Staying on the Ground

A month ago when I first saw this photograph by Ali Khadem and decided to write about it I never imagined that shortly after everything would change so much that all my thoughts would be pushed aside and my eyes would be filled with something else. Now a strange collective experience has taken over the background of the picture.

Breaking the photographic connections, planting that photograph somewhere in my mind, and attaching a new meaning to it has always pleased me—but this time it is bitter and at the same time I cannot brush aside this dark layer. It’s like seeing with tear-filled eyes; everything becomes blurry.

A sudden and unresolved event has shattered a shared path. There is no clear horizon, and although I see from above, I feel like those two people—I can only stand and look at the road. Because at this vast scale, what else can I do but be stunned, get lost, drown in thought, and try to understand?

I see the written sign of Tehran, part of which is cut off. The picture has passed beyond repair. That separated “n” cannot be brought back. One can only realizes it is missing and remembers that this image lacks something it should have had—something broken that can no longer be put back together, like something collapsed inside our hearts.

The outcome of those twelve days for me is just a candle I hold to mourn, to cry beneath its faint light in memory of those we lost, and then perhaps, with that weak light, to illuminate the path ahead or to remove a stone from the way of a fellow traveler. I wish we would place the candles together so that instead of crouching alone, we could sit united around the light flickering in the darkness. Who knows, maybe in that light, a passage will also appear.

^*Staying on the Ground by Ahmadreza Ahmadi