The Lost World

Filmmaker Mohsen Makmalbaf’s Kandahar goes beyond 9/11 to a examine the deeper ills of a ravaged country, says Sreelatha Menon

At one level, Kandahar, Iranian filmmaker Moh-sen Makmalbaf’s film, is the journey of an Afghan woman to the city of the title. At another, it is the allegorical tale of every Afghan, the story of their years-long journey without the hope of a destination.

Afghanistan may be the flavour of the month in the media, but Makmalbaf’s Kandahar is not concerned with the post-9/11 battlefield. Indeed, it is perhaps the only film to emerge from that devastated country, capturing for posterity voices and images that would have died with the Taliban regime.

Director Mohsen Makmalbaf

The film — it won the Fellini medal at the Cannes festival last year — was screened in the capital by the UN group on gender issues on World Women’s Day, but the film’s focus is defined by the opening lines: ‘‘If the walls are high, the sky is even higher./One day, other people/in the world may become aware/Of your plight and help you./If they don’t, you should help yourself./If you find your home small,/ You should close your eyes and imagine you are an ant./ Then your small house will appear huge.’’

Kandahar could be set in medieval times or even longer ago; time is immaterial around the Iran-Afghanistan border where Makhmalbaf tries to help Nafez — Nelofer Pazira, an Afghan-born Canadian journalist — as she responds to distress calls from deep inside Afghanistan. Nafez becomes the narrator-cum-protagonist of the film as Makhmalbaf uses her journey for his creative ends.

Nafez starts out disguised as the third wife of an Afghan, who is accompanied by his two wives and six daughters as they travel towards Kandahar. But bandits attack the group, steal their belongings and force the Afghan family to abandon their travel plans. But it’s not too long before she meets Khak, an eight-year-old who volunteers to be her guide after he’s expelled from the Talib madrassa — and, consequently, food and a certain job as a Talib. He remembers that at the school, children already possess swords and Kalashnikovs and define them in regimented drills: ‘‘Tell us about the sword.’’ ‘‘The sword is a cold weapon/used in performing God’s commands and/with the order of the governor/cuts the hand of the thief/the neck of the murderer and /the breast of the unbeliever.’’

‘‘The Kalashnikov?’’ ‘‘The Kalashnikov is a smooth working/semi-automatic assault rifle/that depends on a powder charge and spring action/ It kills the living and kicks/the death out of the battlefield.’’
After parting ways with Khak, who makes a living stealing gold and silver rings from corpses, Nazek arrives at a Red Cross camp to look for another guide. But the camp brings no relief; this is where the limbless come in the hope of getting a pair of artificial legs. In a country where landmines have been sown in the place of seeds, the Red Cross camp is the Mecca where their heart’s desire is available. No matter if there are no limbs lost, an artificial pair is insurance for a near-inevitability.

One visitor covers a pair of artificial legs with a burqa and slips his wife’s slippers into the feet. For him, it’s the ultimate gift for his wife. In the next scene, the limbless men seem to break out into strange dance as the sky showers artificial limbs. But they are merely men who run as fast as men without legs can towards limbs paradropped from Red Cross aircraft.

In the camp, Nafez finds a guide, a man with spare artificial limbs, and they leave with a marriage party. The women sing weddings songs, though it’s tough to discern if the procession is for a marriage or a funeral. And soon enough, they are stopped by the Taliban and Nafez is barred from accompanying the party. The movie ends on that note, with a setting sun in the background, the mournful, the funereal and the hopeless remain unstated.

Only the images linger: The dance of the crutches, Khak as he tries to sell a stolen ring, the sobbing little girls as robbers steal their nailpolishes and bangles. To sensibilities numbed by TV views of Afghanistan, the images are as poetic as they are disturbing. And the answers as elusive as they were to Nafez.