Last night I felt like watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds again. “Melanie, who is infatuated with Mitch, brings two lovebirds from San Francisco to visit Cathy, Mitch’s sister, and their mother, who live in a small seaside town. She takes a boat to that harbor town.With her arrival, suddenly everything in Bodega Bay falls apart.The birds, agitated by this disruption, attack the town’s residents and…” Is the charming, beautiful Melanie a symbol of sin and seduction?Is she the devil? Or is she the embodiment of love? In the end, Melanie, Mitch, his mother, and Cathy escape from that hell and…
Author: Reza Mahdavi Hezaveh
Reza Mahdavi Hezaveh
Reza Mahdavi Hezaveh (born 1969) holds a Master's degree in Theater from Islamic Azad University of Tehran. He is currently a faculty member in the Art Department at Azad University of Arak and is active in various cultural fields. He has served as the editor-in-chief of the arts magazine Neshani, and has authored hundreds of essays and critiques on literature and art in both local and national publications. He has published several books, including collections of short stories and essays. His professional activities include organizing art festivals, serving on juries, as well as teaching and conducting workshops on creativity, writing, and storytelling.
It was morning.Rain was falling.The children were running around the orange tree in the villa’s yard.Whenever they screamed,the clouds would tremble.Soraya had forgotten to bring the wet clothes in from the rope they were hanging to dry The world was full of promises,and isn’t it promises that keep us alive?There was a promise tucked in all our shirt pockets:“That tomorrow we’ll go to the foothills of Damavand mountain. Not the summit.”Just getting to Hoseynabad would be enough.So we could watch Casablanca for the hundredth time, beside Soraya. Then we’d drink tea—Lahijan tea.Then smoke a cigarette,one of those flavored ones.Like cocoa…
I think about collective dread. About pandemics, wars, and conflicts—ethnic, tribal, religious, and the world wars that mark turning points in history.I think about the Mongol invasion, during the reign of the witless Sultan Mohammad Khwarazmshah. Iran, under the hooves of Mongol horses, was plunged into nationwide grief and sorrow. The outcome of foolishness is sorrow—and since nothing is everlasting, suffering and grief begin to unravel the moment they are born. I remember James Cameron’s Titanic. While all the ship’s passengers are desperately seeking salvation, a few musicians, indifferent to the looming death, continue to play music for nearly two…
🔸 “Arghavan (Redbud), what secret is it that each time spring arrives, it brings mourning to our hearts?” In the hour of evening sorrow, and remembering the famous poem by Ebtahaj — that same Arghavan — I go to my library.I do not allow the news of war into my room of books. I flip through Hafez of Shiraz. Ah, the last line of the omen:”I said: Did you see how the time of joy came to an end?”He said: Hush, Hafez, this sorrow too shall pass.” I go to the kitchen. I brew some tea.I whisper: “This sorrow too…
War broke out. Music, theater, cinema, and books were all shut down.Today, in the streets of the industrial city, people’s eyes were on the sky—not to see the moon and stars, but to see missiles and fire. War broke out. Yesterday was my shift to take care of Dad. Dad is sensitive to light and sound.I sat awake in the dark. I checked my phone. News of the war poured out from the screen, and soon I was surrounded by missiles and blood. War broke out. I remember when war broke out in 1980 as well. I was ten then.Even…