A Sea for Us

In the first days of visiting Bāygān, I selected two photographs by Shahriar Tavakoli to write about. Yet no matter how much I wrote, I felt that my descriptions failed to match the richness of the images. I still feel the same way. But today (January 22, 2027, corresponding to 2 Bahman 1404), this photograph has found its way into what is passing through my mind. Instead of me speaking about it, the photograph is now conjuring images and thoughts within me. I feel that the confined space of this photograph resembles the very atmosphere I am breathing—or perhaps more accurately, suffocating in. Every path leading outward is blocked. One cannot see what is happening outside, nor can one tell the outside world what is taking place within. It seems that whatever has happened to us must once again be narrated back to us by storytellers, both inside and outside. And as for the ending of the story, anyone with a voice tells it however they please. Within this suspended state, I do not know whether I am moving forward or backward. Only a moment ago I was traveling alongside others; now I find myself left behind, isolated, with no means of communication remaining.

Our small sea has no horizon. I am not sure it ever did. Headlines have surrounded us—large headlines arriving through uncertain channels, each one more suspicious than the last. I extract the news drop by drop from the flood of misleading headlines, and what drips out is blood. Later, I realize that the drops were beyond anything I had imagined. A sea of blood has emerged, and none of us knew what had become of the others.

The water in the aquarium has not been changed for many years. It reeks of decay. The only light that shines into it is a cold light, as cold as a morgue.