‘This time, though, in The Road Above and the other nine short documentaries comprising the Fruit of Our Labour collection, we see Afghanistan through more nuanced eyes, in images that may strike as familiar to some Iranians and unfamiliar to most Americans. In this Afghanistan, mothers and daughters eat breakfast together. They sit cross-legged on hand-woven rugs, tear at lavash or taftoon bread, and sip from tea in tall glass mugs. They speak about the day to come – a day in which even here, in a place we are told not to expect the stirrings of life, trips to the seamstress will be made; bazaars will hum with a thousand brilliant colours; fruit vendors will mix smoothies to lure new customers; cosmetologists will line the almond eyes of young beauties, and culture, quite simply, will continue to function amidst the turmoil’
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Pashtun girl, Afghanistan.
It was Brecht who said that we remember wounds because they leave scars. Kisses don’t. Neither does caressing. But sadness and violence leave marks and trails. Evidence on you. Evidence reinforces itself in memory. Memory is programmed to retain, to keep, to visit over and over again. Not to forget, let alone forgive. You could say a vivid memory can easily become a device of torture.
is it cold in here or is that just my heart
Urdu has about a billion words for love/heart/lovers/spurning/the agony of love. YOU HAVE BURNED MY HEART.
One of the most beautiful things about Urdu is its dual-meanings for words related to love. For instance, as some of you have seen before, dhalna which means sunset also means slowly becoming attracted to someone. Dil mai dhal jana = To grow fond of (romantic sense). Dil-jala (shown above) is used for lover but also for someone whose heart is - as Urdu poets say - singed with the ache for their beloved.
HQ version of Peeta’s painting of Rue
Adriaen van de Venne. Detail from A Merry Company in an Arbor, 1615.