What follows grew out of an idea meant to build a bridge between philosophy and drama. The idea was simple: take statements from members of the philosophical group — archived on the “Chistiha” weblog — choose a few for reflection, work with their underlying concepts, lightly shape and edit them, and from that material create a dramatic idea. That idea could then open the door to new dialogue, new concepts, and further thought.
In the craft of playwriting, “ideation” and “plot development” usually follow a fairly clear path. We chose to stay one step earlier — at the moment of the first spark, what we call the “etude.” At this stage the writer’s hands are free. Any image, impression, or fleeting thought can be caught and written down. We did not hold back technical notes, staging ideas, dialogue, or scenic details for later drafts. Whatever rose in the moment was recorded as it came.
In our group meetings we decided that refined, polished plots were not necessary. What mattered was simply to capture, lightly edit, and record whatever appeared under the title “etude.”
We share these now with you. May these small exercises and etudes mark the beginning of a path across the bridge between philosophy and drama.
Ideas on the Bridge from Philosophy to Drama: Etude Number 125
Note: These etudes have been registered with the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance. Their intellectual property belongs to the author. They may be republished only on the “Chistiha” website.
Idea Number 125
Etude 125
A silent animation with music and sound effects. Only black outlines on a white background — no color at all. Things appear suddenly on the screen, without clear connection to the shot before or after. Their size keeps changing. Scale is exaggerated, especially the hatches of the mind.
We enter the inner world of people’s minds. In that mental landscape some things carry a faint brown tone. The lines are softer, slightly blurred at the edges, like watercolor. They lack the sharp borders of the outer world.
This animation tries to show that something exists which we might call collective wisdom, or a collective spirit — the force that shapes the fate of a society. People pass this force from hand to hand and, through it, build their community. It can start wars or bring peace. It can destroy or create. It can leave a wasteland or raise prosperity. At the end, the very idea of “development” will be questioned: why, under our modern system, does development so often go wrong? And how much better it would be if, instead of development, we sought depth and contemplation.
The story unfolds in a city. People move through its streets — working, driving, shopping, coming and going — much like any other city, though a little more stylized. The fruit seller, for instance, is simply a cart, an umbrella, and a few apples that stand for the whole trade.
Behind every person’s head sits a hatch with a lock, exactly like the door of a mailbox: a lock and a narrow rectangular slot. Things can enter through the slot; to let something out, the lock must be opened. When one of these hatches opens, the camera can slip inside and we see what is happening in that mind.
The city holds various places: a house of worship, a hospital, a park, and the office of a psychotherapist. The psychotherapist can unlock the hatch of a person’s mind and look inside. In that inner space his hand becomes large and can rearrange the objects within.
Fireworks light up the city. All heads turn toward them. Children laugh and delight in the noise. It is a celebration. Mothers hold their children’s hands and lead them this way and that so they can see more of the display.
In the central square a tall fountain rises. A statue in the middle of the pool holds its hands aloft, as if supporting a sphere, and water streams from those hands. The outline of the sphere is drawn in a zigzag pattern.
Suddenly a sound like a bomb explodes. The fireworks begin to look like the fire of war. It is hard to believe. Mothers, frightened, hurry their children home. Everyone’s mind is caught by the same question: was what they saw from a distance the fire of war, or only the continuation of the fireworks? Fear begins to spread — from one mother to another, from one person to the next. Women, men, and children all grow afraid. This happens when the zigzag sphere that holds their fear leaps out from the hatch of their mind.
It begins with one mother. Her eyes show fear as she covers her child’s eyes with her hand. At that moment the lock on the hatch behind her head loosens, the door swings open, and a zigzag sphere emerges. It slides first onto the child’s head. The child screams. People in the street turn and stare. The zigzag spheres scatter through the air and, like letters dropped into mailboxes, enter the hatches of other minds. We then watch what unfolds inside each of those minds.
Inside the mind the space resembles the interior of a house, filled with familiar objects. In some it looks like a factory with machinery; in others like a city with its own streets and buildings. The contents depend on the person’s character. In one mind there is a forest — perhaps its owner is a forest ranger. In another, a garden of flowers and plants — a gardener. In another, numbers and geometric shapes — a mathematician. In yet another, a whiteboard and markers — a teacher. At first everything is in its proper place. When the zigzag spheres enter, everything is thrown into disorder and begins to fall apart.
With the arrival of the first zigzag sphere of fear, people’s reactions change both inside and out. First, they grow afraid. Then they draw away from one another. No one buys from the fruit seller anymore. People look at each other with anger, fear, and hatred. Their spirits darken.
One of them visits the psychotherapist. The therapist unlocks the hatch behind the patient’s head and begins to set things in order. It is as if an earthquake has struck that inner world; nothing stands where it should. The large hand of the therapist rights the fallen chairs, turns the tables upright, and restores a measure of calm. The patient thanks him and leaves. Similar visits take place with other patients, who arrive distressed and leave quieter, the fear, bewilderment, anger, and hatred fading from their eyes.
Yet the city itself does not improve. The fire of war spreads everywhere. Gradually real bombs begin to fall. War has come, and armed fighters move through the streets. Violence multiplies beyond description. Parallel to the real war, the minds of the people continue to feed the darkness. Inside those minds the zigzag spheres keep working, destroying everything they touch. Little by little they set the inner worlds on fire — tiny sparks that can slowly consume a forest, a classroom, a factory, or a home, depending on whose mind we are inside. The violent invaders destroy everything in their path. They point the greatest number of bayonets at the women and threaten them. Yet there is also fear in the eyes of the invaders themselves, for they are afraid of women. Why? Perhaps because women remind them of their mothers, and somewhere they still carry a trace of affection. But because their mission is to burn and destroy and threaten everyone, they prefer to erase the image of the mother from their own minds. In the minds of these violent men, the picture of the mother’s tenderness hangs in a frame that has fallen from its place — thrown from the wall, toppled from a dresser. The glass is broken. The image is destroyed. Only after the mother has been erased can they fully become violent.
Little by little the heat of the city intensifies. Mothers must constantly fan their children’s faces. There is no longer time for swings or slides in the park; they hurry past those things. Mothers keep fanning. Fire engulfs the whole city. Everything is ruined.
Nothing remains in its place. The psychotherapist’s work multiplies. Patients arrive in great numbers, but he cannot restore every mind. He is forced to work hastily, repairing only a portion of each one before sending the person away.
At the end we return to the same mother and child from the beginning of the story — as if we have circled back to that first moment of fear. Suddenly time slows. We see the same event again in slow motion. The mother turns and looks, like a witness, at everything that follows. This time we see the later events through her eyes. Fragments of all that has happened appear before her, like scattered frames of a film. She understands what will happen to the city if her child screams. Like a savior she rushes forward, reaches the zigzag sphere in time, and catches it in her hand before it can enter the hatch of the child’s mind. She will not allow it. Holding the sphere, she carries it to the square and approaches the statue. Beneath the fountain she washes the zigzag sphere. Little by little it dissolves and disappears. The mother turns back to her child and squeezes his hand. We see the child’s hand squeeze hers in return. The end. Over the image of the fountain, the sound of fireworks becomes the final music.
This etude was written on the basis of Issue 126 in the Bridge group, which itself grew from the following note by Dr. Naser Fakouhi: “Why Do Terrorists Fear Women? An Analysis by Dr. Fakouhi.”
Why Do Terrorists Fear Women? / Naser Fakouhi / Mordad 1400
In the day or two since the Taliban terrorists seized Kabul, almost nothing has changed — except one thing: the disappearance of women. The price of the obligatory burqa has multiplied in the markets, and women may leave the house only when accompanied by a male relative. In this way the terrorists’ ideal city — a city without women — has been realized. Women are either absent or hidden behind the burqa, where one must guess that a human being exists, and even that existence is granted only through the little boy standing beside her. But why do these formidable, heavily armed men fear women so deeply? Because every wild and violent dictator fears women. Because every one of these monsters was once a beloved little boy in the arms of a kind mother, and the memory of those days now terrifies them. Killers do not love women, just as they do not love kindness, openness, laughter, or sweetness. Killers, as their name declares, love the killing of people. Shame on us for tolerating such neighbors.
https://t.me/Anthropology_Iran/9882
Author: B. Khosravani
Any copying or use of these ideas is ethically and legally permissible only with clear attribution. Performance or adaptation requires the written consent of the author.