Essay from Z.I. Mahmud

Image of a light skinned young woman with a knit sweater and short blonde hair up in a bun holding a copy of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, which has black and white cartoon images of a family up against a black background and green and white text.

Critically examine Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis” as a graphic novel. Or 

Discuss the significance of the veil in Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis. Or 

How are the Islamic fundamentalists represented in the book Persepolis? What suggestions does Satrapi make about the relationship between faith and fanaticism?

Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis” is the woven into the new found literary form positing the new found respectability of book length graphic novels—-accessible, vernacular and with mass popular appeal—-historicized memorabilia corresponding to mass murder, massacre, genocide, holocaust, brutality, harassment, execution and bombing amidst Iran-Iraq war. Fragmented, disembodied, and divided between frames suggestive of psychological trauma as connoted in the epiphany of “The Veil”. A visual chronicle of childhood rooted and articulated through momentous, and traumatic and historic events about the verbal and visual practice of never forgetting.

An unsmiling veiled girl sitting with her arms crossed in the center of the frame. She situates the exposition to the reader “This is me when I was 10 years old […] This was in 1980.” A hand, a bent elbow, and chest length veil separates herself from the class photography as spacings within pictorial frame purports disruption of her own characterological presence. An icon of single eye, directly engaging the reader, dangling over the book’s very first gutter, reminding readers at the outset that we are aligned with Satrapi’s penetrating vision and enabling retracing of that vision: “I give myself this duty of witnessing.” A crowd of masses throwing their fists in the air in front of a stark black background represents Islamic Revolution and then the veiling mandate of 1980. 

Persepolis narrates the trials and tribulations of precocious Marji and her upperclass leftist parents exasperation with the Iranian political regime; and Marji’s pricked consciousness ; holocausts, homicides and suicides of friend circle and family relations; havoc wreaked by Iraq-Iran geopolitical crises and Marji;s fierce and dangerous outspokenness eventually inspires her parents to deport her abroad at a safer sheltered asylum away from the trepidation and perturbance; her mother becomes comatose state of being as Marji departs Iran.

Satrapi’s text is framed diegetically and externally to the introductory injunctions of “never forgetting” as Uncle Anoosh, the naxalite prisoner advises her niece during executionary wish-fulfillment: “Our family memory must not be lost. Even if it isn’t easy for you, even if you don’t understand it at all.” Satrapi’s multiple autobiographical voices illustrative of the vignettes of selves——-Satrapi’s older and recollective voice registering of overarching narrative text while the younger and directly experiencing voice registering of dialogue and throughout pictorial space——the visual voice.

States of being of memory and matter of factness reinforce Satrapi’s renegotiations between versions of herself showing us the visual and discursive process of never forgetting. Satrapi unfolds the procedure of memory through spatializing form of comics, which visualizes and enmeshes overlapping of selves and their locations. Persepolis’s presentation of pictorial space is discursive. Satrapi displays the political horror of producing and marking ordinary childhood by offering what seems to the reader to be the visual disjuncture in her child’s eye rendition of trauma.

This expressionism weaves the process of memory into the book’s technique of visualization. Satrapi’s stark style is monochromatic—–there is no evident shading technique; she offers black and white. However the visual emptiness of simple, ungraded blackness in frames showcase the depthness of the condition of remembrance as pointed out by Kate Flint’s words: “maybe elicited by the deliberate empty spaces, inviting the projection of that which can be seen only in the mind’s eye to an inviting vacancy.” 

Persian miniatures, murals and friezes of public skirmishes appear as stylized and symmetrical bodies, surfeiting mere mimetic representations interlaced with the Persianness of historical avant-garde. “I was born in a country in a certain time, and I was witness to many things. I was a witness to a revolution. I was a witness to war. I was a witness to a huge emigration”——collective ethos of harrowing sense of death casts her imaginative selfhood to a culture pervaded by violence and retribution. Penultimate panel of “The Letter” suggests the Iranian landscapes and the grimly grotesque configuration of horizontally stretched out and abstractly stacked corpses/ mass dead bodies. “We had demons demonstrated on that very day we shouldn’t have: on Black Friday. That day there was so many killed in one neighbourhoods that a rumour spread that Israeli soldiers were responsible for the slaughter.” 

“The Cigarette” in “The Persepolis” demonstrates three-tiers of imbrications of the historical routine [execution] and the personal routine [sneaking cigar] depicting blindfolded prisoners about to be executed against a wall, directly above and below frames in which we view Marji in that prosaic, timeless rite of initiation: smoking her first cigar. This retrospective mode of narratorial address to the audience from within the pictorial space of the frame and the body politic of tender hearted Marjai is unusual in the text; blurring of voices and register here works with the blurrings of the historical and the everyday registers that is also part of the narrative suggestion of the page.

Ethical, verbal and visual practice of not forgetting is not merely about exposing and challenging the virulent machinations of historicization but is more specifically about examining and bearing witness to the intertwining of the everyday and the historical. Its polemical resonance lies in the fact that visually virtuosic is required to represent the political trauma that plagues Marji’s childhood. Persepolis is thus the reimagination and reconstruction that retraces the literal growing child body in space, reinscribing that body to generate a framework in which versions of selfsome stripped of agency, in which some are possessed by it——-in productive conversation. Persepolis’ feminist graphic narrative harnesses visibility politics magnified by the lenses of visual ethics aesthetics showcasing the censured and censored through representation and resymbolization. 

McCloud pointed out that segmented pictorial illustrations in the form of comic book or graphic novel transforms the temporal relationships into the spatial matrix. Pictorial framing can be related to ideological framing——-the filtering of information, of news, of times, of identities, of nationalities and gender——through templates and through structures of feelings that produce predetermined judgements of values narrativized translations of experience. “We the kids in America” become the epitome of the youth generation’s voice as an ideological frame narrative symbolic of Western cultural imperialism intruding as a lurking anthem in the Marjane Satrapi frame-within-frame fantasy of Western counter cultural identity in the image of Kim Wilde.

Satrapi’s bricolage and appropriation, borrowing, mixture of heterogeneous culture resonates both state societal interpellation as pedagogical and civil societal interpellation as performativity that both function as frames and mirrors of self. Both constructs of fictions of the self. Marjane Satrapi’s grandmother advices the granddaughter: “But there is nothing worse than bitterness and vengeance […] Always keep your dignity and be true to yourself”, while the latter embracing folding cuddling of the former. “I smelled my grandmother’s bosom. It smelled good. I cannot forget that smell” resonates Proustian motif with the advice bestowed upon by the family matriarch about the jerks she is destined to meet throughout her life.

Lacanian terms of prelinguistic and extralinguistic formation of subjectivity—-the contrast in Persepolis is not only between a prelinguistic visual reflection of the self and an adult linguistic reflection, but the non visual bodily and sensory reflection of the self in the matriarch other and the visual and the exilic reflection of the self outside home and nation. The mirrored frames of the panels function in Persepolis as subjective fragmentation, unstability and uncertainty. Satrapi’s exodus life is as diasporic selfhood re establishes the cultural icon of hijab as the symbolic icon of familiarity of national and familial belonging casting off claustrophobic marginalization: “so much for my individual and social liberties […] I need so badly to go home.” 

Marjane Satrapi’s contrasting frame of panels demarcating bachelorette virginity and consummated maidenhood by her reflections of brightly smiling long hair, makeup and short wear with trimmed laces, and sitting in front of a window overlooking a garden of birds; and Marjane’s reflection of a girl smoking cigar, wearing black pants and shirts, sitting in front of a dark night. Adulthood and independent agency reciprocate her mother’s amity with the tenderly hugging in the event and divorce of the daughter with the fiance Reza. Iran’s borders/cultures/geopolitics were clandestinely breached by the import of Westernization though the imposition of hegemonic tradition and culture such as Nike Shoes and Michael Jackson Badge smuggled by Satrapi’s parents from Turkey. Shallow consumerism by emulation of Western fashion overthrown to indictment that ultimately enforced diasporic exodus. Marjane’s expedition in pursuance of cassettes entails her knowledgeable and feisty dealings with the male black marketeers. Verily the confession of her affirmative tone justifies her duality of personae looming with the void of claustrophobia and xenophobia : “I was nothing. I was a Westerner in the Iran and an Iranian in the West. I had no identity.” 

Patricia Storace critiques the transcendental transformation and brings to light the transmogrified narrative technique to the effect of transvaluation that uses style “which offers a benevolent, trustworthy world, like a fresco in a nursery and the matter of fact breaks our hearts with it, creating confrontation between what is drawn as adorable with the world that does not require its claims to protection, hope or love.” Satrapi is intuitive, inquisitive and precocious and her quest for identity causes a self questioning of gender, class and social status as cultural markers——self-reflection as the narrator of her illustrated past greatly contributes to the value of her memoir. “In a cartoon world she [Marjane Satrapi] creates, the photographs function less as illustrations than as records of actions, a kind of visual journalism. On the other hand, dialogues and descriptions are changing unpredictably in visual style and placement on the page within its balloons, advancing frame by frame like the verbal equivalent of a movie. Each element would be quite useless without the other; like a pair of dancing partners, Satrapi’s text and images comment on each other, enhance each other, challenges, questions and reveal each other.” 

Further Reading 

Hilary Chute’s The Texture of Retracing in Marjane Satrapi’s ‘Persepolis’, Women’s Studies Quarterly, Spring-Summer 2008, Vol. 36, No. 1 /2, Witness (Spring-Summer 2008), pp. 92-110, The Feminist Press at the City University of New York

Babak Elahi’s [Rochester Institute of Technology] Frames and Mirrors in Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, symmboke, 2007, Vol. 15, No. 1 / 2, Cinema Without Borders, 2007, pp. 312-325, University of Nebraska Press. 

Ann Miller’s [University of Leicester] Marjane Satrapi’s: Eluding the Frames, L’Esprit Createur, Spring 2011, Volume 51, No. 1, Watch This Space: Women’s Conceptualizations of Space in Contemporary French Film and Visual Art [Spring 2011], pp. 38-52. 

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

————————————————————

Image of a middle aged white man with scruffy hair, a beard, reading glasses, and a green tee shirt standing in front of a room with posters on the walls and a dresser.

—————————————————————-

impending doom

and now the pain starts

to radiate down my left

arm

all my imagination can

come up with is impending

doom

i don’t mind much

i have squeezed about all

the marrow out of this life

i have already lived a few

lives longer than i ever

expected

and while i don’t expect

my death to be sudden

i certainly wouldn’t mind

the adventure that comes

with that

—————————————————————–

the rugged type

dancing with

a 75-year-old

hooker

she says she

likes the rugged

type

you laugh and

say she should

be into whomever

is interested

guess who

will be paying

extra tonight

for anything

———————————————–

an unforgiving sunset

i remember all the goodbyes

the nights of torture and

endless apologies

the quiet car rides into an

unforgiving sunset

your sweet lips wrapped

around the future with

the next lucky soul

and it never failed

the one after me

was the one

the marriage, three

children

life made of greeting

cards and picket fences

sometimes you lose a

game so much you just

decide to quit playing

the fucking thing

love has always been

an enemy

i never wanted it that way

but i never had a chance

either

i’m sure my destiny was

fucked with long before i

knew how to say no

i never was any good

playing a bad hand

———————————————————-

fighting this war

find the rhythm

the beat best to

beat the demons

inside of you

you have lived

too long to still

be fighting this

war

declare a winner

and move the fuck

on already

there are majestic

beaches to see in

places you have

only read about

in books

you’ve lived more

than half your life

and have never

made it past the

arch

what kind of fucking

imagination decides

to neuter itself

embrace the gun

like the child that

was aborted

request a final meal

that doesn’t come

with fries

count to ten and then,

for the first time in

your life

let go

————————————————–

indoor plumbing

i was on

the toilet

the other

day eating

a banana

i’m sure

if the apes

had indoor

plumbing

they would

do the same

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Asylum Floor, The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine and The Beatnik Cowboy. His new book with Casey Renee Kiser, Altered States of the Unflinching Souls, will be coming out in August of 2024. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights.

Poetry from Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa

Light skinned Filipina woman with reddish hair, a green and yellow necklace, and a floral pink and yellow and green blouse.
Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa
How

How my heart breaks at every storm my love ones face
How I want to shield them from the rages of lightning's race
How I wish I can cover them from winds of impulsive phase
How I desire to gather them all in a warm cozy place
How my heart breaks at every drought my love ones have to endure
How I want to shield them from the scorching thirst their throats measure
How I wish I have a vessel full of cool refreshing water to treasure
How I desire I can save them from the chains of poverty's pressure 
How my heart breaks for every thorn my love ones step on their journey
How I want to shield them from the injustice of vengeful destiny
How I wish I can fight for them against fate's unreasonable tyranny
How I desire I have the power so comfort and peace be their company
How my heart breaks that for my love ones there is nothing I can do
How I want to shield them forever and to them my love I can show
How I wish I could love them less, my worry and fear away I throw
How I desire yet that is not to be so... for my heart cannot let go
Bottom of Form


Ignorance's Bliss

Have I not seen the beauty of dawn
I'd be contented of midnight lawn
Yet the pains of desire is sown
Hopeless pains of once numbed pawn
Have I not seen the field of star
I'd be blinded by neon lights afar
Yet not even diamonds come on par
The hope of peace in midst of war
Would it have been better to be ignorant
Following the instincts of an ant
From the sea of norm be deviant
Would satisfaction be a blessed grant?
Why must my eyes be opened wide
To the vastness of truth can't hide
Confusion of uncertainty to confide
White, black, red or blue, gown of bride
Knowledge is power and poison of peace
When certainty knows not of wisdom's ease
How much rain can be contained by fleece
Doubts and fears even sage's soul tease.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry. 

Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

Essay from Mohichehra Qurbonova

Young Central Asian woman with long straight dark hair behind her head and a black and white blouse. Shei's at a table making some sort of craft out of red paper.
Mohichehra Qurbonova

DREAMS IN MY HEART

Those times were the time when the autumn season had arrived. The time when the school had just stepped on the threshold…. When I always remember these times, I get a strange feeling, because I still remember the first time I went to school and it makes me excited. The decorated bags on the desks, the cute classroom set up just for us, I felt like it was all for me. The school became such a place for me that when I went there, I felt like I was walking into another world, into the world of knowledge… The dreams in my heart did not let me rest at all, it did not even allow me to sleep. I can say that my constant pursuit of news and interest in knowledge in my youth brought me to this point. However, I realized that one incident in my life was a real miracle that changed my big dreams. Being stuck in a wheelchair depressed me, it was as if life stopped for me.

At that time, I did not want to talk to anyone, when I was no longer interested in anything. forced me, that is, I started walking by writing gratitude, and I felt that my life became more beautiful as soon as I started setting goals for myself. Since my biggest dream was to send my parents on Umrah trip, my health has also changed, even my father: “Daughter, you have been through so many trials, and you are gone. You are almost in the same condition as before, Alhamdulillah, they gave me strength. Even in my worst moments, my dreams and goals did not make me weak, on the contrary, they helped me to recover and return to life.” It is my DREAMS that encourage me to walk.

QURBONOVA GULSANAM was born on April 16, 2006 in Dehkanabad district of Kashkadarya region. Today she studies at school 68 in Dehkanabad district. Her articles have  been published in international magazines. Journali, “Kenya Times” newspaper, “Page 3 News” newspapers and other international newspapers and magazines covered his creative works. In the field of science, the winner of the regional Olympiad in the German language, prize winner; in the field of sports, table tennis, chess, has won a number of prizes in checkers. Her favorite activities are making decorative flowers, reading books, playing sports. She participates in Young Reader contests due to her love for books.

Creative nonfiction from David Sapp

Clare Short for Clarence		
				
At sixteen I got a job at Ron’s Pizza to pay for gas, books, and records and to save for a camera. The shop was a tiny, white unremarkable cube on Coshocton Avenue, once named “The Milkhouse” in the 60s where, like everyone else, we picked up milk and ice cream after Sunday mass. As a pizzeria it was filled with ovens, coolers, bags of onions, cases of tomato sauce, and the aromas of fresh dough, cheese, and finished pizza – the best in town. 

It was there that I became acquainted with Clare, short for Clarence. Clare was a shy, amiable Hotei, a pudgy man of about thirty or forty who lived with his mother somewhere in the neighborhood. Clare was labeled mentally retarded as in 1976 the kinder intellectually disabled designation did not yet exist. The word “retarded” was used clinically, matter-of-factly but also had derogatory connotations. On the playground children often called one another “retard.” 

	Clare always wore a bright orange hunter’s cap and a blue winter coat. Only on the hottest days did the coat remain at home. He stuck with long sleeves, though, with his top button buttoned. Never shorts. Clare was proud of his Sears bicycle, a streamlined model from the 1950s he’d had since he was a boy, tricked out with white wall tires, two lights, two mirrors, and a speedometer. Every couple of weeks he repainted it, covering all the original chrome in a thick red or blue enamel. We speculated the bike was held together with paint rather than welds.

	A big kid really, Clare easily offered a wide smile and was willing to befriend anyone but was instinctively wary of everyone. I got the impression, after a few conversations, that the neighborhood boys teased or maybe abused him. When business was slow and Clare stopped in, Ron, the owner, a petty, insufferable lout who attended an obscure and highly evangelical church where people spoke in tongues, asked Clare questions to illicit humorous responses for our amusement. Ron thought Clare was always good for a laugh to pass the time. 

It was well known that Clare found body hair repulsive and regularly shaved head to toe. Occasionally Ron would say, “Hey Clare. Look,” and stroke his bear-like arm (not usually hovering over a pizza). Clare recoiled, distressed, almost nauseous in disgust. It was apparent that this was some kind of trigger for Clare. In the summer, Clare mowed a narrow strip of grass around two sides of the shop. Ron paid Clare with one can of soda. Just one. I wondered, why not two cans? How about five bucks to pay for some of Clare’s bike paint? Hell, why not a pizza with Clare’s favorite toppings? I never saw Ron offer one slice of pizza to Clare – as if his generosity would invite some kind of bad luck contagion.

	Clare had his own peculiar way of saying things, his sentences pressed tightly and cautiously through his teeth. “Heey Deeve” meant hey Dave. “Bat-trees” was batteries. “Sheeze” was gee. “Shcooze-me-sumbuddy” translated as excuse me somebody. Occasionally he announced, “Heey Deeve. Got new bat-trees for my beek (bike).” After mowing, Clare downed his single soda in one long, noisy gulp and belched loudly. Once, this customary and predictable belch occurred with a customer present. After the customer left, Ron admonished Clare saying, “When there’s somebody here, say excuse me.” Thereafter, any time he belched, no matter who was around, Clare declared, “Sheeze. Shcooze-me-sumbuddy.” For many years, Clare’s phrase was fondly mimicked by those who knew him. 
	
Following Clare’s “pardon me,” he nodded his head vigorously ten times to his left and ten times to his right. In other situations, if he was upset, there were additional nods with greater intensity. Clare exhibited several compulsive routines, but the head nodding was the most pronounced. At sixteen, I didn’t know what obsessive-compulsive disorder was (OCD was not yet used so casually and pervasively), but I recognized in Clare my own anxiety and my version of weird, inexplicable compulsions. Our rituals were a means to make sense of an uncertain world. When I got my new camera, I took Clare’s picture and he was thrilled, even hamming it up a little, nodding happily to the left and right between snaps. I still have the pictures somewhere, but I don’t need them to remember him.
	
Some ten years later, after Ron and Ron’s Pizza were long gone, after college and on the cusp of marriage, I happened upon Clare riding his bike in circles near the restrooms at Memorial Park. I imagined picnickers and soft ball girls were leery of him if they didn’t know him. I guessed Clare simply liked the flat concrete surface there. I heard that his mother died and he lived in a group home across town, an alien neighborhood with new kids and anxieties to navigate. He was much thinner, I thought gaunt, and now talked to himself in repetitious phrases. He looked weary, drawn inward. I called out to him, “Clare!” After completing three more requisite circles, he paused, looked up, recognized me, smiled, and said, “Sheeze. Heey Deeve.” And continued riding.

David Sapp, writer, artist, and professor, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

Poetry from John Grochalski

 monday morning meeting my landlady on the street

it’s a week day

and i’ve skipped work

when we see each other like this

my head

is vodka/wine cloudy

i have not yet recovered from

last week’s six-day work week

we are tight smiles

and inane pleasantries

to her i’m a monthly check

copious booze bottles on recycling evenings

and little else

her eyes get wide

and she says, not working today?

but i smile and reassure her

that it’s just a scheduled day off

that seems to placate her

but i don’t know how

i’m going to sooth her soul tomorrow

when i’m fucking off from the place again

drowning myself

in a titanic of wine

and internet porn

pretending

that i own this whole

goddamned world

no matter whom

i write the rent check to.

mother of the year

one kid

standing on tables

one kid

playing in traffic

the third one

picking his ass

and sniffing his fingers

her dumb face

glued to a cell phone

streaming tv shows

as the village

burns

burns

burns

around her.

the love songs of joey ramone

all these years later

and i still remember the way

her tears soaked through the phone

the sound a heart breaks

when it breaks long distance

she wanted to be a child bride

but i wanted to be jack kerouac

only i was nothing to her now

but a punk

…gabba gabba hey.

bodyshaping

sculpted women in bikinis

on cable sports tv

when i was thirteen

six in the morning

fresh from my paper route

amazonian goddesses

doing legs lifts or lifting weights

stretching and pulling

sweating and touching each other

as they cheered one other on

while i watched them

with my hand down my pants

strangling that little monster

hoping to get to that great

and grand explosion

before the next

commercial break.                     

big wigs

the genius of their job

is to create a lifetime

of pointless work for us

but to make us think

that the whole idea

was ours in the first place.