Time: An autumn afternoon in 1964
Place: One of the underprivileged villages in Kerman, Iran
The schoolchildren had gone home. A flock of sheep kicked up dust as they returned from pasture with the shepherd. Milk cows were making their solitary, slow way back to their homes and barns. From the west entrance of the village, a car’s dust trail shimmered in the pale autumn sunlight, casting a golden hue over the scene. A Land Rover reached the main square of the village. A loudspeaker mounted to its roof invited the villagers to gather in the square for a film screening. The entrance wall of the village school served as an ideal screen for the traveling cinema.
News spread like wildfire through the village. The Land Rover’s driver spoke with the school principal, and curious children standing around were dispatched to bring wooden classroom chairs to the square. A white sheet was nailed atop the school wall, and everyone waited for the screening to begin.
Gradually, all the children of the village arrived, buzzing with excitement. The adults followed too, dressed in their best clothes, carrying snacks and sunflower seeds, taking their seats on the chairs. The school principal and his family sat in a specially arranged section.
Mosh Morad (Mashhadi Morad) and his family joined the crowd. Mashhadi Nour-Mohammad, who from birth had suffered from facial and hand muscle disorders and speech difficulties, appeared riding his donkey and parked next to the Land Rover but did not dismount.
Mosh Kolsoum, a short, dark, and witty old nanny, appeared from afar. She wore a loose, long dark dress with a frilly skirt reaching her ankles, and a long scarf wrapped several times over her headscarf, making her resemble a chess pawn. She moved as if gliding across the ground.
She hadn’t even arrived yet when she began teasing Nour-Mohammad:
“Nour-Mahad, did you buy a ticket for your donkey too?”
Nour-Mahad mumbled an unintelligible protest and shook his cane in mock threat.
Aghā Darvish and Karbalā’i Agha Behzād also arrived, the latter’s beard dyed orange with henna. He asked the cinema staff to show a film about the Hajj pilgrimage someday so the villagers could benefit spiritually, and received a vague promise.
Mones Lander (in the local dialect, “Lander” refers to idle people) was known for his evil eye—villagers claimed his gaze could even crack stone! He leaned into this reputation, turning it into a subtle source of income. Strangely enough, even animals disliked him, growing restless in his presence. To neutralize his evil eye, villagers often offered him small gifts—an informal insurance, if you will.
It was enough for him to see something nice and say “Wow!” or “What a beautiful child!” without uttering Mashallah (God bless) for people to panic. They’d immediately urge him to say Mashallah and grease his palm.
Now Mones Lander showed up, loudly exclaiming, “What a spectacle you’ve set up here!”
Mosh Kolsoum muttered, “God help us—his evil eye is gonna ruin everything!”
The cinema man brought out a small gas-powered generator, setting it up a short distance from the Land Rover, connecting the projector’s cable to it. The chattering sound of the generator was annoying but worth enduring.
The children grew restless waiting for “cinema” to begin (at that time, the word “cinema” referred to the whole experience). The sky was dark enough for the white sheet to reflect the projected light. The multi-tasking driver hooked up a boxy loudspeaker, running a cable to the base of the screen, microphone in hand. The screeching feedback from the speaker made everyone cover their ears. At the same moment, Nour-Mohammad’s donkey spooked and kicked the generator. Māh-Nesā (known as Māhi), an older woman and local fortune-teller, grumbled: “Damn this thing, it’s deafening!”
The driver/projectionist again announced that the film would begin shortly and asked everyone to stay quiet and pay attention.
Karbalā’i Behzād requested the crowd to send a prayer for the cinema man’s health to ward off the evil eye. The 16mm projector was placed on a plank on the Land Rover’s roof.
At last, the wait ended. The projectionist started the projector. At first, only some odd white lines appeared, then English countdown numbers began—10, 9, 8… on 3, a small beep sounded, and the word Malaria appeared as the title. The film had begun.
It opened with an extreme close-up of a malaria mosquito. The narrator started speaking in English, prompting a murmur among the audience. The driver, now acting as interpreter, grabbed the mic and said: “Anything spoken in a foreign language, I’ll explain to you. Please just stay quiet…”
He began reading from a prepared sheet, explaining the dangers of malaria and how to fight it.
Ebrahim—known locally as Beraheem—was a mostly illiterate man who faked being educated by always keeping a pen in his pocket. After much practice, he had learned to write his name in a messy scrawl and designed an impressive-looking signature. Unlike most villagers who signed land reform papers with a fingerprint, Beraheem proudly declared, “I don’t fingerprint, I sign!”
Now Beraheem shouted: “Sir, what kind of mosquito is this, bigger than Nour-Mahad’s donkey! If this thing bites you, you’d turn to ashes on the spot. How do those foreigners even survive with these monsters around?!”
Gradually, the villagers’ trust in the film’s message waned. Later scenes about DDT or malathion spraying and draining stagnant water were ignored. People were too disturbed by the monstrous image of the insect—some even joked it had ties to the supernatural.
The film ended with aerial shots of swamps being sprayed by airplanes and a narrator saying that officials would soon come to spray your homes too.
Māh-Nesā said: “Over my dead body will they spray my home and belongings!”
After about half an hour, the film ended. Karbalā’i Behzād once again called for a prayer for the cinema man’s health. The driver/projectionist rewound the reel and placed it in its metal canister. The crowd, more intrigued by the man’s equipment and actions than the film itself, watched every move as he packed up. The white sheet was taken down from the wall.
The school principal invited the projectionist to spend the night at his home and head to the next village the following day.
The crowd quickly dispersed. Kolsoum teased Nour-Mahad: “Tonight, those mosquitoes will haunt your dreams!” then burst into laughter. Nour-Mahad waved his stick at her in mock anger and walked off toward home.
The school principal shouted: “Students, help return the chairs to the classrooms!”
The children lifted chairs onto their heads, walking single-file like ants each carrying a grain of wheat to its nest.
The next day, the Land Rover left the village.
An hour later, news came from the next village: the Land Rover had blown a tire, veered off the road, and fallen into a ditch.
Mones Lander grinned mischievously. The villagers went back to their daily routines—except for Mussa, a remarkably gifted young man known for copying tools and building models. He couldn’t sit still. All he could think about was building a projector.
