you give “voice to the historically unthinkable and unspeakable issue of veiled Iranian women’s bodies and voices breaking the deafening silences concerning the multiplicity of gender identities and sexualities” (2021).

When Dr. Yaghoubi wrote the article, she hadn’t read my previous work. I published my first short story in 1995. The story and it’s vague but obvious mention of attraction between two women unleashed tremendous  anger among the Iranian community in Diaspora against me. My first collections of poetry, published from 1998 to 2003, are either full of queer erotic mentions or criticize patriarchal ceremonial interaction between male and female actors of the culture. But these books aren’t available in bookstores or online, so I don’t think she had access to them.

Roya Hakkakian described my poetry in her speech in 1999 [2]IWSF as “the first example of lesbian poetry in contemporary Farsi literature”.  In the same year, Ramin Ahmadi wrote an article his interpretation of my work as homoerotic. The Mirror, one of the poems in my second collection, The Whore Is the Savior, published in 1999, reflects a female couple making love. In my other earlier work, where there is no obvious mention of attraction or encounter between two women, the very basis of patriarchal norms is criticized, not from within its system, but rather from a queer point of view.

Queer erotic (can we call it that?) concepts are also a central part of your poetry. Could you tell us more about that?

In my early works, I used to mention the concept unconsciously. My understanding of love, love making, friendship, relationships, would shape itself with stark or subtle metaphors of same-sex interactions. I also picture the male body with female characteristics. I saw and admired feminine features in the male body and body language in my poetry. I have also criticised the constructed body and body language of Woman and Man in mainstream culture. My approach to motherhood, to my own children, to poisonous parenting methods of patriarchy, my approach to all topics is a queer approach. My understanding, admiration, descriptions, criticism, and confrontations in my poetry and fiction come from a queer perspective. I think that’s only natural, and through the years my language and perspective have become more mature, informed, and determined.

How and why was the Gilgamishan publishing house born?

A couple of months before Tehran’s International Book Festival in 2009, when writers in Iran complained about censorship and books banned by the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, Mehdi Hamzad, one of the leading voices in Farsi Blogestan wrote: As gay writers, we don’t even exist, and can’t even have the privilege to whine over censorship. That was the spark. So other leading bloggers in Iran and I discussed it and decided to prepare manuscripts of poetry and fiction by bloggers, and submit them for publication to Afra, one of the pioneers of Iranian publications in exile in Canada. We created the blog Iranian LGBT Book Festival on the same day of the Tehran International Book Festival with around 25 titles (http://ketabkhaneh88.blogspot.com). A year later, we decided to register a publication exclusively for the work of the LGBT. Hamseresht, the strongest voice of the time among Iranian LGBT bloggers, who came up with the idea of a digital publishing house of our own, suggested Gilgamishan for its name, referring to the first mythical gay figure, most famous among the gay community for his same-sex love affair. Gilgamishan is run and moderated by volunteers who edit, do layouts, and design covers. All works are digital and submitted to Library and Archives Canada. This, and the permanent column we published on Radio Zamaneh, a popular and well-known Farsi-language media based in the Netherlands, and  were big steps, especially because it was through these publications that we were able to transform the face of Iranian LGBT in the eye of the mainstream. Pârk-e Dâneshjoo (Students’ parc) which is a very large park in the center of Tehran, has been known as the gathering and socializing center of Iranian LGBTs for many decades, is no longer the only point of reference. Even with their pseudonyms and obscure whereabouts, these writers added to the picture of the gay, lesbian, and Trans Women and men in mainstream media and within families.

[1] Claudia Yaghoobi is a Roshan Institute Associate Professor and the director of the Center for the Middle East and Islamic Studies at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Yaghoobi is a scholar of Iranian cultural studies, and gender and sexuality studies with a focus on the members of sexual, ethnic, and religious minoritized populations. She is the author of Transnational Culture in the Iranian Armenian Diaspora (Edinburgh UP 2023), Temporary Marriage in Iran: Gender and Body Politics in Modern Persian Literature and Film (Cambridge UP 2020), and Subjectivity in ‘Attar, Persian Sufism, and European Mysticism (Purdue UP 2017).

[2] International Conference of the Iranian Women’s Studies Foundation

 

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