Dancing with Dissonance

For years I have fantasized about living off the grid  like my Grandfather and his wife Sonja. The small plot of river rock and mountain terrain up the Rogue River in  Oregon was inherited by Grandpa from my great grandmother. When Grandpa married Sonja, the isolated haven was a small one-room cabin with a covered porch for sleeping and an outhouse. For decades after their union, the two kept each other company while building what is now a three-story estate, an ideal retreat from the world where one can comfortably hide away and disappear into God’s green earth.

Photo Courtesy: Hamad Darwish

Though the location was reliably welcoming, visiting with Grandpa was touch and go; his dual personality often left me trepid to approach until I was certain he was amiable enough for interaction. Sonja, on the other hand, was a comforter. Availing herself to company she actively listened to my rampant ramblings about life on the outside. The chaos and confusion I often dumped at her feet she would simply sweep up with a perfunctory “humph!” Then she’d add two or three sentences of summary intelligence like a professor might give on the last day of classes prior to the test. She was clever with words and critical in thought without enrolling herself as the smartest kid in the class. In fact, despite her keen mind, she never had any hint of haughty pride, instead condemning leaders of academia as banal squids whoring for Satan himself.  Her stream-of-conscious thoughts consistently reflect her general philosophy of American culture and society: burn it all down and let a woman do it right next time.

This, I believe, is what attracted my Grandfather. To keep company with this sort of man (one who was best kept to himself,) required a woman with particular sensibilities. First, she would have to enjoy spending time alone and be secure in herself without need for attention. Secondly, while in his company she would be both intellectually engaging in conversation (as she would often be the only person to talk to for months at a time) and able to hold her own should her position ever go against his opinion. Sonja was particularly adept at this latter sensibility, liberally voicing her independent thoughts. What is most respectable, however, was her ability to yield; though she possessed courage to stand up to the old bear on matters of the world, she was expected to submit to his final say on matters related to the home. When I was in my twenties, I would often scoff when she conceded to Grandpa’s austere dictations. She was free to express her outside views so long as they didn’t interfere with his in house authority. This seemed to undermine her liberty, reducing her outspoken insight to backyard clucking of a caged hen. 

What I failed to recognize then is perfectly clear to me now as I come to the near end of my thirties. The spirit of independence is conditional. Freedom has a price. Sonja married a man who would provide an idyllic life, surrounded by peace and beauty, without financial worries, or worldly stress and strife. In return, she would need to comply with his conditions, the last of which are now being outlined in his will. My grandfather died in March of this year. He left her a comfortable endowment with rights to remain at the cabin indefinitely. This latter liberty, however, is shared with grandpa’s oldest son, my uncle, a man known for his fixed, highly competitive character. He believes that whoever gets the most toys in the end wins, whereas Sonja knows it doesn’t matter in the end ‘cause your dead! Despite the philosophical mismatch, it was my grandfather’s wish that they cooperate in the administration of his estate. This mandate is like tethering an eagle to a bull’s yoke. Sonja is free to reign as she chooses so long as she reduces herself to fit under my uncle’s hoof.  This restriction is compounded by her isolation. She is now a woman alone, left to her own defense, or if poorly handled, her demise. Questions arise as a result of this consignment: What is the cost of freedom? Is it worth the sacrifice?

Answers to these questions differ depending on what part of the world a woman lives. To the modern Western woman, the freedom to smoke or attend a competitive sporting event is a trite right. For an Iranian woman, the price for enjoying such freedoms might be her life. Thus, a comparative analysis between a woman’s freedom in the Western world and the Middle East is fallacious. Comparisons of any kind are futile regardless; they set up conditions for competition, the one who has suffered more wins. The winner’s wounds are determined more critical and therefore more worthy of attention. The loser is dismissed, her experience downgraded to a paper cut. One woman is affirmed at the cost of ignoring the other. Thus, many women suffer silently and become complacent rather than complain. When frustrated by my own trials as a single mom, I hear my internal critic: “Divorced? Try being born where women are beaten or imprisoned if seen without a male escort!”. This caustic condemnation serves its purpose; I swallow my voice. 

Still, considering the price of freedom is a worthy inquiry if only to set the sliding scale, it’s measurement a useful tool for perspective. We can see more clearly our own circumstances in light of, rather than compared to, another woman’s struggle. Iranian director Jafar Panahi attempts to explore this cost in rial. Panahi openly asserts that his films are generally concerned with the "humanitarian aspects of things,"¹ but as his film The Circle reveals, he has a talent for pinpointing particularities; most notably the struggle of women in an oppressive society. The Circle is a drama that exposes the disparate reality for women in Iran. Panahi is able to capture the essence of institutionalized repression by taking snapshots throughout a single day, using the circumstances of four unrelated women as a means to develop a full picture. Viewed as a complete display, the separate episodes reveal a common framework: all women are caged in some way. 

If Maya Angelou knew why the caged bird sings, Panahi knows the song Iranian women are singing. The lyrics vary, as each woman’s story is unique, but the thrumming bass is consistent, that low, guttural instinct that warns, pleads, screams – “set us free!”. The Circle plays this melody like an anthem as each woman determines how she chooses to resolve her captivity. Fear and repression demand either rebellion or submission. If she settles with her internment, she sacrifices her divine potential; her spiritual and emotional life suffer and die. If she attempts escape, she may lose her physical life. It would seem either way, whether bound or emancipated, the price is nothing less than everything. I have to wonder if this is the meaning behind Christ’s exhortation: “He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.”²  The inference here is that the sacrifice is, in fact, worth it.

What strikes me about The Circle is the metaphorical circle itself: the coming together of two opposing points to create a union, whole and complete. Panahi holds the tension that builds as dichotomies merge.  It strikes me, however, that we are left to questions how the tension is resolved. How is peace finally made from coming full circle?

This is the same question I asked at the end of Tuya’s Marriage. Wagn Qua’nan exposes the stark contrasts within a country. Set in inner Mongolia, Tuya’s hardships offer the ultimate definition to what it means to work for a living. A shepherd’s life is far from idyllic, fraught with difficulty. This is compounded by Tuya’s disabled husband Bater who is unable to assist with the arduous daily duties. When Tuya’s suffers from her own back injury, she is faced with a difficult choice. In the end, divorcing Bater is a practical decision, as is finding a new husband. The conditions she sets up for her many suitors, however, are not so convenient. Her husband-to-be must be willing to allow Bater to remain in Tuya’s care after marriage. Her enduring compassion for her former husband is the well from which the conflict is drawn. How can the new husband maintain his honor when another man is living in his house? Honor and shame are the two poles that push and shove each other up to the very end. The battle results in Tuya’s tears, the same scene marking both the beginning and the end. The full circle appears again.

A circle is the merging of dichotomies, holding what is and what is not in one hand: isolation/communion, rebellion/submission, restriction/freedom, justice/mercy, life/death. The marriage of such opposites is a paradoxical feat. Intimate power would be at the fingertips of she who managed the merger. For most of us the disharmony is more like the terrifying screech from two cars colliding. Yet, the joining is in fact the very definition of love, as professed in Mira Nair’s Kama Sutra: A Tale of Love. Real love is the hardest task of all, “a work for which all other work is but preparation.” When we choose to act in love we reach a turning point in the circle, “where each becomes both. Imagine such a place!”³ Yes, the union is so fantastic it seems it can only be imagined. Therein lies our challenge while on this earth: to become one with, rather than pushing against, what is, from our own viewpoints, an oppositional force set against us. 

This charge brings to mind a chapter from my all time favorite film Waking Life. In this scene, a nameless character poetically professes that “Our eyesight is here as a test to see if we can see beyond it.” The ironies of life are part of who we become as “co-authors of this dancing exuberance where even our inabilities are having a roast.” He suggests that we dance with this dissonance, even though “the paradoxes bug me, I can learn to love and make love to the paradoxes that bug me.”⁴ It would seem that the purpose for absurd contradictions is to stretch and expand our ability to make peace within the war. The moment we are able to do this we come full circle; we enlarge our capacity to live a full life. 

I received a phone call from Sonja recently. She was surprised when I answered the phone; apparently she was trying to call someone else but dialed my number instead. “Divine intervention” she said. I had been waiting for a response to a letter I had sent, an attempt to clear up confusion surrounding my grandfather’s estate. She thought I wanted something other that what I had requested: a pair of his reading glasses, a memento that summed up my view of him. Grandpa’s vision, though impaired at times, saw the world as it was and is. His practical realism grounded my utopian hopes for what is to come, giving me a sense of balance to better live in the here and now. 

Comments

Great job! cant wait for the next one.

Excellent in every way.

Well done!

Keep writing, write on!