Multiple Meanings

If we want to dig even deeper into the possible meanings of the symbolic imagery of the film, we can use the associations that Makhmalbaf makes with Sufi poetry and philosophy to make sense of the absolute Truth that this, at first glance, unclear narrative could be read as expressing. Islamic mysticism, much like other esoteric systems, sees the possibility for many planes of reality co-existing. It furthermore sees time and space being illusionary concepts that can be easily overridden in the context of a spiritual quest. Some writings of Rumi on this subject are as follows:

You are in space but your essence is in the Spaceless Realm (…) This world (of space) has come into existence out of the Spaceless, and out of placelessness it has secured a place (Abdul Hakim, 18).

And about time he has written the following:

Thy thought is about the past and the future; when it gets rid of these two, the difficulty will be solved (…) In the spaceless realm of the Light of God, the past, present and the future do not exist. Past and future are two things only in relation to you; in reality they are one (Abdul Hakim, 18).

After knowing this, if we start with the premise that the character of the old man in Time of Love is simply the ghost of the dark haired man revisiting the tragic moments preceding his death by “going back in time” and stalking his wife and her lover, the film makes sense in so many new ways. This association, though of course not literally uttered in the film, is very simple to make, although no Western writer has made the connection. The indication that this reading is a plausible one is in the end sequence where, as we have seen, the dark haired character becomes one with the old man. After we have realized this, perhaps upon a second viewing of the film, we can potentially read much of the action through the eyes of the character of the old man. Many signs are indicative of this. The film starts with a shot of the old man, possibly alluding that what we will see will be from his perspective. It is never quite explained why he is so adamant on persecuting, or “haunting,” the young lovers. The reading of him being a ghost is further supported by the fact that much of the action occurs in a cemetery. When the couple speak of their impossible love story, the old man has his hand on the tombstone of an unidentified woman. Her picture is caged under a metal frame, and though she looks young, the black and white photograph seems to have been taken several decades earlier. We can presume that she is the old man’s former wife, who relives through the character of Ghazal, or perhaps these characters are only figments of his soul’s tortured imagination, as it has never accepted the tragic murderous faith that fell upon him after being involved in the love triangle. At the end of the first sequence the dark haired man is sentenced to death after expressing the wish of being drowned at sea, as he believes that it will bring him back to life. The following image that we see as an opening to the second chapter is of the old man sleeping in the cemetery and waking up to the sound of birds chirping. This is yet another allusion to resurrection or reincarnation. It can also be seen here as the old man (who is, we must not forget, also the dark haired man) being given a second chance at life, in an attempt to reconfigure events in a way more suitable to him. This is the case it seems, as this time the dark haired man is Ghazal’s lover, the one she is truly in love with. However, this story once again ends tragically, with the dark haired man killing Ghazal’s husband, who is now being played by the blonde man. Ghazal also commits suicide for a second time. This failure to reconstruct reality with a happy ending, or perhaps to “clear his karma” in relation to the murder he committed in the previous lifetime/segment, is alluded to by a reflexive statement made by the judge. He incredulously asks the dark haired man why Ghazal preferred him over the blonde man, as the blonde man was more attractive and had a better job. The dark haired man has no answer to this, yet in his last wish before being sentenced to death he tells God that loving Ghazal made his life worthwhile, and if he is to be given another life, he would like to come back to the exact same one. The judge responds, ironically and reflexively, that a law forbids convicts to die by drowning at sea. Thus the brown haired man is not given another chance to be reunited with the re-birthing power of the sea, and his wish to relive the same life is prohibited to him, as he comes back to the first situation in the final segment. This “punishment” may be due to the fact that he refuses to accept that reunion with God is the supreme form of Love, and that he should not regret the past as Rumi says in The Three Fish (Rumi in Barks, 196). Finally he will learn an important lesson about unconditional love in the last segment, as we have previously seen, yet the movie still ends in a somewhat tragic way, as none of the characters are happy. After a wedding ceremony to celebrate the union of Ghazal and the blonde man, where both of them look more as if they are in a state of mourning, the couple is offered the taxi from the brown haired man as a wedding gift. After he leaves them wishing them happiness, Ghazal laments that she is still not happy. The blonde man asks: “What is happiness?” After replying that she does not know, Ghazal says that she now feels that her heart is still with the brown haired man. Her new husband rushes out of the car to go get the brown haired man for her. Yet when he arrives, he has turned into the old man, who sadly wonders “where is my Ghazal?” The film ends with the same image that is found at the beginning of each section: that of Ghazal leaving her home alone to go visit her lover clandestinely in the cemetery, suggesting that there could be an unending series of variations on this story until the characters “get it.” Much like when religions that carry the belief in reincarnation tell their followers that they will be reincarnated numerous times until all their karma is released and they can finally return to God. This idea is further supported when we know that Makhmalbaf had initially set out to make nine variations of this story (Anquetil). He allegedly abandoned this more ambitious format because he did not receive permission to film so many versions of it (Anquetil). The use of intertextuality is furthermore another way to allude to the collapse of time and space, as a poem written several centuries ago becomes relevant to post-modernist filmmaking.

Makhmalbaf’s refusal to grant his characters true happiness throughout the film is the foremost element that permits a Sufi reading of the film, which can lead to the perception of the aforementioned absolute Truth about the love of God being the only True love. A Qu’ranic love story that is often cited by Sufis to explain this concept is that of Yusuf (Joseph) and Zulaykha (Baldock, 80). This story, set in Egypt, similar to the one of Joseph in the book of Genesis, tells the story of Yusuf (considered to be a prophet by Muslims). He was the slave of the Vizier called Potiphar, whose wife Zulaikha, fell deeply in love with him from the first moment that she saw him. It is said that Yusuf was the most handsome young man who ever lived. She attempted in many ways to seduce him, but he always resisted her advances as he did not want to betray his loyalty to his master. Eventually after the Vizier’s death, the Pharaoh freed Yusuf and appointed him to replace Potiphar. As time passed Yusuf became the most rich and powerful man after the Pharaoh. During this time, Zulaikha, still consumed by her love for Yusuf, had given up all her precious jewels to anyone who would bring her news of Yusuf. She was eventually reduced to begging in the street. One day Yusuf came across her as she had lost consciousness and was lying on the street. He went up to her and as he spoke, her eyes opened, and he saw that they were filled with light. He told her that they now could be together. To this Zulaikha replied:

My eyes have been opened. My all-consuming love for you was but a pale shadow of Divine Love, a veil between myself and the Beloved. But the veil has been torn aside. Now that I have found the Beloved, I no longer need your love (Baldock, 82).

The love of the Beloved that she speaks of here is of course, the love of God. The consuming, even self-destructive love stories that the characters of Time of Love pursue can be seen as a direct reference to this story. In this light we can see how the film is stressing spiritual freedom, rather than simply sexual freedom for women. It is also another indication that Makhmalbaf has not completely abandoned his religious convictions, but has chosen to use them as a mystical, rather than dogmatic, inspiration in his filmmaking. He has said himself that:

…my film style is inspired by the Koran, in so far as it moves from realism to surrealism…just as in our holy text the human and the divine co-exist, so in my stories the real and the surreal may be found side by side, resulting in a personal narrative technique (Totaro, 38-9).

Because of all these references to the Sufi notion of the Beloved that Makhmalbaf has subtly added to his film, the characters can be seen as being references to the character of Zulaikha, but before she reached her state of “illumination” or fana’. Because none of them are able to reach this state, it is thus obvious that the film never resolves its conflicts fully. It is then possible to see it not only as a relativist exercise, but also as a potential carrier of the latent absolutism about the Truth of the Love of God. The characters are never allowed to be truly happy because they have not yet reached the state of the “intelligent fish” that knows that the best and safest place to be, even if the journey to get there is a difficult one, is within the loving arms of the ocean. They never fully understand that what they are really looking for to fulfill them is the love of God. And truly the viewer who is not initiated to Sufism will not understand this either, which is why the relativist readings of this film have been the most popular ones so far.

Much like Rumi does in his poetry, Makhmalbaf has a forgiving attitude towards his characters’ (and maybe as an extension his own…) inexperience and mistakes on their journey back to God. Because like Rumi says in the poem of The Three Fish: “…you’ll be forgiven for forgetting that what you really want is love’s confusing joy” (Rumi in Barks, 193). He says this after warning his readers that if they strive only for the rewards of visible reality or those of the unseen world without seeing the connection between the two, they are being foolish. This can be related to the Sufi idea that there is “…no other way to perceive the Invisible than through the visible, to contemplate the Creator than through His Creation” (Burgel, 44). And after all, Rumi says that: “The ultimate quest behind all quests is God” (Arberry, 257). So, the film seems to be saying that as humans we are all on our path to find God, and though on the way we may sometimes act like the stupid and the half-intelligent fish, we will eventually find our way back to Him (or Her!) because that is where we all come from originally.

Another important strategy that Makhmalbaf uses to convey these mystical ideas is through his manipulation of the film’s soundtrack, which he often mutes or renders inaudible by disruptions, such as a loud train passing by at crucial moments. Though this tactic has been called the film’s only failure (Burdeau, 76), it was undoubtedly misunderstood because of once again the Western ignorance of Persian poetry. The value of silence, because of the insufficiency of language in expressing the love one feels for the Beloved, because this sentiment is beyond the limits of language, is a recurrent theme in Rumi’s poetry (Burgel, 63). It is present in The Three Fish when he writes:

Silence is an ocean. Speech is a river. When the ocean is searching for you, don’t walk to the language river. Listen to the ocean, and bring your talky business to an end (Rumi in Barks, 198).

The old man’s odd use of a tape recorder and his constant need to wear earphones to hear what is going on around him is an indication that he refuses to hear the sound of the ocean, and that he is still concerned with terrestrial realities, though he is, presumably, dead if we want to abide by the reading that sees him as ghost. The symbol of the ocean is even overstated by the actual physical presence of an ocean near the cemetery.

An additional important symbol of mysticism that is used in the film is that of children. There are hordes of children always playing in the street, or just walking by in the frame at any moment. The street musicians are also always children. Children are very important in Sufism. They can express contradictory meanings, not surprisingly. Though they are often praised for living in a perpetual present and thus transcending the artificial barriers of time and space, they can also be a symbol of spiritual immaturity, as is for example expressed in this verse of one of Rumi’s poem: “If you haven’t left the child’s play, how can you be an adult?” (Rumi in Barks, 4) The latter meaning is more acutely expressed in Time of Love. The character of Ghazal is sometimes seen as a child herself, or as attracting children easily. In the first segment, she waves to an off screen presence, and when she turns around to keep walking, dozens of children come running after her and follow her. The sense of wonder in her eyes when she watches the freshly caught fish being dropped in her basket, or the way that she skips from one row boat to another are examples of moments when this side of her is most apparent. This can also be related to what Makhmalbaf has said about all humanity being like children to him after he became a father.

Another important message that is conveyed in Time of Love relates to the transcendence of the national identity. To introduce this idea, we should go back to a passage of The Three Fish:

Muhammad says, “Love of one’s country is part of the faith.” But don’t take that literally! Your real “country” is where you’re heading, not where you are. Don’t misread that hadith (Rumi in Barks, 194-5).

Though Makhmalbaf shot the film in Turkey because he was not granted permission to make it in Iran, this location was certainly not chosen arbitrarily. It is furthermore set on the coast of the Bosporus sea which crosses Istanbul and makes the references to fish and the ocean more evident. Rumi’s tomb is in Konya, Turkey (Baldock, 173). Moreover, the poet wrote not only in Persian, but also in Arabic and Turkish. He would often mix the languages in his poems, and there are even some that were written using all three languages at once (Burgel, 56). Much like Makhmalbaf has reached international fame and made films in many different countries using many different languages, Rumi did the same with his poetry and he appeals to people of all countries and religions. He is even the most-read poet in America today (Barks, back cover). This transcendence of nationalism can also be seen as an expression of Makhmalbaf’s changing views about the Iranian revolution. Though in his earlier days he was a militant supporter of it, this is no longer the case, as he has often said it himself and expressed with the changes in his filmmaking. In many ways the film can also be seen as an allegory for Makhmalbaf’s own artistic “path” and its evolution, from that of the “stupid fish” that did not want to leave the confines of his country (or more symbolically, the sometimes restrictive ideas that it presented to him), towards the more enlightened attitude of the intelligent fish that recognizes the value of undertaking a liberating journey towards the ocean.

Some scholars have approached Makhmalbaf’s complex relationship with relativism. Godfrey Cheshire has said about it:

…for him, relativistic truth does not equal relative truth, does not convert into nihilistic or arbitrary values, and does not support oxymorons like “absolute freedom”, that chimera which has proved to be so corrosive to the West. What it does imply are a universe of endlessly expanding realities that are nonetheless governed by the laws of nature, laws that include the observer’s –or artist’s– transforming perception (Godfrey, 70).

In Sufi terms, these “endlessly expanding realities” are simply more proofs of the multiplicity expressing God’s unifying infinite love, wisdom and creative power. Hamid Naficy, in writing about Makhmalbaf’s and Kiarostami’s use of post-modern strategies to question secular humanism and realism has said:

Their post-modernism is to be differentiated from that of most Western film-makers by its gentle irony, not the neo-nasty cynical irony so endemic to American television talkshows and series and popular films. This sort of irony adds to their humanistic ethos, instead of undermining it. Nonetheless, such narrative strategies, which generated uncertainty, were deeply counter-hegemonic, for nothing is as subversive as doubt for a regime that insists on an official version of reality and on doctrinaire certainty, and which patrols all boundaries of gender and genre assiduously (Naficy, 2001, 182).

After all this has been said, we must recognize that though Time of Love may not be a completely relativistic film, perhaps it was made purposely in this way to avoid what happens when relativism is applied too radically: it becomes an absolutism in itself. Did Makhmalbaf recognize this and implant the possibility of reading an absolute meaning in his film as just another clever attempt to achieve relativity? Does it become another contradiction that resolves itself by proving its own point? Answering these questions is not necessary, as that would create the potential for labelling this essay as absolutist… (And only God knows the answer to them, anyway!)

All photos taken from Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s website, Makhmalbaf Film House.

Endnotes

¹ Though Rumi was born in 1207 in what is present day Afghanistan, it was part of the Persian Empire at the time.

² The mystical branch of Islam to which Rumi belonged.

Bibliography

Abdul Hakim, Dr. Khalifa. The Methaphysics of Rumi. Maktaba Jadeed Press, Lahore, 1965, 157 pages.

Anquetil, Gilles. “Un nouveau coup d’éclat du cinéma iranien. Tolérance mode d’emploi,” Le Nouvel Observateur. No. 1642, Paris, April 25th-May 1rst, 1996, page number unknown.

Arberry, A.J. Discourses of Rumi. John Murray publishers Ltd., London, 1961, 276 pages.

Baldock, John. The Essence of Sufism. Indigo Books, Toronto, 2004, 238 pages.

Barks, Coleman. The Essential Rumi. New Expanded Edition, Harper San Francisco, New York, 2004, 388 pages.

Bottéon, Christophe. “Le temps de l’amour.” Cinéma. No. 572, April 1996, p.9.

Burdeau, Emmanuel. “La coupe roque.” Cahiers du cinema. April 1996, volume and issue number unknown, p.76.

Burgel, Christoph J. “Speech is a ship and meaning the sea: some formal aspects of the ghazal poetry of Rumi.” In: Poetry and mysticism in Islam, the heritage of Rumi. Banami Amin, Houannisian, Richard and Sabagh, George eds., Cambridge University Press, California, Los Angeles, 1987, pages 44-69.

Cheshire, Godfrey. “Makhmalbaf, The Figure in the Carpet.” Film Comment. No. 33:4, July-August 1997, pages 60-62.

Dabashi, Hamid. Close Up, Iranian Cinema, Past, Present and Future. Verso London, New York, 2001, 302 pages.

Egan, Eric. The Films of Makhmalbaf, Cinema Politics and Culture in Iran. Mage Publishers, Washington, DC, 2005, 229 pages.

Hurst, Heike. “Makhmalbaf questionne le pouvoir.” Jeune Cinéma. No. 237, Paris, May-June 1996, pages 15-19.

Le Petit Larousse Illustré. Larousse, Paris, 1994, 1777 pages.

Meriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. Tenth Edition, Merriam-Webster, Incorporated, Springfield, Massachusetts, U.S.A, 1997, 1559 pages.

Naficy, Hamid. “Iranian Cinema.” In : Oliver Leaman, ed. Companion Encyclopedia of Middle-Eastern and North African Film. London, Routledge, 2001, pages 161-193.

Naficy, Hamid. “Veiled vision/powerful presences.” In: Issa, Rose & Whitaker, Sheila. Life and art, the new Iranian cinema. British Film Institute London 1999, 160 pages.

Remy, Vincent. “Le Temps de l’amour.” Télérama. No. 2413, April 10th, 1996, p.44.

Stam, Robert. “Text and Intertext.” In Film and Theory. Miller, Toby and Stam, Robert eds. Blackwell Publishers, Massachusetts, 2000, pages 145-178.

Thoraval, Yves. “Le Temps de l’amour de Mohsen Makhmalbaf.” Avant-Scène. No. 444, Cannes, July 1995, pages 89-90.

Totaro, Donato. “Reflexivity in Recent Iranian Cinema : The Case of Mohsen Makhmalbaf.” Asian Cinema. Vol. 11, No. 2, Fall/Winter 2000, pages 32-47.

***

The Three Fish: Gamble Everything for Love by Maulana Jalal al-Din Rumi

ON GAMBLING

To a frog that’s never left his pond the ocean seems like a gamble.
Look what he’s giving up: security, mastery of his world, recognition!
The ocean frog just shakes his bead. “I can’t really explain what it’s
like where I live, but someday I’ll take you there.”

***

If you want what visible reality
can give, you’re an employee.

If you want the unseen world,
you’re not living your truth.

Both wishes are foolish,
but you’ll be forgiven for forgetting
that what you really want is
love’s confusing joy.

***

Gamble everything for love,
if you’re a true human being.

If not, leave
this gathering.

Half heartedness doesn’t reach
into majesty. You set out
to find God, but then you keep
stopping for long periods
at mean spirited roadhouses.

***

In a boat down a fast running creek,
it feels like trees on the bank
are rushing by. What seems
to be changing around us
is rather the speed of our craft
leaving this world.

THE THREE FISH

This is the story of the lake and the three big fish
that were in it, one of them intelligent, another half intelligent,

and the third, stupid.

Some fishermen came to the edge of the lake
with their nets. The three fish saw them.

The intelligent fish decided at once to leave,
to make the long, difficult trip to the ocean.

He thought,

“I won’t consult with these two on this.

They will only weaken my resolve, because they love
this place so. They call it home. Their ignorance
will keep them here.”

When you’re traveling, ask a traveler for advice,
not someone whose lameness keeps him in one place.

Muhammad says,

“Love of one’s country

is part of the faith.”

But don’t take that literally!

Your real “country” is where you’re heading,
not where you are.
Don’t misread that hadith.

In the ritual ablutions, according to tradition,
there’s a separate prayer for each body part.
When you snuff water up your nose to cleanse it,
beg for the scent of the spirit. The proper prayer is,
“Lord, wash me. My hand has washed this part of me,
but my hand can’t wash my spirit.

I can wash this skin,

but you must wash me.”

A certain man used to say the wrong prayer
for the wrong hole. He’d say the nose prayer
when he splashed his behind. Can the odor of heaven
come from our rumps? Don’t be humble with fools.
Don’t take pride into the presence of a master.

It’s right to love your home place, but first ask,
“Where is that, really?”

The wise fish saw the men and their nets and said,
“I’m leaving.”

Ali was told a secret doctrine by Muhammad
and told not to tell it, so he whispered it down
the mouth of a well. Sometimes there’s no one to talk to.
You must just set out on your own.

So the intelligent fish made its whole length
a moving footprint and, like a deer the dogs chase,
suffered greatly on its way, but finally made it
to the edgeless safety of the sea.

The half intelligent fish thought,

“My guide

has gone. I ought to have gone with him,
but I didn’t, and now I’ve lost my chance
to escape.

I wish I’d gone with him.”

Don’t regret what’s happened. If it’s in the past,
let it go. Don’t even remember it!

A certain man caught a bird in a trap.
The bird says, “Sir, you have eaten many cows and sheep
in your life, and you’re still hungry. The little bit
of meat on my bones won’t satisfy you either.
If you let me go, I’ll give you three pieces of wisdom.
One I’ll say standing on your hand. One on your roof.
And one I’ll speak from the limb of that tree.”

The man was interested. He freed the bird and let it stand
on his hand.

“Number One: Do not believe an absurdity,

no matter who says it.”

The bird flew and lit on the man’s roof. “Number Two:
Do not grieve over what is past. It’s over.
Never regret what has happened.”

“By the way,” the bird continued, “in my body there’s a huge
pearl weighing as much as ten copper coins. It was meant
to be the inheritance of you and your children,
but now you’ve lost it. You could have owned
the largest pearl in existence, but evidently
it was not meant to be.”

The man started wailing like a woman in childbirth.
The bird: “Didn’t I just say, Don’t grieve
for what’s in the past? And also, Don’t believe
an absurdity? My entire body doesn’t weigh
as much as ten copper coins. How could I have
a pearl that heavy inside me?”

The man came to his senses. “All right.
Tell me Number Three.”

“Yes. You’ve made such good use of the first two!”
Don’t give advice to someone who’s groggy
and falling asleep. Don’t throw seeds on the sand.
Some torn places cannot be patched.

Back to the second fish,

the half intelligent one.

He mourns the absence of his guide for a while,
and then thinks, “What can I do to save myself
from these men and their nets? Perhaps if I pretend
to be already dead!

I’ll belly up on the surface

and float like weeds float, just giving myself totally
to the water. To die before I die, as Muhammad
said to.”

So he did that.

He bobbed up and down, helpless,
within arm’s reach of the fishermen.

“Look at this! The best and biggest fish
is dead.”

One of the men lifted him by the tail,

spat on him, and threw him up on the ground.

He rolled over and over and slid secretly near
the water, and then, back in.

Meanwhile,

the third fish, the dumb one, was agitatedly
jumping about, trying to escape with his agility
and cleverness.

The net, of course, finally closed

around him, and as he lay in the terrible
frying pan bed, he thought,

“If I get out of this,

I’ll never live again in the limits of a lake.
Next time, the ocean! I’ll make
the infinite my home.”

SEND THE CHAPERONES AWAY

Inside me a hundred beings
are putting their fingers to their lips and saying,
“That’s enough for now. Shhhhh.” Silence
is an ocean. Speech is a river.

When the ocean is searching for you, don’t walk
to the language river. Listen to the ocean,
and bring your talky business
to an end.

Traditional words are just babbling
in that presence, and babbling is a substitute
for sight. When you sit down beside your beloved,
send the chaperones away, the old women
who brought you together.

When you are mature and with your love,
the love letters and matchmakers
seem irritating.

You might read those letters,

but only to teach beginners about love. One who sees
grows silent. When you’re with one of those,
be still and quiet, unless he asks you
to talk. Then draw the words out
as I do this poem with Husam,
the radiance of God.

I try to stop talking,

but he makes me continue. Husam, if you are in
the vision, why do you want me to say words?

Maybe it’s like the poet Abu Nuwas,
who said in Arabic,

Pour me some wine,

and talk to me about the wine.

The cup is at my mouth

but my ear interrupts,

“I want some.”

O ear, what you get is the heat.
You turn red with this wine.

But the ear says,

“I want more than that!”

***

When I remember your love,
I weep, and when I hear people
talking of you,

something in my chest,

where nothing much happens now,
moves as in sleep.

***

All our lives we’ve looked
into each other’s faces.
That was the case today too.

How do we keep our love secret?
We speak from brow to brow
and hear with our eyes.

***

THE GIFT OF WATER

Someone who doesn’t know the Tigris River exists
brings the caliph who lives near the river
a jar of fresh water. The caliph accepts, thanks him,
and gives in return a jar filled with gold coins.

“Since this man has come through the desert,
he should return by water.” Taken out by another door,
the man steps into a waiting boat

and sees the wide freshwater of the Tigris.
He bows his head, “What wonderful kindness
that he took my gift.”

Every object and being in the universe is
a jar overfilled with wisdom and beauty,
a drop of the Tigris that cannot be contained
by any skin. Every jarful spills and makes the earth
more shining, as though covered in satin.
If the man had seen even a tributary
of the great river, he wouldn’t have brought
the innocence of his gift.

Those that stay and live by the Tigris
grow so ecstatic that they throw rocks at the jugs,
and the jugs become perfect!

They shatter.

The pieces dance, and water…

Do you see?

Neither jar, nor water, nor stone,

nothing.

You knock at the door of reality,
shake your thought wings, loosen
your shoulders,

and open.

Author Bio: Gilda Boffa graduated with distinction from Concordia University in 2005 obtaining a bachelor in Communication Studies. She has completed a certificate in Scénarisation cinématographique in 2001 at UQAM (University of Quebec at Montreal) and is currently completing another certificate in Langue et culture arabes also at UQAM. She is also enrolled in the M.A. of Film Studies at Concordia University, where her thesis project will examine the influence of Sufi thought and poetry on the cinema of Mohsen Makhmalbaf. After having studied Persian at McGill University, she is planning a research trip to Iran for the spring of 2007.