First take
Nazgol
jumps in the air; as she turns the volume up on TV, she says: listen to this
news, this is my student’s idea. Nazgol and I laugh cuz tomorrow we have to
tell Asef that they have stolen his idea. Nazgol asked others to be quiet but
they laughed cuz she wanted to tell them about making a humongous tank. While I
was photocopying exam questions, I hear Asef from behind the pigsty we had
transformed into a class; he’s reciting his golden phrase: ‘One day I will make
the most gigantic unmanned tank in the world.’ Nazgol has come to take the exam
papers. She’s flat, she looks at me and says: Do you hear what he says?
Second take
Everyone
has two manikins, one is the Iranian “self” and the other is the Afghan “self”.
They have to wear clothes on their manikins and talk about their characters.
Asef drew a skeleton on the cloth he wore on his Iranian self, spiked his hair,
trimmed his eyebrows thin and drew a vicious grin on his lips. He wrote: ‘I am
unidentified in Iran, my Iranian self is a bad boy who doesn’t respect anyone.
If I stay in Iran five more years, my Iranian self becomes an unruly and crude
boy.’ His Afghan self has a side part hair, long sleeves with a big grin and a
bubble out of his mouth which says: ‘forgive me Afghanistan for I could not
help you in these years.’ Fatemeh looks at Asef’s manikin and says: ‘Miss! Asef
wants to crush America.’ Asef says: ‘I want to organize world’s largest army, I
want to die with bomb and bullet.’ Fatemeh asks: ‘You mean you wanna become a
martyr?’ Asef says: ‘No, I want to be killed with a bomb before an American
chops my head off with his blunt knife.’ He turns to me and says: ‘Cuz you die
instantly with bomb and missile.’
Third take
I’m standing on the stairs at the entrance of the yard as I shout: ‘Get out! Pour out everything that weighs on your heart, pour them out on these empty walls.’ All of them have a coloured chalk in their hand. All of them are excited. I go inside. When I come out, I see Asef standing on the ladder. He’s writing something, which turns out to be: ‘Afghanistan! I love you, I love you so much.’ When he sees me, he asks uncertainly: ‘I wrote this, is it ok?’ I shrug my shoulder and say: ‘What’s the problem?’ He looks at the local women who came out of the kitchen and says hesitantly: ‘I don’t know.’ The local women don’t seem to care. Maybe it’s because they can’t read his handwriting or maybe because they can’t read at all. They pat me on my shoulder, laugh at each other and say: ‘How beautiful this wall has become!’ From the next day, they all pass between the walls and go to the kitchen. From the next day, every child who wants to drink water, passes between the walls to go to the drinking fountain. From the next day, we all stagger in the yard between the children’s paintings and writings. From the next day, Asef becomes a little, just a little calm. One day as he was going to the class, he suddenly stops, stares at me and says: ‘They caught my dad and sent him back to Afghanistan. Now my mother and I are alone.’
Fourth take
It’s like magic. If it weren’t, no one would carve one’s name on a bench or a tree. If it weren’t, no one would write slogans on the walls. If it weren’t, no one would publish books. Pouring out is magic, documenting is magic and so is immortality. Whenever I think of war, -no matter where in this world- of weary people with dusty kit bags, torn shoes and angry faces, the image of Asef comes in front of my eyes. It’s been two years; he disappeared in June, out of the blue. Maybe he’s back to Afghanistan with his mother, maybe not. Sometimes I see the 11-year-old Asef in Milad; in Milad and in tens of other kids, that because of this war, want to make the most gigantic tank in the world.
Third take
I’m standing on the stairs at the entrance of the yard as I shout: ‘Get out! Pour out everything that weighs on your heart, pour them out on these empty walls.’ All of them have a coloured chalk in their hand. All of them are excited. I go inside. When I come out, I see Asef standing on the ladder. He’s writing something, which turns out to be: ‘Afghanistan! I love you, I love you so much.’ When he sees me, he asks uncertainly: ‘I wrote this, is it ok?’ I shrug my shoulder and say: ‘What’s the problem?’ He looks at the local women who came out of the kitchen and says hesitantly: ‘I don’t know.’ The local women don’t seem to care. Maybe it’s because they can’t read his handwriting or maybe because they can’t read at all. They pat me on my shoulder, laugh at each other and say: ‘How beautiful this wall has become!’ From the next day, they all pass between the walls and go to the kitchen. From the next day, every child who wants to drink water, passes between the walls to go to the drinking fountain. From the next day, we all stagger in the yard between the children’s paintings and writings. From the next day, Asef becomes a little, just a little calm. One day as he was going to the class, he suddenly stops, stares at me and says: ‘They caught my dad and sent him back to Afghanistan. Now my mother and I are alone.’
Fourth take
It’s like magic. If it weren’t, no one would carve one’s name on a bench or a tree. If it weren’t, no one would write slogans on the walls. If it weren’t, no one would publish books. Pouring out is magic, documenting is magic and so is immortality. Whenever I think of war, -no matter where in this world- of weary people with dusty kit bags, torn shoes and angry faces, the image of Asef comes in front of my eyes. It’s been two years; he disappeared in June, out of the blue. Maybe he’s back to Afghanistan with his mother, maybe not. Sometimes I see the 11-year-old Asef in Milad; in Milad and in tens of other kids, that because of this war, want to make the most gigantic tank in the world.
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