All posts by mmclachl

Women Without Men: A Surreal Journey Through History

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

In her 2009 film Women Without Men, Shirin Neshat tells the female story during the 1953 coup d’etat in Iran. The film, an adaptation of Shahrnush Parsipur’s 1990 novella, distills the political situation into a compelling story about a group of women whose parallel experiences lead them to the same location despite differences in class and lifestyle. We are first introduced to Munis (Shabnam Tolouei), a radiophile who is disinterested in the marriage prospects her brother, Amir Khan, is forcing onto her. Munis becomes the film’s primary magical-realist thread, acting as omnipresent narrator. With her vague commentary, she helps to generalize the themes for viewers: “Through all this noise, there was almost silence…the sense that everything repeats itself over time.” Shortly thereafter, we meet Munis’s friend Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), who comes to visit when Amir Khan is away. It becomes clear that Faezeh has a crush on Amir Khan, who is engaged to someone else. Afterwards, the scene shifts sharply to meet Zarin (Orsi Toth), a solemn prostitute, who flees from her brothel after seeing a customer with no face – another dip into the surreal. The camera switches to a military ceremony where we meet Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad), the oldest and wealthiest of the four women. She gets into a fight with her husband, the honoree, and leaves him rather unceremoniously. 

Save for Munis and Faezeh’s friendship, the women are apparently separate in the first segment of the film. They are each, however, in the midst of a conflict or change caused by a man in their life; and each solves the problem in the same way, by making her way to an orchard outside of Tehran. Once there, they develop bonds, facilitated by the wealthy Fakhri, who buys the orchard’s estate and acts as a caregiver to ailing Zarin, as well as to Faezeh after she is assaulted in Tehran. Unlike the others, Munis stays in the city; in her ghostly form, she is percieved only by a Communist Party member whom she befriends, and as such is finally able to get involved with political activity.

The women’s journeys to the orchard are important to Neshat; rather than skipping to the arrival of each woman, she includes long shots of each woman’s journey down the road. The shots of the dirt road from Tehran to the orchard illustrate the class differences among the women. Zarin makes her way to the orchard on foot, slowly, gaunt from hunger and scarred from scrubbing herself raw at the public bath. Following a channel through a gap in the wall, she enters clandestinely, lest the property manager catch her and kick her out. Fakhri’s first trip to the orchard, meanwhile, provides an overt contrast to Zarin’s. She travels down the dirt road chauffeured in a luxury car, and enters through the front gate where she is greeted warmly by the property manager. Both women make their way to the orchard because the men of Tehran are making their lives hard, whereas Fakhri’s wealth certainly makes the journey more comfortable. Munis and Faezeh are socioeconomically in between the other women; Munis accompanies Faezeh as she travels to the orchard on foot, but instructs her that she can just “Knock on the door and go inside,” unlike Zarin. Through these parallel shots, Neshat does a good job of underscoring the intersection between gender and socioeconomic status, a theme that reverberates for her 2009 audience. 

Women Without Men was a project spanning over half a decade, beginning as a series of videos exploring each of the women featured in the original 1990 novella by Shahrnush Parsipur. In an interview with Art In America, Neshat describes the challenges of adapting the novella to film: “I couldn’t have picked a more difficult book….Even before I started, my advisors told me to be careful.” An experienced photographer, Neshat responded to the challenge through color theory. In Tehran, the visuals are so muted that some scenes appear almost black-and-white. The shots in the orchard, though, are much brighter, featuring the vivid greens and jewel tones of the surrounding nature. suggestive of the happiness and safety the women experience in the orchard. The orchard plays a restorative role for the women; we see Zarin smile for the first time there, whereas Fakhri gets to take control of her own estate. Faezeh is somewhere in between; she heals from her assault in Tehran, and is involved in planning a party with Fakhri, choosing brightly colored dresses to wear. Zarin remains mainly bedridden, never changing from her white dress; perhaps her condition is unsalveageable despite the healing properties of the orchard. 

A fifth woman, Mahdokht, is cut from the original novel because of the difficulty of adaptation. In the same interview, Neshat detailed Mahdokht as “a woman who plants herself as a tree since she is terrified of sexual intercourse but obsessed with fertility. She dreams of producing fruits and seeds that can be disseminated around the globe.” Instead, Neshat gives a bigger role to the orchard’s male gardener, who directly or indirectly brings each of them to the estate; she prioritizes the symbolism of the journey and a clear portrayal of intersectionality.

With Women Without Men, Shirin Neshat succeeds in creating a film whose themes transcend the bounds of history and borders; universal themes come across for viewers uninitiated in Iranian history or culture. Haunting imagery and moments of magical realism pull the film it away from simple historical fiction. Even for viewers who have read the novel, for the visuals of the orchard alone, the film is well worth its 99 minutes.

Economic Sacrifice is an American Staple

Letter to the Editor

Response to this:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/outlook/2020/03/19/americans-must-relearn-sacrifice-time-coronavirus/

Joseph Stieb tells us that more than post-truth politics or lack of paid leave, our roadblock to an effective pandemic response is that Americans identify as consumers more than citizens. Stieb provides examples like Reagan’s “less is not enough” policy and our all-volunteer military to illustrate the extent to which Americans have not been asked to sacrifice involuntarily in recent history.

In the face of the global pandemic, Stieb argues, Americans need to relearn how to sacrifice. Commenter boudica responds: “You don’t seem to understand that at least half of us have not recovered from the crash of ‘07… People scrim [sic] and scrape to pay rent, grocery bills, utility bills, car payments and repairs and education..You are one of the well-off lecturing the rest of us who are struggling about “sacrificing.’” Harsh, but boudica has a point.

Consumerism is a contributing factor to the U.S.’s pandemic response, but Stieb needs to take into account another factor: Americans who have nothing to sacrifice because the system of capitalistic consumption itself has pushed them to the ragged edge of survival. Stieb is correct in the sense that the U.S. isn’t used to involuntary sacrifice; but it is the wealthiest Americans who are least used to it. Sure, we have an all-volunteer military, but the prohibitive cost of college makes the G.I. Bill the only realistic way for many low-income Americans to get an education. Bush encouraged Americans to revive the airlines after 9/11 by taking vacations.; that could only apply to consumers who had been on paid leave and had the pocket money to do so. Americans in poverty understand sacrifice. The responsibility of cultural reform falls to the wealthy.

Yuki Matsuri

Feature Report

Every year at Wellesley, most cultural organizations offer the student body a window into the culture in the form of a massive, showstopping event open to the entire college. These events participate in a time-honored tradition of using coveted non-dining hall food as an attendance hook for the college crowd. They provide a celebratory backdrop for a window into cultures shared by the community. 

 Yuki Matsuri, Wellesley Japan Club’s yearly cultural show, started at 5 on a chilly Saturday evening in February. Planning to meet friends at the event in Tishman Commons, I arrived right on time — or on Wellesley time, 15 minutes late. My timing was underscored by the fact that the line for food already stretched out of the room, down the hall, up the stairs, and onto the main floor of the campus center. I got through a half-hour-long podcast episode by the time I reached the entrance to Tishman. After flashing my student ID, I picked up a paper plate and made my way down the line of student volunteers dishing out a variety of Japanese specialties in the smaller side room. Balancing a full plate with a cup of green tea, I finally caught up with my friend Sarah as we walked into the large performance area. There was a stage in front, more food and activity booths against the wall in the back, and floor seating/standing room in between. We ate our carefully rationed agedashi tofu and sweet potato maki in the dark as we watched student performers spin colorfully lit yoyo-like objects to Japanese pop music.

As the house lights came up, a kabuki performer began her dance and we moved across the crowded room to check out the rightmost food stations. We ate beautifully plated takoyaki and a rice cake with red-bean filling as we watched the performer don three very expressive masks as she acted in the roles of three different characters. One booth featured a box with gift bags dangling inside and a sign that read “Thousand Strings.” The two people ahead of me in line each pulled a random string, which released a bag filled with goodies. One student collected a small cookie, and Sarah received cute stickers. Curious what my turn might bring, I carefully selected my string. I was presented with a piece of paper that read “Watch out – bad luck may befall you.” I wasn’t surprised – Yuki Matsuri joined a long list of Wellesley events, from raffles to bingo, at which I was consistently luckless. I grabbed another red-bean cake and sat down with Sarah in anticipation of the next performance.

Aiko, the college’s beloved Taiko drumming group, performed next. The steady yet lively beats reverberated in my chest.  You might expect a group that constantly needs to be in perfect sync to be somewhat solemn – but every performer wore a confident grin as they drummed and chanted. I think this is the secret to why the student body loves Aiko so universally – they look like they are having so much goddamn fun onstage, and that energy is infectious. Sarah leaned over and told me “I have a crush on every single person on stage right now.” I laughed, knowing she spoke for every attendee.

I recognized the faces of many members of student organizations who performed, like my friend who led Shotokan Karate in a demonstration. Each audience member cheered for the friends we came to support. The room constantly held a few simultaneous layers of noise, whether from the performers, audience, or shaved-ice machine. I didn’t recognize one performer, however, who brought the room to silence. Older than a student, she came alone, save for a man who seemed like an assistant, or possibly coach. She wore a stark white gi top with flowing black hakama pants, and carried an archery bow that was easily taller than herself. The man asked people in the direction she would shoot to move; for a split second, I wondered if this is when my forecasted bad luck would befall me. With the audience rendered motionless, she meticulously approached her position, arranged her posture, notched each arrow, aimed at the target, drew her bow, and fired. Each step in this process was deliberate and memorized, and she shot twice. Her sober bow acted as a foil to the audience’s eruption of applause. I overheard another student’s commentary on the performance: “If she killed me, it would be an honor.”

Yuki Matsuri provides windows into a large variety of aspects of Japanese culture, from the lively to the solemn. Many cultural organizations at Wellesley host flagship events like this, open to the student body free of charge. A bite of non-Wellesley fresh food may be the hook, but these shows are a meaningful part of the college’s experience. They offer some Wellesley students a chance to celebrate their culture, while others get to learn about a culture shared by many of their sibs. 

Generosity Shock

Blog Post

American students heading to the Middle East for a semester abroad are often barraged with the same repeated questions and warnings:  Isn’t it dangerous there? Are you going to have to cover your head? I heard they hate Americans there. I remember my granddad pulling me aside and telling me “Hon, I’m so proud of you, but I’m worried for you.”

He needn’t have worried. When I met my host family on my first night in Jordan, I was overwhelmed by their generosity. They insisted on making sure I had everything I needed and more, as they refilled my teacup again and again until I had to physically cover it with my hand so they’d get the hint that, no, I really didn’t want just one more cup. We talked about politics, culture, and food in the U.S. and Jordan. Every time I said I hadn’t tried a particular item yet, they jumped up to grab me a sample from the cabinet or fridge. My most memorable bite from that first week was a perfectly crunchy piece of falafel – a dish that would soon become a staple of my diet. Another early memory was my host mom Zain’s striking sense of style. She always wore a thoughtfully composed outfit and had her hair in silky curls. One morning, I complimented her blouse and she, seemingly instinctually, offered it to me: “I don’t need it, and I think the color would look great on you!” Taken aback, I stammered out a polite refusal.

A few weeks into my stay with the family, my host grandmother, Aida, went to the hospital for a surgery that she’d spent months worrying about. I went to visit her at the hospital during her post-op period, where I was greeted by her sons. They poured me mint tea into small paper cups whose careful design mimicked the traditional teacups at home. As the family chatted with the nurse, sharing tea and a large tray of chocolates, Aida began to stir. When she opened her eyes and saw me sitting at the edge of her bed, the first thing she asked was “Inti ghadeti, mama?” Have you eaten lunch, darling? Everyone around her exchanged knowing smiles, relieved; Aida was clearly back to normal. Worrying about everyone else before herself. The same woman once complained that Starbucks rewards weren’t generous enough. One free drink per month? They should really be doing three, at the very least. 

If my host family showed love through sharing food, Friday breakfast was the week’s grandest gesture. Aida handed out flatbread that she’d heated up on the portable radiators in the living room. The picnic table in the garden was covered with dishes made to share: fresh vegetables, fried halloumi, baba ghanoush, and of course, tea. As summer turned to fall and we moved to the table inside, we transitioned from mint to sage tea, which warms you up from the inside. Zain always picked up falafel from the nearby Hamada franchise, taking care to emphasize to the cashier that she wanted the freshest, hottest, crunchiest batch. And in a personal gesture foreign to American fast food franchises, the cashier always followed through with her request. Knowing that falafel was one of my favorite foods in Jordan, Zain would put some on my plate before I got the chance to serve myself. Even when I was so full of breakfast I could burst, she insisted on handing me the last bite; “Lem taftari,” she accused me. You haven’t even eaten breakfast! 

For the first few weeks, I felt so guilty refusing food that I had a serving of grilled lamb, even though I’d told my host family that I didn’t eat red meat. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I just didn’t want to offend them. Later on, I realized that their offers were just an obligatory part of their hospitality culture; even if my host family knew I’d refuse, they couldn’t imagine not offering me something they’d cooked. Knowing this, I got better at expressing my likes and dislikes, and backing myself up without fear of offense. As it turns out, a week of grilled lamb-induced illness is pretty motivating.

American students should be prepared for some level of culture shock when they arrive in Jordan, but I’d phrase the warnings I’d heard a little differently. You won’t have to cover your hair if you don’t want to, but you’ll learn to cover the top of your teacup. When you compliment someone’s clothing, don’t be surprised if they offer it to you. And it’s okay to say no to food — and if you refuse, you better stick to your guns.

Baking for Patricia

Blog Post

One of my favorite things to do with Patricia in Chile was cook. My host mom and I interacted primarily in the kitchen, from our first introduction to our final goodbyes. Our relationship developed around meals: in the mornings, while we both struggled to wake up, we sluggishly moved around the kitchen making toast with pan batido – a traditional Chilean bread, easily tearable and made for two – coffee, and scrambled eggs. When one was slow to wake up that day, she made breakfast for the other. From the beginning of my stay, Patricia often showed her care for me through food and worrying about my vegetarian eating habits. She was especially concerned about how much protein I ate and told me that if I ate seven almonds a day I would be okay. Where she got that statistic I have no idea, but every day for nearly four months I ate seven almonds under her watchful eye. 

Our schedules didn’t allow for daily cooking too often, so what we cooked Sunday lasted us the whole week. As we cooked, we taught each other our native languages. The act of cooking in the kitchen with her was relaxing, even if we were making something as simple as toast. It was in the kitchen that we talked about our days and I received tips from Patricia: wash onions as you cut them to reduce the flow of tears, rinse pasta immediately after draining it to keep the noodles from clinging to each other, and always add extra garlic. She didn’t just leave me with cooking tips, but to prepare for a family gathering in the countryside, Patricia taught me how to make pisco sour – a typical Chilean and Peruvian cocktail. Her family is on the larger side, so we made three jugs of various pisco sours. We made a traditional mix, then added ginger to one jug, and made one with less sugar. We stayed up late the night before the gathering laughing and taste testing in the kitchen. When we reached Olmué the next day I learned that her family members were ambivalent about the pisco sour. It was actually Patricia’s favorite drink. 

A bout of homesickness had me reaching for my mom’s banana bread recipe about halfway through my stay. While Patricia enjoyed the surprise treat, she was confused and asked why I was baking. For her, and many others in Chile, baking at home is not a casual activity – especially for college students. People my age were expected to spend more time outside of the house, partying or doing things with friends. She described a small fruit cake to me that she only bakes for special occasions, like for family gatherings during las fiestas patrias, a week of festivities and partying to celebrate Chilean independence. When I spoke to my friends in the program they expressed agreement that their host families also saved baking for special occasions; however, I continued to bake and noticed that Patricia became more used to it. She even gifted me with a bundt pan to use while I was there. She gave me the bundt pan a day after I had returned from a friend’s with homemade banana bread, and I took it as a message that she wished I would make more. 

The first few times I baked, Patricia asked, “do you miss home?” Usually, I admitted that yes, I miss home and we would talk about how I was adjusting to Chile and my feelings of homesickness. I had photos of loved ones tacked to the wall in my bedroom there, and I talked Patricia through who everyone was. In return she showed me her photos of those important to her. Eventually, I was mostly baking for the fun of it, without the heavy feeling of missing home. Eventually, I was baking for Patricia: to witness her happy surprise when she came home to the smell of fresh banana bread and for the obvious enjoyment on her face when eating it. While baking, I often listened to a playlist my mom made and every time without fail, Patricia would always tell me that she loved it. When my mom and Patricia finally talked, she took great joy in chatting about music and letting my mom know of her approval firsthand. Their conversation went on for a long time, with Patricia referencing stories I had mentioned while chatting over pieces of banana bread. It was as if they had talked a million times before.