Window Horses: The Poetic Persian Epiphany of Rosie Ming (2016) - full transcript
A young Canadian poet with Chinese and Persian parents travels to Iran to perform at a poetry festival.
[♪♪♪]
[whinnies]
[strumming]
♪ I've sat in a corner ♪
♪ And fished
with Jacques Cousteau ♪
♪ So sensitive ♪
[strum]
♪ So sensitive ♪
♪ The French are so sensitive ♪
[♪♪♪]
[wind gusts]
[poster rustles]
[doorbell chimes]
[♪♪♪]
[thud]
[♪♪♪]
[phone chimes]
Rosie?
Is that you?
Yes, Granny!
I'm late for work.
[she gasps]
Oh, my goodness.
You've been invited
to a poetry festival in Iran?
In Iran?
Oh, my god!
That's weird!
Exactly.
You entered
a poetry festival in Iran.
I didn't.
If I'd enter a poetry festival,
which I wouldn't,
it would be in Paris...
Paris, France,
the land of my soul.
Yeah, okay.
Don't really get the whole
French connection,
but whatever.
I'm your closest friend,
and I didn't even know
you wrote poetry,
so what gives with that?
Well, it's a private
thing that I do.
Nothing special.
Right,
nothing special.
Well, how'd you
get invited, then?
Oh...my...god.
You're published?
Self-published.
I-I only printed
about three of them.
Published, dude!
I can't believe
you didn't tell me.
I don't know.
Sorry! It's just
too personal.
Intimacy issues,
or what?
Hey, watch
where you're mopping.
[supervisor]: Hey, you two.
Stop slacking off.
[♪♪♪]
You're a major
poet diva, man.
I don't know
if I want to go.
You don't know
if you want to go?
I don't want
to wear a scarf.
You're kidding, right?
You're wearing a scarf.
I don't want
to cover my head.
[sighs]
It's not romantic.
Your lies are pathetic.
What if they hate me?
How can
they hate you?
They invited you,
didn't they?
You are going.
You know you are going.
You know you want to go.
Why do you always
put me through this?
This is a total
fate thing,
and you know it!
Yeah, I know.
Feel the fear,
and do it anyway.
It's all gonna
come together.
The universe
is unfolding.
[French café music plays]
Hungry, working girl?
I got jawza . Fresh-made.
[steamer hissing]
Café au lait?
Uh, no,
thank you.
What's this?
Rosie Ming.
"My Eye Full:
Poems by a person who has
never been to France."
Ooh, ah! Rosie!
A book!
You've written a book.
Our Rosie is an author.
A poet.
Oh! Our Rosie
is a poet.
Let me see.
I want to see.
Ooh, ah! Rosie!
It's no big deal.
It's just a little book of poems
I printed.
Wah!
This is big deal!
You sneaky girl.
You never tell me
you write poems.
I didn't know if
you'd like them.
What do you mean?
We like you.
J'adore les artistes.
Check out the second
page, Grandma.
Oh!
You dedicated it to me.
Well...you inspire me.
One day,
we will go to France
together.
Uh...there's one more thing.
I've been invited
to an International
Poetry Festival.
No.
Fantastic.
Formidable!
Stephen?
Stephen, our Rosie
is famous already!
And we didn't even
know she was a poet.
[Pop!]
[Rosie]: Champagne?
We've had it since
you were born.
We were saving it for
a special occasion.
You are going
to see the world.
Now, where's
this festival?
Don't tell me.
I already know,
you clever girl.
-France.
-Iran.
[record needle scratches
through the French café music]
I...ran?
Yes, I've been invited
to a poetry festival in Shiraz.
No.
Not Iran.
I know.
Why? Why Iran?
Why not Paris?
Why not
anywhere else in the world?
Why did you
enter a contest in Iran?
It's not
a contest.
It's a...
It's a festival.
They found me.
They found my work.
They found you?
You don't go.
Not Iran.
Gloria, she is an adult.
We can't stop her.
Rosie?
Do you want to go?
I have to go.
[♪♪♪]
For your trip.
You don't want to
take any chances.
Thanks, Granny.
[Veda Hille's "Lucklucky"
plays over headphones]
♪ There is a place you know ♪
♪ Lucky luck luck
lucky luck lucky luck ♪
♪ There is a place
you don't know ♪
Are you sure
you don't want us
to come in
and wait with you?
[music stops] No,
you guys go on home.
Don't worry, I'll be fine.
Really.
Oh...Rosie!
Oh, Granny.
Are you gonna be all right?
You're our little girl.
What will we do
without you?
Oh, come on.
You'd think I've never
been away before!
[together]: You've
never been away before.
What are these?
Iranian money.
Toman.
What were you thinking
you were going to do
for money over there?
Grandpa, I can
take care of myself.
Always carry cash.
Cash is king.
Thank you, Grandpa.
You may
need this later.
Rosie...
you make us proud.
And come back safe.
I love you guys...
more than anything.
Don't worry.
I'll come back.
I hope that's true.
[♪♪♪]
[announcement]:
Joon-soo Oh,
Frances Yen,
Michael McLennan,
please proceed to Gate 37.
Your plane is boarding.
Michael McClellan,
your plane is boarding.
[alert sounds]
I want a gabbeh.
I'm not bringing
you back a carpet!
Oh, you are so.
Oh, my god. Do you know
how heavy those things are?
I'm your bestie.
Well, how much money
do you have?
$12.
Salaam.
[speaks Persian]
What does that mean?
"Hi! Pleased to meet you."
I've been practicing.
You're conflicted, dude.
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
[people speak quietly in Farsi]
Uh... Salaam.
Reason for visit?
I'm invited to
a poetry festival in Shiraz.
I'm a poet.
Ah...I'm a poet too.
Iran is the land of poets.
How long?
Oh, pretty short...
about a minute, out loud.
30 lines on the page.
I don't want
to bore anyone.
Your stay.
Oh, uh, one week.
Enjoy your stay
in our country.
Shiraz is a very
beautiful city.
Be sure to visit
the Tomb of Hafiz.
All right, thank you.
Salaam.
Salaam.
Hi, I'm Rosie.
Dietmar.
Did you fly in
from Vancouver too?
[scoffs] Paris.
Oh, Paris!
I love Paris.
But you're not French.
Obviously not.
Why are you
wearing that?
I...like it.
[scoffing]
Interesting choice.
So how far is Shiraz?
Chi migi?
[he turns radio on,
electronic dance music plays]
[Muezzin singing the Azan]
[sighs]
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
[Rosie]: Why are they
holding up scorecards?
This is a slam.
A slam?
Yeah.
A slam?
Yeah.
Oh.
[♪♪♪]
Hello. Salaam.
Welcome to Iran.
Welcome to our festival.
Ah. Salaam.
How are you
finding your stay here?
Oh!
Uh, well,
it's a lot to take in.
[laughs] Of course.
But you fit right in.
I see you're a Muslim.
No.
But you're
wearing the chador.
Is it bad?
[laughs] Oh, no. Don't worry.
It is interesting
to see foreigners
taking a more traditional
approach to hijab.
Unusual. But beware...
A lot of men may ask
for your hand in marriage.
[chuckling]
[laughs]
Cute little girl
with a hijab. Woo!
[chuckle]: Oh...okay.
Our next performer this morning
is Rosie Ming
from Vancouver, Canada.
She is going to read to us
from her first book
of published poems,
"My Eye Full:
Poems by a person
who has never been to France."
[microphone feedback squeals]
Salaam.
[Audience]: Salaam.
[sings]: ♪ I need to know
I need to know ♪
♪ If you need a house
like Edgar Allen Poe ♪
♪ There's a white picket fence ♪
♪ Like the one
you swore you'd never have ♪
♪ There's a garden
needs tending ♪
♪ And a trimmed hedge
waist-high ♪
♪ A farmhouse
with a rocking chair ♪
♪ That sent chills
up Magritte's spine ♪
♪ When he touched
the right arm ♪
♪ The French are so sensitive ♪
♪ I want to be a writer ♪
♪ But how can I ♪
♪ When these simple rooms
offer so little distraction? ♪
♪ Must I write about
the pattern on the pillow? ♪
♪ Must I think of adjectives
about the weather? ♪
♪ Why here? ♪
♪ Why there? ♪
♪ Why now? ♪
♪ I have sat in a corner ♪
♪ And fished
with Jacques Cousteau ♪
♪ My own imagination igniting
only in front of a television ♪
♪ Or hovering above a book ♪
♪ Have you ever
made up a joke? ♪
♪ Have you ever told a story? ♪
♪ I saw a picture ♪
♪ It spoke to me
of a thousand words ♪
♪ They were...not mine ♪
[applause]
Chador.
Was it that bad?
Interesting technique.
I'm here
to introduce to you
Di Di,
one of the Misty poets
from China.
He began writing
during the Cultural Revolution.
After his exile,
his poetry turned
to themes of isolation,
homelessness, rootlessness,
and language.
[applause]
Mah...
Asb.
Pao mah bu ceng gui
du shi wan wu hui
ta bian yi du ta xiang tu
zhui ren mian bao yu xin
kong you shang
heng xing zi qing.
Bar poshte asb.
Bedone bargasht.
[crowd cheering]
Who is that guy?
Well, maybe
you can't write,
but at least
you can listen okay.
You should take a page
from Di Di.
Short poem good,
long poem bad.
[indignant gasp]
[♪♪♪]
I enjoyed your reading.
It was very...musical,
very refreshing.
I'm way better with a guitar,
really.
Way, way better.
I thought you were fine,
especially for your first time.
This is your first time
at a festival, isn't it?
I'm not really a poet.
You are a poet!
That is why
you are here.
You must have an admirer
here in Iran.
Someone found your poetry
very compelling.
That is how you were
brought to our attention.
I only got a "one."
Ah, yes. The "one."
I very much enjoyed
your reading,
but in Iran,
it is not so accepted
for women to sing
unaccompanied in public.
It's too...provocative.
No. No, no.
Don't be embarrassed.
How could you know?
And I think
they get carried away
because this is
one place in Iran
where their
full vote counts.
What do you mean?
You will find women
are very strong here in Iran.
We call them Shirzan. Lioness.
But their voices are not
always heard in this country.
Really?
Mm. It is very complicated.
Excuse my rudeness.
I am Cyrus Kazimi,
director
of this poetry festival.
Az...ashnayi ba
shoma khoshvaghtam.
You speak Farsi!
Nah.
Well, only a few words.
My father was Persian.
He must be
very proud of you.
A poet!
Actually, I wouldn't know.
He disappeared
when I was a girl,
and I never
heard from him again.
I have no idea how
he felt about anything.
Oh, my goodness.
Bitter thought.
A Persian father?
Abandon his daughter?
Impossible!
Well, he did.
It's okay.
I've dealt with it.
His loss.
"Ming" doesn't sound
like a particularly
Persian name.
Ming is
my mother's name.
His name is Ardalan.
Mehran Ardalan.
"Ardalan" is a very well-known
family here in Iran.
In Shiraz.
Really?
We are very interested here
in the Persian diaspora.
I will make
some inquiries.
Maybe we can find someone
who knows the family.
That is, uh,
if you would like.
[microphone feedback squeals]
Poets,
please meet at the van.
You go off now.
Enjoy your tour.
So...complications?
What isn't complicated?
Your father
is Persian?
I don't even
know my father.
Boo-hoo.
Neither do I.
My father abandoned me
when I was seven.
Yeah. Mine too.
So what?
Why are you so...rude?
[scoffs]
[♪♪♪]
Iran is a very old land.
Older than Islam,
older than Judaism,
older than sand.
3,000 years ago,
Persians settled Shiraz
and brought
their Zoroastrian civilization.
In 559 B.C.,
Cyrus the Great
created an empire
comprising Iran, Armenia,
and Asia Minor.
Shiraz is Iran's
fifth largest city.
It is the capital of Fars...
where the language of Farsi
comes from,
and is the poetry capital
of Persia,
because two very greatest
of our poets are from here...
Hafiz and Saadi.
Who are they?
Mein Gott, do you
really not know?
My specialty is more
the French Romantic poets,
like Baudelaire
and Rimbaud.
Those are
the Decadent Poets.
The Romantics
were English,
reacting to the
French Revolution.
Are you a Decadent
or a Romantic?
Uh, w-whatever.
And maybe I wasn't
asking you.
Uh-huh.
You absolutely
were asking me.
You were.
Oh...
Saadi is one of
the major Persian poets
of the Medieval period.
His verses grace
the United Nations building
in New York City...
"Bani adam
a'azaaye yek digarand
Ke dar afarinesh
ze yek gooharand
Cho ozvi
be dard aavarad roozegaar
Degar ozv-haa
raa namaanad gharar
To kaz mehnate
digaraan bi ghami
Nashaayad
ke naamat nahand aadami."
We are all created
from one essence,
and when the calamity of time
affects one limb,
the others cannot rest.
If one cannot feel sympathy
for the troubles of others,
one cannot be called human.
It's written
right on the front?
Have you never visited
the United Nations Building?
[Rosie chuckles,
embarrassed]
I've never
visited New York.
I've never visited
anywhere, really.
Well...
now you are visiting Iran.
[guide over loudspeaker]:
This is the tomb
of the great Iranian poet Hafiz.
He was born in 1310 A.D.,
in Shiraz.
As a child, he memorizes
all of the Q'ran, by heart,
by listening
to his father's recitations.
He also memorizes the works
of all the great poets...
Rumi, Nezami,
Saadi, Attar.
[pinging and beeping
in a video game]
His father dies,
leaving the family impoverished.
Hafiz must leave school.
When he is 21,
Hafiz delivers bread
to the wealthy part of town.
He sees a young woman
of incredible beauty,
Shakh-e Nabat.
Many of his poems
are addressed to her.
[sighing deeply]
[video game pinging]
Shh.
Oh, is my breathing
bothering you?
Hmph.
[guide over loudspeaker]:
In pursuit of his beloved,
Hafiz keeps a 40-day vigil
at the tomb
of the Sufi poet Baba Kuhi.
On his deathbed,
Baba Kuhi promised
that anyone who could stay awake
for 40 days at his tomb
would be granted
the gift of poetry,
of immortality,
and of his heart's desire.
Hafiz meets the poet Attar
and becomes his disciple.
He becomes a poet
of the court of Abu Ishaque,
and becomes very famous
as a Spiritual Romantic.
Hafiz marries another woman
and has a son,
but keeps Shakh-e Nabat
as his poetic muse.
Hmm.
[footsteps crunch in snow]
You are not interested
in the life of Hafiz?
I'm just feeling
a bit jet-lagged,
and there
is so much information.
What a crazy story.
His life
was so complicated.
Yes, life is
complicated in Iran.
Always complicated.
And he didn't get
his heart's desire.
He didn't get
Shakh-e Nabat.
But he did get
his heart's desire.
He got to be
an important poet.
His love for Shakh-e Nabat
fuelled his muse.
But it kind of
sucks for his wife.
True. But it is his poetry
which is important,
not the details
of his life.
You carry around
sugar cubes?
Well, you never know
when you're going
to meet a horse.
They're so beautiful.
Horses are a very
important symbol in Iran,
especially for women.
They endure.
Have you ever read
Alice Walker's
collection of poems,
"Horses Make a Landscape
More Beautiful"?
I don't think I've read
much of anything.
But you write.
Yeah. I don't know
why I write.
Things just bubble up
inside me and I feel...
[Mehrnaz]:
Compelled to write.
Yes. I understand that.
But the more
you learn about others,
the more you deepen
your understanding of yourself.
You don't think I should
be here either, do you?
What?
Who thinks
you shouldn't
be here?
Oh, me. Dietmar.
Rosie...
Don't doubt yourself.
I think
you have a voice.
You just have to find out
how to express it fully.
This is the journey
we are all on.
It takes a lifetime,
sometimes many lifetimes
to learn our own story.
I like to sing.
Ah. That is
complicated too.
But that makes you
a kindred spirit of Hafiz
and all
the Ecstatic poets.
Can anybody go
to the tomb of Baba Kuhi?
[Mehrnaz]: Oh, yes.
It's on a hillside,
and, at the tomb,
there is a dervish
who keeps guard there.
[Rosie]:
Do people go there for 40 days?
[Mehrnaz]:
I don't think it's advisable.
Which is it you want to attain?
Poetry, immortality,
your heart's desire?
[Rosie]:
I thought you get all three.
[Mehrnaz chuckles]: I see.
Maybe you would like to
consult the book of Hafiz.
Oh...Hafiz is also
a fortune-teller?
[Mehrnaz]: Of course.
He writes about
the state of humankind.
I think you'll like it.
I'll show you
the book at dinner.
How is it
everybody here
knows everything
about everything?
Rosie...
we are Persian.
[guide over loudspeaker]:
This is the tomb
of Syed Amir Ahmad,
the brother of Imam Reza,
the 8th Imam.
This is a very holy place...
[♪♪♪]
Something to drink?
Yeah, a beer?
No beer!
Scheisse.
Try a doogh. It's
our yogurt drink.
What?
Nothing.
I guess you don't
know everything
about Iranian culture.
Yeah, I know enough.
[♪♪♪]
[coughing]
[coughing]
Is this smoke
bothering you?
Not at all.
Ni hao.
Ni hao.
You speak Chinese?
Only a couple of words.
[coughing]
I'm half Chinese.
Oh? I thought
you were Iranian.
Why do you say that?
Oh...
I'm just trying to fit in.
Why did
you leave China?
1989.
No, why, not when.
1989 is a "why"
and a "when."
I don't understand.
You're half Chinese.
Don't you have any idea?
I'm going
to tell you,
because I think you should know
about your own history,
and that will make you
a better poet.
I'm Canadian.
It doesn't matter.
You are also Chinese,
and you are part of the world.
I learned this the hard way.
[music turns ominous]
June 4th, 1989.
I get on a plane to England
to promote my book of poems.
It is my first time
out of China.
When I arrive,
there are many reporters
at the airport
asking me
what my opinion
of the events in China are.
"What events in China?"
I ask.
They tell me about a massacre
in Tiananmen Square.
I had seen the protest before.
Some of my friends
were taking part.
I am not a political man.
I am a poet.
Right there,
I know
I have to make a choice,
and I denounce the violence
against the students...
And I become a political man...
like that.
And I can never
go home again.
Oh, my goodness.
I knew you were
living in exile,
but I thought
that was a romantic thing
that poets did.
Your life is...so sad.
We cannot
choose our life,
but we can shape it,
and the meaning makes
all sadness beautiful.
Ironically,
now I can live in China.
They invited me back.
Wait long enough...
and everything changes.
Change...
Change creates the meaning.
It's what I write about.
I really
loved your poem.
But you couldn't
understand it.
I don't know.
I felt like I did.
Maybe you did, then.
When people tell me
that they don't
understand a poem,
I say, "Fine,
just listen to it.
You don't need
an intellectual
understanding of it."
I liked the way
you presented your poem.
I think of my poem
as music too...
[chuckles] but I cannot sing
in front of an audience.
You are very brave.
Oh! Or stupid.
Sometimes you need one
for the other.
What is your poem called?
"Mah."
What does it mean?
It means many things.
Horse.
Mother.
Part of a sentence.
A bridge from one word
to another.
I would love
to learn this poem.
You must
perform it.
B-But it's your poem.
I gave it to you.
You must
improvise.
Sing the poem.
Performance is an essential
part of the poetry.
You already know that.
Sing. Sing!
Walt Whitman.
"Body Electric."
I have brought
the oracle...
the book of Hafiz.
Ask your question.
Out loud?
It doesn't
matter.
All right.
I've got my question.
Is it about Dietmar?
It is so not about Dietmar!
Why should it be about Dietmar?
Why does he hate me?
Oh, I think he likes you.
It is the way
some young men are.
[pointedly]:
That's not my real question.
Okay, then.
Sorry if I spoke out of place.
What is your real question?
My real-real question?
Of course.
I want to know
why my father abandoned me.
Open the book
and choose a poem.
[Mehrnaz]:
There is a beautiful creature
living in a hole you have dug.
So, at night,
I set fruit and grains
and little pots
of wine and milk
beside
your soft, earthen mounds,
and I often sing.
But still, my dear,
you do not come out.
I have fallen in love
with someone
who hides inside you.
We should talk
about this problem,
otherwise,
I will never leave you alone.
What does that mean?
It's obvious.
It means you are supposed
to perform Di Di's poem
on the last night
of the festival.
How do you think it says that?
The true beauty
of the poetry of Hafiz
is that every word
can be interpreted
many different ways.
That's what makes him
such an excellent oracle.
I can't translate that poem.
I can't perform it
in front of...
Oh, yes, you can,
and, yes, you will.
I have already organized it.
Now I have a
question for you.
Why does a young
Canadian woman
of Asian descent
decide to wear the chador?
I wasn't prepared for Iran.
You don't need to
wear this, you know.
But I have to wear
something, don't I?
Might as well
go all the way.
Hmm. You have a point.
[crickets chirping]
The moon,
exactly how it is tonight.
When Mount Everest
was measured for the first time
in 1856,
it was determined to be
29,000 feet...
exactly.
But since no one would have
believed such a figure,
sounding as it does
too much like
something rounded off,
two extra feet were found...
invented out of thin air,
the thinnest on Earth,
and added to the mountain's top
to provide the appearance
of precision...
29 thousand and two.
So too, tonight,
a cloud has passed
before the moon
in such a way
that, even if I were able to
describe it exactly how it is,
no one would believe me,
which is why
I am looking for
two extra feet of moonlight,
or dark cloud,
or perhaps, to be fair...
one foot of each.
Dietmar,
you seem nervous.
Yeah. It's very intimidating
to follow Taylor Mali.
You're gonna be fine.
Don't worry.
He's a really nice guy.
He told me
I should visit him
if I'm ever in New York.
Yeah, but
that's not the point.
[Host]: The next performer
is Dietmar Langweillig
from Germany,
also part of our
"New Poetic Voices" initiative.
Welcome, Dietmar.
[inhales sharply]: I go.
[applause]
Um, s alaam.
I'm pleased to be here
in your beautiful country.
Uh, I'd like to read you
a love poem from my country,
about, uh, the love
some bourgeois women
have for their dogs.
"Die Hunde."
Sag.
[ominous chords strike]
[film projector whirring]
[audience begins to clamour]
[audience begins to boo]
Basseh. Basseh.
Oh, they really hate me.
This country,
it gives a bitter taste.
They don't hate you.
They just didn't like your poem.
How's that different?
It's the subject.
What do you mean?
I chose it especially
for this festival!
It's a non-offensive poem.
It's about dogs!
Everyone loves dogs!
It was about women
taking dogs to a restaurant.
Yeah,
it's a metaphor
for consumerist
culture.
Well, you don't do that
in public in Iran.
Dogs are...dirty.
They are?
We don't eat with them.
It's very bad
in our culture.
Personally, I like dogs.
I liked your poem.
But I don't eat with dogs.
I thought your poem was good.
It's not necessary
to say this.
Hey!
How could you have known
about the whole dog thing?
[groans] Oh...yeah.
Yeah, how could
you have known
about
the singing thing?
Exactly.
[exhales deeply]
Hey, do you know
what I can do better
than anyone
else in the world?
Hmm?
Oh, that's stupid.
[laughs] Try it!
How do you do that?
Practice.
Yeah, why would
I do that?
You're such
a weird girl!
[they laugh]
Go on!
[chuckles]
Ack!
Ahh. Oh, no.
Hey, hey.
Oh, Dietmar,
are you okay?
I didn't mean to upset you.
Dietmar?
Dietmar, don't cry.
Don't cry, Dietmar.
I am not crying!
I have angst!
I am doomed.
I'm sure
you're exaggerating.
Oh, no.
Look at my poems.
Oh!
Well, these are
quite racy for Iran.
Mm. What is "racy"?
Someone
at the festival
should have given you
some guidelines.
It's our first year.
We still have
some bugs to work out.
I'm reading tonight.
You can jam with
one of my poems.
What do you mean?
Well, I mean,
I'll give you a poem,
and we can trade lines.
A-B, A-B, kind of thing,
you know?
Mix it up.
It'll be fun.
Oh.
Why would I do that?
You've got to get
back up
on that horse.
What horse?
I'm not going
to read your poem.
You got a problem
with my poems?
They're not good enough for you?
Ah, it's not the point,
okay? It's not my style.
Oh. Not...
Not political enough for you?
Yeah, m-maybe.
I found your poem...
a bit soft, you know?
Soft?
Yeah, I need
more balls.
Balls?
You were just crying.
I had angst!
You don't like my poetry.
[groans] What's with
all this French stuff?
You know? Why...Why with
all the French references?
It makes
no sense to me.
J'adore France.
But you've
never even been.
It's the language
of romance.
Well, you know, German
is the language of poetry.
Well, Persia
is the land of poetry.
Well, Vancouver has
more poets per block
than any other city
in the world.
Is that true?
It's because
of the rain.
Hmm...we say that
in Iran too.
There is something
about the rain.
Okay, I'll be there.
I'll make it work.
[rain pattering]
See?
He likes you.
No.
[Muezzin singing the Azan]
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
Salaam aleykam.
Salaam.
My name
is Hassan Saeady.
I'm Rosie Ming.
I know.
You like Shiraz?
It's very beautiful.
I hope you are enjoying
your stay in our country.
Thank you.
I know him.
Mehran Ardalan.
My father?
You know him?
We were in military school
together, in America.
America?
Yes, your father
and I
and 13 others were
training to be pilots,
and were sent to study
in Pensacola, Florida.
Flight school?
We also trained
at the Naval Academy
in Newport,
Rhode Island, U.S.A.
The Shah sent us
over to America.
He was good friends
with America.
Beautiful country,
beautiful houses,
scenery, women.
Oh, such beautiful women.
Yes. We were all
new, young officers.
Very, very young.
The Islamic Revolution happened,
and we were all offered asylum
in the United States.
13 of us accepted.
But your father, Mehran, and me,
we were different.
We didn't want
to leave our families.
We didn't want
to leave our country.
We thought the revolution
would be a good thing...
a change.
When we came back,
your father was rejected
by the military
because of his family's
close ties to the Shah.
He has no work,
then his father dies.
He never told me
any of that.
I just remember
he was pretty harsh.
I guess that's his
military training.
We don't always
tell everything to the children.
He is a very proud man,
your father.
He would be
very proud of you.
Then why did
he leave us?
Why did he never
come back?
Oh, he missed his
real family more?
Rosie.
You are his daughter.
How could you
say that?
No, no, that's okay.
I'm completely
fine with it.
I'm cool.
Excuse me.
I've got
some research to do.
What did I say?
[bell rings]
Salaam.
Salaam aleykam.
Uh, do you have
any Mandarin/English
dictionaries?
Oh, no, this is
an Iranian bookstore.
Oh...right.
We have
Farsi/English dictionaries,
and we have
Farsi/Mandarin
dictionaries.
Oh! Okay. Um...
I'll take one of each.
[birds singing]
S alaam.
Salaam.
I'm Rosie Ming,
and I was wondering
if you wouldn't mind
giving me
your translation
of Di Di's poem?
Oh, I can't read this either.
Would you like me
to translate it
into English for you?
Uh, no, actually,
I want to do that.
I know
what you need.
You want to challenge
yourself.
You are just like
your father.
He would be
very proud of you.
How is it that everybody here
knows my father?
You are on a search,
so everywhere you look,
you will find...
Oh, and Cyrus Kazimi
has told everybody.
Everybody is looking
for him for you.
Well, my father, apparently,
was a fighter pilot.
I don't think
he'd be particularly impressed
by my poetry.
This is Iran.
Everyone
cares about poetry,
and your father
especially.
He was my teacher.
Teacher?
He was
my poetry teacher,
and, uh, he taught
me English.
Very good, yes?
[quietly]: English? Poetry?
[Sassan]:
He was a young man,
and it was
when the revolution was new.
A lot of people
took on new jobs.
I was very bad in English.
He said that I must not give up,
that it was a window
into a bigger world out there.
He wrote a poem
about a jet once.
We liked those stories.
[Rosie]: I can't believe
my father was a poet.
Because
he was a fighter?
Uh, because he had
no compassion!
Figures he would write
a story about a jet.
Rosie!
It is a metaphor!
For pushing your limits,
for, uh, naming
your own freedom.
Poets can be cruel...
[chuckles]
But, uh, I don't think
that was your father.
He was very kind to me.
In fact, his name,
"Mehran," means "kindness."
"Mehr" means "kindness,"
the outgrowth
of love and compassion.
But everybody's
name in Iran
starts with "Mehr."
That's true...
but not mine.
[chuckling]
[announcement]: Thank you all
for enjoying
this afternoon's readings.
Good luck with
your translation.
[announcement]: We will
reconvene this evening
at 8:00 p.m.
Why isn't this Paris?
[♪♪♪]
Mah.
[horn honks]
[Mehrnaz]:
Rumi, you must know,
is perhaps the best known
of the Sufi poets,
whose beliefs include
the idea that human beings
are like the reed
who becomes a flute,
the plaintive sound
of the ney
that cries for its home
in the river.
Rumi writes
that we are like that reed
that longs to be reunited
with our creator.
[Rosie]:
That's beautiful.
Mm-hmm.
[♪♪♪]
[man]: Beshno az ney
chon hekaayat mikonad
Az jodaaye haa shekaayat mikonad
Kaz ney estaan
taa maara bobridehand
Az nafiram mardo zan naalidehand
Sineh Khaaham sharheh
sharheh az faraagh
Taa begooyam
sharheh dardek eshtiaagh
[♪♪♪]
Har kasi ku door shod
as asley khish
Baaz jooyad roozgaare
vasley khish
[applause]
I've been reciting Rumi
for years,
and he always gets to me.
Never be afraid
of your own tears.
[♪♪♪]
[applause]
[lute plays]
[Shahrzad]: Dani ke che migoyad
in bonge robab
Andar peye man
bia o rah ra daryab
Zira be khata rah
bari soye savab
Zira be soal rah
bari soye javab.
[Rosie]:
What is she saying?
[Mehrnaz]: Do you know what
this lute music tells you?
It says, Follow me
and you'll find the way.
Mistakes will make you
stumble towards goodness.
Questions will put you
on the answer pathway.
[cheering and applause]
[Rosie exhales]
[Dietmar exhales]
You sure you want
to do this?
Stimmt. Of course.
We alternate?
In a way. You first.
And there are
no French references.
[laughs] Danke.
You're good!
Uh-huh.
[♪♪♪]
[Rosie]: All good cows
go to heaven, promise.
[Dietmar]:
Muu! Muu! Muu!
Where the grass, I hear...
Sagt die
braune Kuh...
...Is sweeter than clover.
Sie gibt uns
Milch und Butter.
There must be a million cows
I can't see.
Muu! Muu! Muu-clear.
Floating
in that night sky.
Nuu! Nuu! Nuclear!
[Rosie gasps]:
You are so cheeky.
[Dietmar laughs]
Are you trying
to get me into trouble?
Ha. You were
the one
who wrote the
political allegory.
It was not
a political allegory!
It was about...
Yeah, cows.
Yes, cows!
Well, nobody
writes about cows.
You are in a constant
state of denial.
You live in a constant
state of...metaphor.
You were the one with
the Parisian fantasies.
I was merely trying
to lift your poem up
into ecstatic jubilance,
like the Rumi poetry.
[Rosie laughs]:
Ecstatic jubilance?
Yeah, fish, cows,
rivers, sky...
you fit right in.
It's pastoral tradition.
It's not a tradition.
It's just about
the animals.
Well, you found it,
it is a tradition.
You found it by accident,
like everything you do.
[singing]
[singing]
I see you find the
singer attractive.
No.
Well, I saw
you staring.
The...
The song
is so beautiful.
Well, I can
introduce you,
if you want.
[stammers]
I don't want!
Okay, maybe
you already like
someone else.
Hmm?
Oh!
[♪♪♪]
[Rosie]:
These guys are amazing.
[♪♪♪]
They are Kurds
from Guran in the West.
This is a rare treat.
They must be friends
of Cyrus's.
Aejaazeh bedin livaaneh
shomaaro porr konam.
Oh. Merci.
Merci.
This is one of our guests
from Canada, Rosie Ming.
Rosie,
this is a student of mine,
Mouna Abbasi.
I'm sorry.
I thought you were Persian
because of your chador.
Oh! My grandmother
gave it to me to wear.
Oh.
[Cyrus]: Rosie!
Rosie, no,
please, sit here.
Are you comfortable?
Can I get you
some food?
I enjoyed
your reading today.
It was good to see
Dietmar outside of his shell.
And again,
very musical.
[laughs] But
not too musical.
Exactly!
And it fits very much
within our own
Persian tradition
of oral poetry.
I tell you, you are
more Persian than you know.
Salaam.
This is Amir.
He fought in the war
with your father.
He says your father
was a great pilot.
He was not a traitor.
Traitor?
[Amir]: In 1981,
as you know,
Iraq attacked our country.
We were not prepared.
[bombs exploding]
Saddam Hussein attacked us,
and we had no one to fight.
America was helping
arm the Iraqis.
We had 79 fighter planes
in our country.
79! And we had no one
to fly them,
because the old military
had allegiance to the Shah.
We needed everybody.
[♪♪♪]
Your father had to go back
into the military.
We fought for two years
against impossible odds,
and Saddam Hussein
offers us a ceasefire,
a peace.
[bomb explodes]
Your father
had crisis of belief.
We all do sometimes.
He questioned
his belief as a Muslim,
he questioned his belief in
the leaders of his own country.
He fled.
He deserted?
He didn't
believe in war,
in so much
senseless death.
I never knew
he was in the war.
We were all in the war.
Some of us had to fight in it.
But you, you stayed.
[Amir]: I don't know
if I thought it was me
or your father
who was the coward at the time.
I stayed
because I could not imagine
anything else.
I don't blame your father
for leaving,
but you cannot refuse
to fight in a war
and expect to go back
to your own life.
Your life is defined by the war.
I had a wife, a child...
I couldn't leave.
My thoughts were only
for the next day,
that's all.
Are you still
in the Air Force?
[chuckling]
I gave my 30 years
to the military,
and now I am retired.
[deep breath]
Now I can go back to poetry.
How is the translation
coming along?
Oh, God!
The translation!
[frustrated sigh]
Oh, so slow.
So slow!
It takes forever
to go from
Mandarin to Farsi
to English.
It's killing me.
I'm gonna fail
horribly
and humiliate
myself tomorrow.
I don't think so.
Don't be so stuck
on the perfect
translation.
Make it your own.
You know...
Coleman Barks is the most
well-known translator of Rumi,
and he doesn't
read a word of Farsi.
Is that true?
I'm not sure.
But the information
is helpful, no?
It is
your poem now.
Write your poem.
Write what
is inside you.
Write what you know.
What do you need
to write this poem?
[guitar begins to play nearby]
Salaam.
Salaam. Bonjour.
Quelle belle chador.
I, um, I know this is
a strange question,
but I'm wondering
if you could tell me
where I could borrow a guitar
for while?
Wow! Um, merci .
That's very
generous of you.
No problem.
[♪♪♪]
Hey, that's nice.
Aw, it's nothing.
Just a cowboy tune.
I can't really play.
I just need it to write with it.
Nothing like
what you guys do.
Where did you get
that accent?
[chuckles]
I grew up in Paris.
I just do this gig
with the Persian hippies
every once in a while.
It's an excuse to come back
and visit family.
I sure didn't expect
to see this guy here.
You know each other?
We roomed together
at the Sorbonne.
You're from Paris?
Have you, uh...
have you been?
Never.
Oh! You must go!
It's crowded, expensive,
but it is Paris.
Oh.
You must be my guest.
I can't believe you
guys are friends!
How do you think
a no-talent bum like this
could get an invite
to the land of Rumi?
[together]: German
is the language of poetry.
[chuckles]
Do you
like it here?
Yes,
but it's weird.
It seems like every
other person here
knows my father.
But you are looking
for his story, yes?
So you will
find it everywhere.
Someone else told me
the same thing.
It's true. Look.
[man]: Rosie-jun!
You look just
like your father,
and like your mother too!
How would you
know my mother?
Rosie, this is
your cousin, Ramin.
My cousin?
Yes, cousin Rosie-jun.
Oh, how we know
your mother!
Your father only talked
about her and you.
He loved her
so very, very much.
My mother is dead.
And my father abandoned us
when I was seven.
He did not love us.
He did not love me!
Oh, Rosie-jun.
When your father left Iran,
he had to give up everything...
even his identity.
He escaped to Turkey,
trying to get to a country
which would accept him
as a refugee,
but he couldn't get papers
because he had no money.
He stayed in a detainment camp
with other men
who were fleeing something,
mainly from Africa.
But there were
all these beautiful beaches,
and wandering along one day,
he meets your mother, Caroline.
Rumi.
Yes, Rumi.
You speak English?
Cho manam
saayehyeh hosnat,
Bekonam aan che bekardi,
Cho bekhordi to bekhordam,
Cho neshasti to neshastam.
Manama an maste dohool zan,
Ke shodam mast be meydaan
Dohole khish
cho parcham,
Be sareh
neyzeh bebastam.
Cho khosho bi khod shaahi,
Hele khaamoosh cho maahi,
Cho ze hasti berahidam,
Che koshi baaz behastam.
I have no idea
what you just said.
"Now that I am with you,
I shall do as you do.
I shall sit when you sit,
I shall eat when you eat.
I am the drunken drummer
in the circle,
with his drum
held high on the spear.
Your kingdom, free of ego,
full of joy, full of wisdom.
You, dimmed crescent moon,
brighter than full moon.
You...
who freed me from myself.
Being with you
is better than being me."
Now you
speak Farsi.
[both chuckling]
[♪♪♪]
[Ramin]: Your mother had
just graduated from university
in Intercultural Studies.
She was young and curious,
and I think she had never
met anyone in her life
like your father,
and she had the air of someone
who had never been in a war.
I think first
they told themselves
that they got married
so Mehran could go to Canada,
but soon, you were born...
[Rosie]: That
is a pretty story,
but my father
abandoned us.
Did I mention that?
And he never
explained why.
And my mother is dead.
I-I think I may have
mentioned that too.
Rosie-jun,
the story isn't over.
A few years later,
in 1992,
your grandmother,
your father's mother,
became gravely ill,
and we called to him
to tell him.
[phone ringing]
[♪♪♪]
Even though he was not allowed
back into the country,
he came anyway.
We didn't even know
he was going to do that,
to see his mother one more time.
Can you understand that?
If you knew you could
see your mother one last time?
[♪♪♪]
You be a good girl.
Listen to your mother.
I will expect
to hear good reports of you
when I return, okay?
Make me proud, Rosie-jun.
[♪♪♪]
[Ramin]: When your father
arrived in Tehran,
they immediately arrested him.
We didn't know
he was in the country.
We didn't know anything.
And he wasn't allowed
to contact anybody.
His mother died.
No contact.
They keep him in jail
for two years,
and then they let him out,
but his passport is taken away.
He never tried to contact me.
Can you
believe that?
Can you believe a father
would abandon his child?
He did!
He contacted your grandparents.
They wouldn't let him
speak to you.
I-I don't believe that.
But look,
they gave you
his watch.
Is he here?
He is very close.
Does he know I'm here?
He does.
Then why hasn't he
come to see me?
Rosie-jun,
your father is very ill.
He is
in the hospital.
Here.
But you must wait
till morning to see him.
Peyone shabe sia sepidaste.
[♪♪♪]
Rosie?
Call home.
[phone ringing]
Rosie! Rosie, how are you?
We were so worried about you.
Are you eating well?
How is your stomach?
[snaps]: Why did you
give her that watch?
It has nothing to
do with the watch.
Anyway, it was
time she knew.
Rosie. Rosie?
Are you still there, Rosie?
Why...didn't you tell me?
We wanted to protect you.
Do you want to know?
Do you want to know?
Our only child
graduates from university,
says,
"All my friends
go to Europe, Papa.
Don't worry, I'll be okay."
And comes back
married to this man,
a stranger,
who has the saddest eyes
I've ever seen
and will not
talk about his past.
Nothing!
But then...you were born,
and your grandmother and I
were so delighted,
and we thought
maybe this was okay.
You all lived with us
for a while
because your father
couldn't find a job,
and then he got one.
Hey, it's Mehran!
We don't have
to pay.
You have to pay.
He didn't like the way
other Iranians looked at him.
I can understand that.
It was the same for me
when I first came to Canada.
[Mehran sobbing]
Then he heard
his mother was ill,
and he wanted
to go and visit her.
We pleaded with him not to.
[♪♪♪]
[door opens and shuts]
[♪♪♪]
[Caroline sobbing]
Mum?
Mum?
[sobbing]
Where's Dad going?
He's going home.
Why aren't
we going with him?
Oh, it's a complicated
story, baby.
He'll tell you all about it
when he comes back.
[tires squeal]
[screaming]
[crashing]
[monitor beeping]
[Stephen]: We didn't
hear from your father
for almost a year.
We had no idea
what had happened to him,
if he was even still alive.
Then...he called.
[ringing]
All he wanted was for us
to send you to him
because he couldn't
leave Iran.
We didn't think it was safe.
We had already lost
our only baby, Caroline.
We weren't going to lose you.
You were
all we had left
of our little girl.
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
[ringing]
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
You lied to me.
We didn't want to
lose you, Rosie.
You are our life.
We love you, Rosie!
We love you!
[sobbing]
I'm getting off the phone now.
[♪♪♪]
[Muezzin singing the Azan]
[♪♪♪]
Salaam.
Salaam. Sobh bekeyhr,
khonome.
Um, Ardalan.
Panj.
Ardalan?
Panj.
[sighs]
Panj.
Oh, panj! Panj.
Thank you.
[♪♪♪]
[sobbing]
Mitonam komaketon
konam?
Voy!
You must be Rosie!
It is so clear!
From Canada!
Salaam!
He's gone.
Yes.
I missed him.
Yes. By about
an hour.
[exhaling]
I'm sorry.
Can I just sit
here for a moment?
Of course.
Take all
the time you need.
Your father is a great man.
I'll miss him in this ward.
My father was a bus driver.
[laughing] Was he?
He was a fighter.
That is not the
Mehran Ardalan we know.
Was he...
He was a teacher?
It wouldn't
surprise me.
His family were friends
with the Shah.
Mm.
That wouldn't do anyone
much good these days.
Then, how do you know him?
My father
was killed in the war,
and when your father
came back to Iran,
he took us in
like we were his own,
and he put me
through university
because he wanted to give me
all the things he could not
give his own daughter.
You were my replacement?
No, I wouldn't
put it like that,
but he treated me
like his own daughter.
And he talked about
you endlessly!
Of course, he was talking
about a little girl.
What was his condition?
Oh, your father
came here
with severe pneumonia,
very advanced.
How can you be so happy?
I am very happy
to finally meet you!
You are the reason
I am a doctor now,
because he
couldn't help you
to be what
you wanted to be.
[weeping]
Is he in the morgue?
Morgue? No!
He's at home.
He was just released.
Here is his address.
[knocks]
Salaam?
Salaam.
Hubi...
Arayee Ardalan?
Naa. Inja niste.
Arayee Ardalan?
Naa!
Look.
Yahki misheh biyaad
behem komak koneh In,
yeh khaanoomeh daareh nemidunam
ajagh vajagh behem migeh,
man nemifahmam chi migeh,
yeki biyaad tarjomeh koneh
vaasam nemidunam
yeh saa'atam behem daadeh.
Rosie-jun!
Rosie-jun! Rosie-jun.
We have been waiting for you
for so long.
Rosie-jun. Rosie-jun.
Eyvaay. Eyvaay.
Shohreh, cousin.
Fatima, cousin.
Nilofar, cousin.
Shahla, aunt.
Sophia,
my daughter.
[♪♪♪]
Oh...
you were too young to really
know your father, Rosie-jun.
He does not let much
come between him and his soul.
His heart was so broken
when he heard of the death
of your mother.
We thought
he would never recover.
First, his mother,
then his wife,
then, to never see
his child again.
They all came back.
No forwarding address.
Where is he?
In the hospital.
They told me
he'd be here!
No, he hasn't come here.
What happened?
Did something
happen to him?
Oh, no.
What?
I'm supposed to be performing
in 20 minutes at the festival.
It's okay.
I'll just miss it.
No. You have to go.
It's only five
minutes from here.
No, no, no!
I-I don't want to leave you.
We'll come too.
All of you?
Of course! We're family.
Wait. Wait.
You can't wear that.
Shahlaa, oon roosari
sooratiaro biyaar.
Okay. That will do.
Boro. Boro.
[sniffs]
Salaam.
I just wanted to say
how honoured I am
to have been invited
to this festival,
and the first night,
I was just blown away
by this poem of Di Di's.
Even though I'm part Chinese,
I don't speak Chinese,
and even though I'm
part Persian,
I don't speak Farsi,
so I didn't understand
the translation.
Still, it moved me so much,
but I didn't know
what it meant.
But now...I think I do.
Mah.
Horse.
I saw my father's hands today.
They were hanging by my side.
They were putting on my jacket.
I saw my father's eyes today.
They were checking out a girl.
They were reading a menu.
I saw my father's face today.
A familiar face
in a place
that I do not know.
I saw it in a mirror,
this face.
It looked back at me,
quiet and puzzled, this morning.
Puzzled
that I only now see it.
There,
where it lay waiting.
I watched it, silently,
afraid that if I speak,
I will not hear his voice.
Afraid that if I don't,
I won't hear mine.
[applause]
That's not
your poem.
That's not
your poem?
That's not my poem.
That's her poem.
[applause continues]
Rosie-junam!
Rosie!
[applause]
[♪♪♪]
♪ There's a brown horse
outside ♪
♪ Big and wide ♪
♪ And riderless ♪
♪ All he does is eat ♪
♪ From what I can see ♪
♪ Doesn't bother me ♪
♪ There's a black horse
outside ♪
♪ So dark
I can't see his eyes ♪
♪ He's never seen
saddle nor bit ♪
♪ I think they use him
as a stud ♪
♪ There's a white horse
outside ♪
♪ I see him
glowing in the moonlight ♪
♪ And when he runs to me ♪
♪ I don't know why
I remember I miss my father ♪
♪ It's the sound of the teeth ♪
♪ The grinding
with the breathing ♪
♪ They won't tromp on chickens ♪
♪ But they'll bite your arm off
if you let them ♪
♪ A horse is a big thing
in this world ♪
♪ He sells cigarettes
and the American Dream ♪
♪ He likes to wear shoes
and comb his hair ♪
♪ He's a real looker ♪
♪ And good-tasting too ♪
♪ I see every muscle
in his leg ♪
♪ Every vein in his face ♪
♪ I see his whiskers
messing up his profile ♪
♪ He shakes his head ♪
♪ And I still
see my father ♪
♪ I want the freedom
to run and eat all day ♪
♪ As if that was enough ♪
♪ From fence to fence ♪
♪ I want four legs ♪
♪ Mainly ♪
♪ So I can improve my balance ♪
♪ In this rare world ♪
[♪♪♪]
♪ Beshno az ney
chon hekaayat mikonad ♪
♪ Az jodaaye
haa shekaayat mikonad ♪
♪ Kaz ney estaan
taa maara bobridehand ♪
♪ Az nafiram mardo
zan naalidehand ♪
♪ Sineh Khaaham sharheh
sharheh az faraagh ♪
[whinnies]
[strumming]
♪ I've sat in a corner ♪
♪ And fished
with Jacques Cousteau ♪
♪ So sensitive ♪
[strum]
♪ So sensitive ♪
♪ The French are so sensitive ♪
[♪♪♪]
[wind gusts]
[poster rustles]
[doorbell chimes]
[♪♪♪]
[thud]
[♪♪♪]
[phone chimes]
Rosie?
Is that you?
Yes, Granny!
I'm late for work.
[she gasps]
Oh, my goodness.
You've been invited
to a poetry festival in Iran?
In Iran?
Oh, my god!
That's weird!
Exactly.
You entered
a poetry festival in Iran.
I didn't.
If I'd enter a poetry festival,
which I wouldn't,
it would be in Paris...
Paris, France,
the land of my soul.
Yeah, okay.
Don't really get the whole
French connection,
but whatever.
I'm your closest friend,
and I didn't even know
you wrote poetry,
so what gives with that?
Well, it's a private
thing that I do.
Nothing special.
Right,
nothing special.
Well, how'd you
get invited, then?
Oh...my...god.
You're published?
Self-published.
I-I only printed
about three of them.
Published, dude!
I can't believe
you didn't tell me.
I don't know.
Sorry! It's just
too personal.
Intimacy issues,
or what?
Hey, watch
where you're mopping.
[supervisor]: Hey, you two.
Stop slacking off.
[♪♪♪]
You're a major
poet diva, man.
I don't know
if I want to go.
You don't know
if you want to go?
I don't want
to wear a scarf.
You're kidding, right?
You're wearing a scarf.
I don't want
to cover my head.
[sighs]
It's not romantic.
Your lies are pathetic.
What if they hate me?
How can
they hate you?
They invited you,
didn't they?
You are going.
You know you are going.
You know you want to go.
Why do you always
put me through this?
This is a total
fate thing,
and you know it!
Yeah, I know.
Feel the fear,
and do it anyway.
It's all gonna
come together.
The universe
is unfolding.
[French café music plays]
Hungry, working girl?
I got jawza . Fresh-made.
[steamer hissing]
Café au lait?
Uh, no,
thank you.
What's this?
Rosie Ming.
"My Eye Full:
Poems by a person who has
never been to France."
Ooh, ah! Rosie!
A book!
You've written a book.
Our Rosie is an author.
A poet.
Oh! Our Rosie
is a poet.
Let me see.
I want to see.
Ooh, ah! Rosie!
It's no big deal.
It's just a little book of poems
I printed.
Wah!
This is big deal!
You sneaky girl.
You never tell me
you write poems.
I didn't know if
you'd like them.
What do you mean?
We like you.
J'adore les artistes.
Check out the second
page, Grandma.
Oh!
You dedicated it to me.
Well...you inspire me.
One day,
we will go to France
together.
Uh...there's one more thing.
I've been invited
to an International
Poetry Festival.
No.
Fantastic.
Formidable!
Stephen?
Stephen, our Rosie
is famous already!
And we didn't even
know she was a poet.
[Pop!]
[Rosie]: Champagne?
We've had it since
you were born.
We were saving it for
a special occasion.
You are going
to see the world.
Now, where's
this festival?
Don't tell me.
I already know,
you clever girl.
-France.
-Iran.
[record needle scratches
through the French café music]
I...ran?
Yes, I've been invited
to a poetry festival in Shiraz.
No.
Not Iran.
I know.
Why? Why Iran?
Why not Paris?
Why not
anywhere else in the world?
Why did you
enter a contest in Iran?
It's not
a contest.
It's a...
It's a festival.
They found me.
They found my work.
They found you?
You don't go.
Not Iran.
Gloria, she is an adult.
We can't stop her.
Rosie?
Do you want to go?
I have to go.
[♪♪♪]
For your trip.
You don't want to
take any chances.
Thanks, Granny.
[Veda Hille's "Lucklucky"
plays over headphones]
♪ There is a place you know ♪
♪ Lucky luck luck
lucky luck lucky luck ♪
♪ There is a place
you don't know ♪
Are you sure
you don't want us
to come in
and wait with you?
[music stops] No,
you guys go on home.
Don't worry, I'll be fine.
Really.
Oh...Rosie!
Oh, Granny.
Are you gonna be all right?
You're our little girl.
What will we do
without you?
Oh, come on.
You'd think I've never
been away before!
[together]: You've
never been away before.
What are these?
Iranian money.
Toman.
What were you thinking
you were going to do
for money over there?
Grandpa, I can
take care of myself.
Always carry cash.
Cash is king.
Thank you, Grandpa.
You may
need this later.
Rosie...
you make us proud.
And come back safe.
I love you guys...
more than anything.
Don't worry.
I'll come back.
I hope that's true.
[♪♪♪]
[announcement]:
Joon-soo Oh,
Frances Yen,
Michael McLennan,
please proceed to Gate 37.
Your plane is boarding.
Michael McClellan,
your plane is boarding.
[alert sounds]
I want a gabbeh.
I'm not bringing
you back a carpet!
Oh, you are so.
Oh, my god. Do you know
how heavy those things are?
I'm your bestie.
Well, how much money
do you have?
$12.
Salaam.
[speaks Persian]
What does that mean?
"Hi! Pleased to meet you."
I've been practicing.
You're conflicted, dude.
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
[people speak quietly in Farsi]
Uh... Salaam.
Reason for visit?
I'm invited to
a poetry festival in Shiraz.
I'm a poet.
Ah...I'm a poet too.
Iran is the land of poets.
How long?
Oh, pretty short...
about a minute, out loud.
30 lines on the page.
I don't want
to bore anyone.
Your stay.
Oh, uh, one week.
Enjoy your stay
in our country.
Shiraz is a very
beautiful city.
Be sure to visit
the Tomb of Hafiz.
All right, thank you.
Salaam.
Salaam.
Hi, I'm Rosie.
Dietmar.
Did you fly in
from Vancouver too?
[scoffs] Paris.
Oh, Paris!
I love Paris.
But you're not French.
Obviously not.
Why are you
wearing that?
I...like it.
[scoffing]
Interesting choice.
So how far is Shiraz?
Chi migi?
[he turns radio on,
electronic dance music plays]
[Muezzin singing the Azan]
[sighs]
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
[Rosie]: Why are they
holding up scorecards?
This is a slam.
A slam?
Yeah.
A slam?
Yeah.
Oh.
[♪♪♪]
Hello. Salaam.
Welcome to Iran.
Welcome to our festival.
Ah. Salaam.
How are you
finding your stay here?
Oh!
Uh, well,
it's a lot to take in.
[laughs] Of course.
But you fit right in.
I see you're a Muslim.
No.
But you're
wearing the chador.
Is it bad?
[laughs] Oh, no. Don't worry.
It is interesting
to see foreigners
taking a more traditional
approach to hijab.
Unusual. But beware...
A lot of men may ask
for your hand in marriage.
[chuckling]
[laughs]
Cute little girl
with a hijab. Woo!
[chuckle]: Oh...okay.
Our next performer this morning
is Rosie Ming
from Vancouver, Canada.
She is going to read to us
from her first book
of published poems,
"My Eye Full:
Poems by a person
who has never been to France."
[microphone feedback squeals]
Salaam.
[Audience]: Salaam.
[sings]: ♪ I need to know
I need to know ♪
♪ If you need a house
like Edgar Allen Poe ♪
♪ There's a white picket fence ♪
♪ Like the one
you swore you'd never have ♪
♪ There's a garden
needs tending ♪
♪ And a trimmed hedge
waist-high ♪
♪ A farmhouse
with a rocking chair ♪
♪ That sent chills
up Magritte's spine ♪
♪ When he touched
the right arm ♪
♪ The French are so sensitive ♪
♪ I want to be a writer ♪
♪ But how can I ♪
♪ When these simple rooms
offer so little distraction? ♪
♪ Must I write about
the pattern on the pillow? ♪
♪ Must I think of adjectives
about the weather? ♪
♪ Why here? ♪
♪ Why there? ♪
♪ Why now? ♪
♪ I have sat in a corner ♪
♪ And fished
with Jacques Cousteau ♪
♪ My own imagination igniting
only in front of a television ♪
♪ Or hovering above a book ♪
♪ Have you ever
made up a joke? ♪
♪ Have you ever told a story? ♪
♪ I saw a picture ♪
♪ It spoke to me
of a thousand words ♪
♪ They were...not mine ♪
[applause]
Chador.
Was it that bad?
Interesting technique.
I'm here
to introduce to you
Di Di,
one of the Misty poets
from China.
He began writing
during the Cultural Revolution.
After his exile,
his poetry turned
to themes of isolation,
homelessness, rootlessness,
and language.
[applause]
Mah...
Asb.
Pao mah bu ceng gui
du shi wan wu hui
ta bian yi du ta xiang tu
zhui ren mian bao yu xin
kong you shang
heng xing zi qing.
Bar poshte asb.
Bedone bargasht.
[crowd cheering]
Who is that guy?
Well, maybe
you can't write,
but at least
you can listen okay.
You should take a page
from Di Di.
Short poem good,
long poem bad.
[indignant gasp]
[♪♪♪]
I enjoyed your reading.
It was very...musical,
very refreshing.
I'm way better with a guitar,
really.
Way, way better.
I thought you were fine,
especially for your first time.
This is your first time
at a festival, isn't it?
I'm not really a poet.
You are a poet!
That is why
you are here.
You must have an admirer
here in Iran.
Someone found your poetry
very compelling.
That is how you were
brought to our attention.
I only got a "one."
Ah, yes. The "one."
I very much enjoyed
your reading,
but in Iran,
it is not so accepted
for women to sing
unaccompanied in public.
It's too...provocative.
No. No, no.
Don't be embarrassed.
How could you know?
And I think
they get carried away
because this is
one place in Iran
where their
full vote counts.
What do you mean?
You will find women
are very strong here in Iran.
We call them Shirzan. Lioness.
But their voices are not
always heard in this country.
Really?
Mm. It is very complicated.
Excuse my rudeness.
I am Cyrus Kazimi,
director
of this poetry festival.
Az...ashnayi ba
shoma khoshvaghtam.
You speak Farsi!
Nah.
Well, only a few words.
My father was Persian.
He must be
very proud of you.
A poet!
Actually, I wouldn't know.
He disappeared
when I was a girl,
and I never
heard from him again.
I have no idea how
he felt about anything.
Oh, my goodness.
Bitter thought.
A Persian father?
Abandon his daughter?
Impossible!
Well, he did.
It's okay.
I've dealt with it.
His loss.
"Ming" doesn't sound
like a particularly
Persian name.
Ming is
my mother's name.
His name is Ardalan.
Mehran Ardalan.
"Ardalan" is a very well-known
family here in Iran.
In Shiraz.
Really?
We are very interested here
in the Persian diaspora.
I will make
some inquiries.
Maybe we can find someone
who knows the family.
That is, uh,
if you would like.
[microphone feedback squeals]
Poets,
please meet at the van.
You go off now.
Enjoy your tour.
So...complications?
What isn't complicated?
Your father
is Persian?
I don't even
know my father.
Boo-hoo.
Neither do I.
My father abandoned me
when I was seven.
Yeah. Mine too.
So what?
Why are you so...rude?
[scoffs]
[♪♪♪]
Iran is a very old land.
Older than Islam,
older than Judaism,
older than sand.
3,000 years ago,
Persians settled Shiraz
and brought
their Zoroastrian civilization.
In 559 B.C.,
Cyrus the Great
created an empire
comprising Iran, Armenia,
and Asia Minor.
Shiraz is Iran's
fifth largest city.
It is the capital of Fars...
where the language of Farsi
comes from,
and is the poetry capital
of Persia,
because two very greatest
of our poets are from here...
Hafiz and Saadi.
Who are they?
Mein Gott, do you
really not know?
My specialty is more
the French Romantic poets,
like Baudelaire
and Rimbaud.
Those are
the Decadent Poets.
The Romantics
were English,
reacting to the
French Revolution.
Are you a Decadent
or a Romantic?
Uh, w-whatever.
And maybe I wasn't
asking you.
Uh-huh.
You absolutely
were asking me.
You were.
Oh...
Saadi is one of
the major Persian poets
of the Medieval period.
His verses grace
the United Nations building
in New York City...
"Bani adam
a'azaaye yek digarand
Ke dar afarinesh
ze yek gooharand
Cho ozvi
be dard aavarad roozegaar
Degar ozv-haa
raa namaanad gharar
To kaz mehnate
digaraan bi ghami
Nashaayad
ke naamat nahand aadami."
We are all created
from one essence,
and when the calamity of time
affects one limb,
the others cannot rest.
If one cannot feel sympathy
for the troubles of others,
one cannot be called human.
It's written
right on the front?
Have you never visited
the United Nations Building?
[Rosie chuckles,
embarrassed]
I've never
visited New York.
I've never visited
anywhere, really.
Well...
now you are visiting Iran.
[guide over loudspeaker]:
This is the tomb
of the great Iranian poet Hafiz.
He was born in 1310 A.D.,
in Shiraz.
As a child, he memorizes
all of the Q'ran, by heart,
by listening
to his father's recitations.
He also memorizes the works
of all the great poets...
Rumi, Nezami,
Saadi, Attar.
[pinging and beeping
in a video game]
His father dies,
leaving the family impoverished.
Hafiz must leave school.
When he is 21,
Hafiz delivers bread
to the wealthy part of town.
He sees a young woman
of incredible beauty,
Shakh-e Nabat.
Many of his poems
are addressed to her.
[sighing deeply]
[video game pinging]
Shh.
Oh, is my breathing
bothering you?
Hmph.
[guide over loudspeaker]:
In pursuit of his beloved,
Hafiz keeps a 40-day vigil
at the tomb
of the Sufi poet Baba Kuhi.
On his deathbed,
Baba Kuhi promised
that anyone who could stay awake
for 40 days at his tomb
would be granted
the gift of poetry,
of immortality,
and of his heart's desire.
Hafiz meets the poet Attar
and becomes his disciple.
He becomes a poet
of the court of Abu Ishaque,
and becomes very famous
as a Spiritual Romantic.
Hafiz marries another woman
and has a son,
but keeps Shakh-e Nabat
as his poetic muse.
Hmm.
[footsteps crunch in snow]
You are not interested
in the life of Hafiz?
I'm just feeling
a bit jet-lagged,
and there
is so much information.
What a crazy story.
His life
was so complicated.
Yes, life is
complicated in Iran.
Always complicated.
And he didn't get
his heart's desire.
He didn't get
Shakh-e Nabat.
But he did get
his heart's desire.
He got to be
an important poet.
His love for Shakh-e Nabat
fuelled his muse.
But it kind of
sucks for his wife.
True. But it is his poetry
which is important,
not the details
of his life.
You carry around
sugar cubes?
Well, you never know
when you're going
to meet a horse.
They're so beautiful.
Horses are a very
important symbol in Iran,
especially for women.
They endure.
Have you ever read
Alice Walker's
collection of poems,
"Horses Make a Landscape
More Beautiful"?
I don't think I've read
much of anything.
But you write.
Yeah. I don't know
why I write.
Things just bubble up
inside me and I feel...
[Mehrnaz]:
Compelled to write.
Yes. I understand that.
But the more
you learn about others,
the more you deepen
your understanding of yourself.
You don't think I should
be here either, do you?
What?
Who thinks
you shouldn't
be here?
Oh, me. Dietmar.
Rosie...
Don't doubt yourself.
I think
you have a voice.
You just have to find out
how to express it fully.
This is the journey
we are all on.
It takes a lifetime,
sometimes many lifetimes
to learn our own story.
I like to sing.
Ah. That is
complicated too.
But that makes you
a kindred spirit of Hafiz
and all
the Ecstatic poets.
Can anybody go
to the tomb of Baba Kuhi?
[Mehrnaz]: Oh, yes.
It's on a hillside,
and, at the tomb,
there is a dervish
who keeps guard there.
[Rosie]:
Do people go there for 40 days?
[Mehrnaz]:
I don't think it's advisable.
Which is it you want to attain?
Poetry, immortality,
your heart's desire?
[Rosie]:
I thought you get all three.
[Mehrnaz chuckles]: I see.
Maybe you would like to
consult the book of Hafiz.
Oh...Hafiz is also
a fortune-teller?
[Mehrnaz]: Of course.
He writes about
the state of humankind.
I think you'll like it.
I'll show you
the book at dinner.
How is it
everybody here
knows everything
about everything?
Rosie...
we are Persian.
[guide over loudspeaker]:
This is the tomb
of Syed Amir Ahmad,
the brother of Imam Reza,
the 8th Imam.
This is a very holy place...
[♪♪♪]
Something to drink?
Yeah, a beer?
No beer!
Scheisse.
Try a doogh. It's
our yogurt drink.
What?
Nothing.
I guess you don't
know everything
about Iranian culture.
Yeah, I know enough.
[♪♪♪]
[coughing]
[coughing]
Is this smoke
bothering you?
Not at all.
Ni hao.
Ni hao.
You speak Chinese?
Only a couple of words.
[coughing]
I'm half Chinese.
Oh? I thought
you were Iranian.
Why do you say that?
Oh...
I'm just trying to fit in.
Why did
you leave China?
1989.
No, why, not when.
1989 is a "why"
and a "when."
I don't understand.
You're half Chinese.
Don't you have any idea?
I'm going
to tell you,
because I think you should know
about your own history,
and that will make you
a better poet.
I'm Canadian.
It doesn't matter.
You are also Chinese,
and you are part of the world.
I learned this the hard way.
[music turns ominous]
June 4th, 1989.
I get on a plane to England
to promote my book of poems.
It is my first time
out of China.
When I arrive,
there are many reporters
at the airport
asking me
what my opinion
of the events in China are.
"What events in China?"
I ask.
They tell me about a massacre
in Tiananmen Square.
I had seen the protest before.
Some of my friends
were taking part.
I am not a political man.
I am a poet.
Right there,
I know
I have to make a choice,
and I denounce the violence
against the students...
And I become a political man...
like that.
And I can never
go home again.
Oh, my goodness.
I knew you were
living in exile,
but I thought
that was a romantic thing
that poets did.
Your life is...so sad.
We cannot
choose our life,
but we can shape it,
and the meaning makes
all sadness beautiful.
Ironically,
now I can live in China.
They invited me back.
Wait long enough...
and everything changes.
Change...
Change creates the meaning.
It's what I write about.
I really
loved your poem.
But you couldn't
understand it.
I don't know.
I felt like I did.
Maybe you did, then.
When people tell me
that they don't
understand a poem,
I say, "Fine,
just listen to it.
You don't need
an intellectual
understanding of it."
I liked the way
you presented your poem.
I think of my poem
as music too...
[chuckles] but I cannot sing
in front of an audience.
You are very brave.
Oh! Or stupid.
Sometimes you need one
for the other.
What is your poem called?
"Mah."
What does it mean?
It means many things.
Horse.
Mother.
Part of a sentence.
A bridge from one word
to another.
I would love
to learn this poem.
You must
perform it.
B-But it's your poem.
I gave it to you.
You must
improvise.
Sing the poem.
Performance is an essential
part of the poetry.
You already know that.
Sing. Sing!
Walt Whitman.
"Body Electric."
I have brought
the oracle...
the book of Hafiz.
Ask your question.
Out loud?
It doesn't
matter.
All right.
I've got my question.
Is it about Dietmar?
It is so not about Dietmar!
Why should it be about Dietmar?
Why does he hate me?
Oh, I think he likes you.
It is the way
some young men are.
[pointedly]:
That's not my real question.
Okay, then.
Sorry if I spoke out of place.
What is your real question?
My real-real question?
Of course.
I want to know
why my father abandoned me.
Open the book
and choose a poem.
[Mehrnaz]:
There is a beautiful creature
living in a hole you have dug.
So, at night,
I set fruit and grains
and little pots
of wine and milk
beside
your soft, earthen mounds,
and I often sing.
But still, my dear,
you do not come out.
I have fallen in love
with someone
who hides inside you.
We should talk
about this problem,
otherwise,
I will never leave you alone.
What does that mean?
It's obvious.
It means you are supposed
to perform Di Di's poem
on the last night
of the festival.
How do you think it says that?
The true beauty
of the poetry of Hafiz
is that every word
can be interpreted
many different ways.
That's what makes him
such an excellent oracle.
I can't translate that poem.
I can't perform it
in front of...
Oh, yes, you can,
and, yes, you will.
I have already organized it.
Now I have a
question for you.
Why does a young
Canadian woman
of Asian descent
decide to wear the chador?
I wasn't prepared for Iran.
You don't need to
wear this, you know.
But I have to wear
something, don't I?
Might as well
go all the way.
Hmm. You have a point.
[crickets chirping]
The moon,
exactly how it is tonight.
When Mount Everest
was measured for the first time
in 1856,
it was determined to be
29,000 feet...
exactly.
But since no one would have
believed such a figure,
sounding as it does
too much like
something rounded off,
two extra feet were found...
invented out of thin air,
the thinnest on Earth,
and added to the mountain's top
to provide the appearance
of precision...
29 thousand and two.
So too, tonight,
a cloud has passed
before the moon
in such a way
that, even if I were able to
describe it exactly how it is,
no one would believe me,
which is why
I am looking for
two extra feet of moonlight,
or dark cloud,
or perhaps, to be fair...
one foot of each.
Dietmar,
you seem nervous.
Yeah. It's very intimidating
to follow Taylor Mali.
You're gonna be fine.
Don't worry.
He's a really nice guy.
He told me
I should visit him
if I'm ever in New York.
Yeah, but
that's not the point.
[Host]: The next performer
is Dietmar Langweillig
from Germany,
also part of our
"New Poetic Voices" initiative.
Welcome, Dietmar.
[inhales sharply]: I go.
[applause]
Um, s alaam.
I'm pleased to be here
in your beautiful country.
Uh, I'd like to read you
a love poem from my country,
about, uh, the love
some bourgeois women
have for their dogs.
"Die Hunde."
Sag.
[ominous chords strike]
[film projector whirring]
[audience begins to clamour]
[audience begins to boo]
Basseh. Basseh.
Oh, they really hate me.
This country,
it gives a bitter taste.
They don't hate you.
They just didn't like your poem.
How's that different?
It's the subject.
What do you mean?
I chose it especially
for this festival!
It's a non-offensive poem.
It's about dogs!
Everyone loves dogs!
It was about women
taking dogs to a restaurant.
Yeah,
it's a metaphor
for consumerist
culture.
Well, you don't do that
in public in Iran.
Dogs are...dirty.
They are?
We don't eat with them.
It's very bad
in our culture.
Personally, I like dogs.
I liked your poem.
But I don't eat with dogs.
I thought your poem was good.
It's not necessary
to say this.
Hey!
How could you have known
about the whole dog thing?
[groans] Oh...yeah.
Yeah, how could
you have known
about
the singing thing?
Exactly.
[exhales deeply]
Hey, do you know
what I can do better
than anyone
else in the world?
Hmm?
Oh, that's stupid.
[laughs] Try it!
How do you do that?
Practice.
Yeah, why would
I do that?
You're such
a weird girl!
[they laugh]
Go on!
[chuckles]
Ack!
Ahh. Oh, no.
Hey, hey.
Oh, Dietmar,
are you okay?
I didn't mean to upset you.
Dietmar?
Dietmar, don't cry.
Don't cry, Dietmar.
I am not crying!
I have angst!
I am doomed.
I'm sure
you're exaggerating.
Oh, no.
Look at my poems.
Oh!
Well, these are
quite racy for Iran.
Mm. What is "racy"?
Someone
at the festival
should have given you
some guidelines.
It's our first year.
We still have
some bugs to work out.
I'm reading tonight.
You can jam with
one of my poems.
What do you mean?
Well, I mean,
I'll give you a poem,
and we can trade lines.
A-B, A-B, kind of thing,
you know?
Mix it up.
It'll be fun.
Oh.
Why would I do that?
You've got to get
back up
on that horse.
What horse?
I'm not going
to read your poem.
You got a problem
with my poems?
They're not good enough for you?
Ah, it's not the point,
okay? It's not my style.
Oh. Not...
Not political enough for you?
Yeah, m-maybe.
I found your poem...
a bit soft, you know?
Soft?
Yeah, I need
more balls.
Balls?
You were just crying.
I had angst!
You don't like my poetry.
[groans] What's with
all this French stuff?
You know? Why...Why with
all the French references?
It makes
no sense to me.
J'adore France.
But you've
never even been.
It's the language
of romance.
Well, you know, German
is the language of poetry.
Well, Persia
is the land of poetry.
Well, Vancouver has
more poets per block
than any other city
in the world.
Is that true?
It's because
of the rain.
Hmm...we say that
in Iran too.
There is something
about the rain.
Okay, I'll be there.
I'll make it work.
[rain pattering]
See?
He likes you.
No.
[Muezzin singing the Azan]
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
Salaam aleykam.
Salaam.
My name
is Hassan Saeady.
I'm Rosie Ming.
I know.
You like Shiraz?
It's very beautiful.
I hope you are enjoying
your stay in our country.
Thank you.
I know him.
Mehran Ardalan.
My father?
You know him?
We were in military school
together, in America.
America?
Yes, your father
and I
and 13 others were
training to be pilots,
and were sent to study
in Pensacola, Florida.
Flight school?
We also trained
at the Naval Academy
in Newport,
Rhode Island, U.S.A.
The Shah sent us
over to America.
He was good friends
with America.
Beautiful country,
beautiful houses,
scenery, women.
Oh, such beautiful women.
Yes. We were all
new, young officers.
Very, very young.
The Islamic Revolution happened,
and we were all offered asylum
in the United States.
13 of us accepted.
But your father, Mehran, and me,
we were different.
We didn't want
to leave our families.
We didn't want
to leave our country.
We thought the revolution
would be a good thing...
a change.
When we came back,
your father was rejected
by the military
because of his family's
close ties to the Shah.
He has no work,
then his father dies.
He never told me
any of that.
I just remember
he was pretty harsh.
I guess that's his
military training.
We don't always
tell everything to the children.
He is a very proud man,
your father.
He would be
very proud of you.
Then why did
he leave us?
Why did he never
come back?
Oh, he missed his
real family more?
Rosie.
You are his daughter.
How could you
say that?
No, no, that's okay.
I'm completely
fine with it.
I'm cool.
Excuse me.
I've got
some research to do.
What did I say?
[bell rings]
Salaam.
Salaam aleykam.
Uh, do you have
any Mandarin/English
dictionaries?
Oh, no, this is
an Iranian bookstore.
Oh...right.
We have
Farsi/English dictionaries,
and we have
Farsi/Mandarin
dictionaries.
Oh! Okay. Um...
I'll take one of each.
[birds singing]
S alaam.
Salaam.
I'm Rosie Ming,
and I was wondering
if you wouldn't mind
giving me
your translation
of Di Di's poem?
Oh, I can't read this either.
Would you like me
to translate it
into English for you?
Uh, no, actually,
I want to do that.
I know
what you need.
You want to challenge
yourself.
You are just like
your father.
He would be
very proud of you.
How is it that everybody here
knows my father?
You are on a search,
so everywhere you look,
you will find...
Oh, and Cyrus Kazimi
has told everybody.
Everybody is looking
for him for you.
Well, my father, apparently,
was a fighter pilot.
I don't think
he'd be particularly impressed
by my poetry.
This is Iran.
Everyone
cares about poetry,
and your father
especially.
He was my teacher.
Teacher?
He was
my poetry teacher,
and, uh, he taught
me English.
Very good, yes?
[quietly]: English? Poetry?
[Sassan]:
He was a young man,
and it was
when the revolution was new.
A lot of people
took on new jobs.
I was very bad in English.
He said that I must not give up,
that it was a window
into a bigger world out there.
He wrote a poem
about a jet once.
We liked those stories.
[Rosie]: I can't believe
my father was a poet.
Because
he was a fighter?
Uh, because he had
no compassion!
Figures he would write
a story about a jet.
Rosie!
It is a metaphor!
For pushing your limits,
for, uh, naming
your own freedom.
Poets can be cruel...
[chuckles]
But, uh, I don't think
that was your father.
He was very kind to me.
In fact, his name,
"Mehran," means "kindness."
"Mehr" means "kindness,"
the outgrowth
of love and compassion.
But everybody's
name in Iran
starts with "Mehr."
That's true...
but not mine.
[chuckling]
[announcement]: Thank you all
for enjoying
this afternoon's readings.
Good luck with
your translation.
[announcement]: We will
reconvene this evening
at 8:00 p.m.
Why isn't this Paris?
[♪♪♪]
Mah.
[horn honks]
[Mehrnaz]:
Rumi, you must know,
is perhaps the best known
of the Sufi poets,
whose beliefs include
the idea that human beings
are like the reed
who becomes a flute,
the plaintive sound
of the ney
that cries for its home
in the river.
Rumi writes
that we are like that reed
that longs to be reunited
with our creator.
[Rosie]:
That's beautiful.
Mm-hmm.
[♪♪♪]
[man]: Beshno az ney
chon hekaayat mikonad
Az jodaaye haa shekaayat mikonad
Kaz ney estaan
taa maara bobridehand
Az nafiram mardo zan naalidehand
Sineh Khaaham sharheh
sharheh az faraagh
Taa begooyam
sharheh dardek eshtiaagh
[♪♪♪]
Har kasi ku door shod
as asley khish
Baaz jooyad roozgaare
vasley khish
[applause]
I've been reciting Rumi
for years,
and he always gets to me.
Never be afraid
of your own tears.
[♪♪♪]
[applause]
[lute plays]
[Shahrzad]: Dani ke che migoyad
in bonge robab
Andar peye man
bia o rah ra daryab
Zira be khata rah
bari soye savab
Zira be soal rah
bari soye javab.
[Rosie]:
What is she saying?
[Mehrnaz]: Do you know what
this lute music tells you?
It says, Follow me
and you'll find the way.
Mistakes will make you
stumble towards goodness.
Questions will put you
on the answer pathway.
[cheering and applause]
[Rosie exhales]
[Dietmar exhales]
You sure you want
to do this?
Stimmt. Of course.
We alternate?
In a way. You first.
And there are
no French references.
[laughs] Danke.
You're good!
Uh-huh.
[♪♪♪]
[Rosie]: All good cows
go to heaven, promise.
[Dietmar]:
Muu! Muu! Muu!
Where the grass, I hear...
Sagt die
braune Kuh...
...Is sweeter than clover.
Sie gibt uns
Milch und Butter.
There must be a million cows
I can't see.
Muu! Muu! Muu-clear.
Floating
in that night sky.
Nuu! Nuu! Nuclear!
[Rosie gasps]:
You are so cheeky.
[Dietmar laughs]
Are you trying
to get me into trouble?
Ha. You were
the one
who wrote the
political allegory.
It was not
a political allegory!
It was about...
Yeah, cows.
Yes, cows!
Well, nobody
writes about cows.
You are in a constant
state of denial.
You live in a constant
state of...metaphor.
You were the one with
the Parisian fantasies.
I was merely trying
to lift your poem up
into ecstatic jubilance,
like the Rumi poetry.
[Rosie laughs]:
Ecstatic jubilance?
Yeah, fish, cows,
rivers, sky...
you fit right in.
It's pastoral tradition.
It's not a tradition.
It's just about
the animals.
Well, you found it,
it is a tradition.
You found it by accident,
like everything you do.
[singing]
[singing]
I see you find the
singer attractive.
No.
Well, I saw
you staring.
The...
The song
is so beautiful.
Well, I can
introduce you,
if you want.
[stammers]
I don't want!
Okay, maybe
you already like
someone else.
Hmm?
Oh!
[♪♪♪]
[Rosie]:
These guys are amazing.
[♪♪♪]
They are Kurds
from Guran in the West.
This is a rare treat.
They must be friends
of Cyrus's.
Aejaazeh bedin livaaneh
shomaaro porr konam.
Oh. Merci.
Merci.
This is one of our guests
from Canada, Rosie Ming.
Rosie,
this is a student of mine,
Mouna Abbasi.
I'm sorry.
I thought you were Persian
because of your chador.
Oh! My grandmother
gave it to me to wear.
Oh.
[Cyrus]: Rosie!
Rosie, no,
please, sit here.
Are you comfortable?
Can I get you
some food?
I enjoyed
your reading today.
It was good to see
Dietmar outside of his shell.
And again,
very musical.
[laughs] But
not too musical.
Exactly!
And it fits very much
within our own
Persian tradition
of oral poetry.
I tell you, you are
more Persian than you know.
Salaam.
This is Amir.
He fought in the war
with your father.
He says your father
was a great pilot.
He was not a traitor.
Traitor?
[Amir]: In 1981,
as you know,
Iraq attacked our country.
We were not prepared.
[bombs exploding]
Saddam Hussein attacked us,
and we had no one to fight.
America was helping
arm the Iraqis.
We had 79 fighter planes
in our country.
79! And we had no one
to fly them,
because the old military
had allegiance to the Shah.
We needed everybody.
[♪♪♪]
Your father had to go back
into the military.
We fought for two years
against impossible odds,
and Saddam Hussein
offers us a ceasefire,
a peace.
[bomb explodes]
Your father
had crisis of belief.
We all do sometimes.
He questioned
his belief as a Muslim,
he questioned his belief in
the leaders of his own country.
He fled.
He deserted?
He didn't
believe in war,
in so much
senseless death.
I never knew
he was in the war.
We were all in the war.
Some of us had to fight in it.
But you, you stayed.
[Amir]: I don't know
if I thought it was me
or your father
who was the coward at the time.
I stayed
because I could not imagine
anything else.
I don't blame your father
for leaving,
but you cannot refuse
to fight in a war
and expect to go back
to your own life.
Your life is defined by the war.
I had a wife, a child...
I couldn't leave.
My thoughts were only
for the next day,
that's all.
Are you still
in the Air Force?
[chuckling]
I gave my 30 years
to the military,
and now I am retired.
[deep breath]
Now I can go back to poetry.
How is the translation
coming along?
Oh, God!
The translation!
[frustrated sigh]
Oh, so slow.
So slow!
It takes forever
to go from
Mandarin to Farsi
to English.
It's killing me.
I'm gonna fail
horribly
and humiliate
myself tomorrow.
I don't think so.
Don't be so stuck
on the perfect
translation.
Make it your own.
You know...
Coleman Barks is the most
well-known translator of Rumi,
and he doesn't
read a word of Farsi.
Is that true?
I'm not sure.
But the information
is helpful, no?
It is
your poem now.
Write your poem.
Write what
is inside you.
Write what you know.
What do you need
to write this poem?
[guitar begins to play nearby]
Salaam.
Salaam. Bonjour.
Quelle belle chador.
I, um, I know this is
a strange question,
but I'm wondering
if you could tell me
where I could borrow a guitar
for while?
Wow! Um, merci .
That's very
generous of you.
No problem.
[♪♪♪]
Hey, that's nice.
Aw, it's nothing.
Just a cowboy tune.
I can't really play.
I just need it to write with it.
Nothing like
what you guys do.
Where did you get
that accent?
[chuckles]
I grew up in Paris.
I just do this gig
with the Persian hippies
every once in a while.
It's an excuse to come back
and visit family.
I sure didn't expect
to see this guy here.
You know each other?
We roomed together
at the Sorbonne.
You're from Paris?
Have you, uh...
have you been?
Never.
Oh! You must go!
It's crowded, expensive,
but it is Paris.
Oh.
You must be my guest.
I can't believe you
guys are friends!
How do you think
a no-talent bum like this
could get an invite
to the land of Rumi?
[together]: German
is the language of poetry.
[chuckles]
Do you
like it here?
Yes,
but it's weird.
It seems like every
other person here
knows my father.
But you are looking
for his story, yes?
So you will
find it everywhere.
Someone else told me
the same thing.
It's true. Look.
[man]: Rosie-jun!
You look just
like your father,
and like your mother too!
How would you
know my mother?
Rosie, this is
your cousin, Ramin.
My cousin?
Yes, cousin Rosie-jun.
Oh, how we know
your mother!
Your father only talked
about her and you.
He loved her
so very, very much.
My mother is dead.
And my father abandoned us
when I was seven.
He did not love us.
He did not love me!
Oh, Rosie-jun.
When your father left Iran,
he had to give up everything...
even his identity.
He escaped to Turkey,
trying to get to a country
which would accept him
as a refugee,
but he couldn't get papers
because he had no money.
He stayed in a detainment camp
with other men
who were fleeing something,
mainly from Africa.
But there were
all these beautiful beaches,
and wandering along one day,
he meets your mother, Caroline.
Rumi.
Yes, Rumi.
You speak English?
Cho manam
saayehyeh hosnat,
Bekonam aan che bekardi,
Cho bekhordi to bekhordam,
Cho neshasti to neshastam.
Manama an maste dohool zan,
Ke shodam mast be meydaan
Dohole khish
cho parcham,
Be sareh
neyzeh bebastam.
Cho khosho bi khod shaahi,
Hele khaamoosh cho maahi,
Cho ze hasti berahidam,
Che koshi baaz behastam.
I have no idea
what you just said.
"Now that I am with you,
I shall do as you do.
I shall sit when you sit,
I shall eat when you eat.
I am the drunken drummer
in the circle,
with his drum
held high on the spear.
Your kingdom, free of ego,
full of joy, full of wisdom.
You, dimmed crescent moon,
brighter than full moon.
You...
who freed me from myself.
Being with you
is better than being me."
Now you
speak Farsi.
[both chuckling]
[♪♪♪]
[Ramin]: Your mother had
just graduated from university
in Intercultural Studies.
She was young and curious,
and I think she had never
met anyone in her life
like your father,
and she had the air of someone
who had never been in a war.
I think first
they told themselves
that they got married
so Mehran could go to Canada,
but soon, you were born...
[Rosie]: That
is a pretty story,
but my father
abandoned us.
Did I mention that?
And he never
explained why.
And my mother is dead.
I-I think I may have
mentioned that too.
Rosie-jun,
the story isn't over.
A few years later,
in 1992,
your grandmother,
your father's mother,
became gravely ill,
and we called to him
to tell him.
[phone ringing]
[♪♪♪]
Even though he was not allowed
back into the country,
he came anyway.
We didn't even know
he was going to do that,
to see his mother one more time.
Can you understand that?
If you knew you could
see your mother one last time?
[♪♪♪]
You be a good girl.
Listen to your mother.
I will expect
to hear good reports of you
when I return, okay?
Make me proud, Rosie-jun.
[♪♪♪]
[Ramin]: When your father
arrived in Tehran,
they immediately arrested him.
We didn't know
he was in the country.
We didn't know anything.
And he wasn't allowed
to contact anybody.
His mother died.
No contact.
They keep him in jail
for two years,
and then they let him out,
but his passport is taken away.
He never tried to contact me.
Can you
believe that?
Can you believe a father
would abandon his child?
He did!
He contacted your grandparents.
They wouldn't let him
speak to you.
I-I don't believe that.
But look,
they gave you
his watch.
Is he here?
He is very close.
Does he know I'm here?
He does.
Then why hasn't he
come to see me?
Rosie-jun,
your father is very ill.
He is
in the hospital.
Here.
But you must wait
till morning to see him.
Peyone shabe sia sepidaste.
[♪♪♪]
Rosie?
Call home.
[phone ringing]
Rosie! Rosie, how are you?
We were so worried about you.
Are you eating well?
How is your stomach?
[snaps]: Why did you
give her that watch?
It has nothing to
do with the watch.
Anyway, it was
time she knew.
Rosie. Rosie?
Are you still there, Rosie?
Why...didn't you tell me?
We wanted to protect you.
Do you want to know?
Do you want to know?
Our only child
graduates from university,
says,
"All my friends
go to Europe, Papa.
Don't worry, I'll be okay."
And comes back
married to this man,
a stranger,
who has the saddest eyes
I've ever seen
and will not
talk about his past.
Nothing!
But then...you were born,
and your grandmother and I
were so delighted,
and we thought
maybe this was okay.
You all lived with us
for a while
because your father
couldn't find a job,
and then he got one.
Hey, it's Mehran!
We don't have
to pay.
You have to pay.
He didn't like the way
other Iranians looked at him.
I can understand that.
It was the same for me
when I first came to Canada.
[Mehran sobbing]
Then he heard
his mother was ill,
and he wanted
to go and visit her.
We pleaded with him not to.
[♪♪♪]
[door opens and shuts]
[♪♪♪]
[Caroline sobbing]
Mum?
Mum?
[sobbing]
Where's Dad going?
He's going home.
Why aren't
we going with him?
Oh, it's a complicated
story, baby.
He'll tell you all about it
when he comes back.
[tires squeal]
[screaming]
[crashing]
[monitor beeping]
[Stephen]: We didn't
hear from your father
for almost a year.
We had no idea
what had happened to him,
if he was even still alive.
Then...he called.
[ringing]
All he wanted was for us
to send you to him
because he couldn't
leave Iran.
We didn't think it was safe.
We had already lost
our only baby, Caroline.
We weren't going to lose you.
You were
all we had left
of our little girl.
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
[ringing]
[♪♪♪]
[♪♪♪]
You lied to me.
We didn't want to
lose you, Rosie.
You are our life.
We love you, Rosie!
We love you!
[sobbing]
I'm getting off the phone now.
[♪♪♪]
[Muezzin singing the Azan]
[♪♪♪]
Salaam.
Salaam. Sobh bekeyhr,
khonome.
Um, Ardalan.
Panj.
Ardalan?
Panj.
[sighs]
Panj.
Oh, panj! Panj.
Thank you.
[♪♪♪]
[sobbing]
Mitonam komaketon
konam?
Voy!
You must be Rosie!
It is so clear!
From Canada!
Salaam!
He's gone.
Yes.
I missed him.
Yes. By about
an hour.
[exhaling]
I'm sorry.
Can I just sit
here for a moment?
Of course.
Take all
the time you need.
Your father is a great man.
I'll miss him in this ward.
My father was a bus driver.
[laughing] Was he?
He was a fighter.
That is not the
Mehran Ardalan we know.
Was he...
He was a teacher?
It wouldn't
surprise me.
His family were friends
with the Shah.
Mm.
That wouldn't do anyone
much good these days.
Then, how do you know him?
My father
was killed in the war,
and when your father
came back to Iran,
he took us in
like we were his own,
and he put me
through university
because he wanted to give me
all the things he could not
give his own daughter.
You were my replacement?
No, I wouldn't
put it like that,
but he treated me
like his own daughter.
And he talked about
you endlessly!
Of course, he was talking
about a little girl.
What was his condition?
Oh, your father
came here
with severe pneumonia,
very advanced.
How can you be so happy?
I am very happy
to finally meet you!
You are the reason
I am a doctor now,
because he
couldn't help you
to be what
you wanted to be.
[weeping]
Is he in the morgue?
Morgue? No!
He's at home.
He was just released.
Here is his address.
[knocks]
Salaam?
Salaam.
Hubi...
Arayee Ardalan?
Naa. Inja niste.
Arayee Ardalan?
Naa!
Look.
Yahki misheh biyaad
behem komak koneh In,
yeh khaanoomeh daareh nemidunam
ajagh vajagh behem migeh,
man nemifahmam chi migeh,
yeki biyaad tarjomeh koneh
vaasam nemidunam
yeh saa'atam behem daadeh.
Rosie-jun!
Rosie-jun! Rosie-jun.
We have been waiting for you
for so long.
Rosie-jun. Rosie-jun.
Eyvaay. Eyvaay.
Shohreh, cousin.
Fatima, cousin.
Nilofar, cousin.
Shahla, aunt.
Sophia,
my daughter.
[♪♪♪]
Oh...
you were too young to really
know your father, Rosie-jun.
He does not let much
come between him and his soul.
His heart was so broken
when he heard of the death
of your mother.
We thought
he would never recover.
First, his mother,
then his wife,
then, to never see
his child again.
They all came back.
No forwarding address.
Where is he?
In the hospital.
They told me
he'd be here!
No, he hasn't come here.
What happened?
Did something
happen to him?
Oh, no.
What?
I'm supposed to be performing
in 20 minutes at the festival.
It's okay.
I'll just miss it.
No. You have to go.
It's only five
minutes from here.
No, no, no!
I-I don't want to leave you.
We'll come too.
All of you?
Of course! We're family.
Wait. Wait.
You can't wear that.
Shahlaa, oon roosari
sooratiaro biyaar.
Okay. That will do.
Boro. Boro.
[sniffs]
Salaam.
I just wanted to say
how honoured I am
to have been invited
to this festival,
and the first night,
I was just blown away
by this poem of Di Di's.
Even though I'm part Chinese,
I don't speak Chinese,
and even though I'm
part Persian,
I don't speak Farsi,
so I didn't understand
the translation.
Still, it moved me so much,
but I didn't know
what it meant.
But now...I think I do.
Mah.
Horse.
I saw my father's hands today.
They were hanging by my side.
They were putting on my jacket.
I saw my father's eyes today.
They were checking out a girl.
They were reading a menu.
I saw my father's face today.
A familiar face
in a place
that I do not know.
I saw it in a mirror,
this face.
It looked back at me,
quiet and puzzled, this morning.
Puzzled
that I only now see it.
There,
where it lay waiting.
I watched it, silently,
afraid that if I speak,
I will not hear his voice.
Afraid that if I don't,
I won't hear mine.
[applause]
That's not
your poem.
That's not
your poem?
That's not my poem.
That's her poem.
[applause continues]
Rosie-junam!
Rosie!
[applause]
[♪♪♪]
♪ There's a brown horse
outside ♪
♪ Big and wide ♪
♪ And riderless ♪
♪ All he does is eat ♪
♪ From what I can see ♪
♪ Doesn't bother me ♪
♪ There's a black horse
outside ♪
♪ So dark
I can't see his eyes ♪
♪ He's never seen
saddle nor bit ♪
♪ I think they use him
as a stud ♪
♪ There's a white horse
outside ♪
♪ I see him
glowing in the moonlight ♪
♪ And when he runs to me ♪
♪ I don't know why
I remember I miss my father ♪
♪ It's the sound of the teeth ♪
♪ The grinding
with the breathing ♪
♪ They won't tromp on chickens ♪
♪ But they'll bite your arm off
if you let them ♪
♪ A horse is a big thing
in this world ♪
♪ He sells cigarettes
and the American Dream ♪
♪ He likes to wear shoes
and comb his hair ♪
♪ He's a real looker ♪
♪ And good-tasting too ♪
♪ I see every muscle
in his leg ♪
♪ Every vein in his face ♪
♪ I see his whiskers
messing up his profile ♪
♪ He shakes his head ♪
♪ And I still
see my father ♪
♪ I want the freedom
to run and eat all day ♪
♪ As if that was enough ♪
♪ From fence to fence ♪
♪ I want four legs ♪
♪ Mainly ♪
♪ So I can improve my balance ♪
♪ In this rare world ♪
[♪♪♪]
♪ Beshno az ney
chon hekaayat mikonad ♪
♪ Az jodaaye
haa shekaayat mikonad ♪
♪ Kaz ney estaan
taa maara bobridehand ♪
♪ Az nafiram mardo
zan naalidehand ♪
♪ Sineh Khaaham sharheh
sharheh az faraagh ♪