“I Am Nasrine” and the Politics of Telling Migrant Narratives
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| “I Am Nasrine” is the first feature length-film from Iranian-British Director Tina Gharavi. Newly available on DVD, the BAFTA-nominated film follows two Iranian siblings as they struggle to make new lives for themselves in the UK. It can also be watched online here. |
Iranian-British director Tina Gharavi’s new film I Am
Nasrine is a groundbreaking tale of the lives of an Iranian brother and
sister (played by Micsha Sadeghi and Shiraz Haq)
who flee to the United Kingdom and find a world that looks very little
like anything they expected. Ajam Media Collective sat down with Gharavi
in Paris to discuss the film and the difficulties involved in giving a
complex account of an Iranian immigrant story for a British audience.
From the outset, I Am Nasrine defies stereotypes and
simplistic explanations of the motives and desires of migrants. The main
character Nasrine’s parents force her to leave Iran against her will
after she has a nasty run-in with the morality police, and she is accompanied by her brother, Ali, to start a new life abroad.
Relocation by immigration authorities to the public housing projects of
an industrial northern English town, however, shocks the two
middle-class siblings, as they find themselves isolated in a dark,
impoverished and unfriendly new setting. The pair eventually find love
and opportunities in their new home, as Nasrine befriends a girl from a
local English Traveller community
and Ali finds companionship, work, and romance in the city center. But
the spate of Islamophobia that overtakes the town following September 11
combined with a pervasive and violent homophobia, leads the duo to a
tragic end.
“England is portrayed in a very brutal way”
Director Tina Gharavi, an Iranian immigrant to the UK
herself, has few delusions about the realities of modern working-class
British life, and the film spares no punches to reveal the unforgiving
realities facing the young siblings both before and after their flight
abroad.
“England is portrayed in a very brutal way,” she explains.
“You almost feel like the Iranian government could show this film to
potential immigrants and be like, ‘This is what happens to you if you
go! You end up in a rubbish house, people are racist and they’re not
very nice!’”
At the same time, however, Gharavi stresses that the film
shows the complexities of the immigrant experience in England,
highlighting both the positives and the negatives. The film is ”a love
letter to the North East, which has many important qualities that I
cherish and admire. It’s a hostile land but people are very open, too.”
One of the most striking aspects of the film is how nobody
is spared a brutally realistic depiction, including the Iranian
authorities. When I asked her about how Iranians have responded to the
film, Gharavi pointed out that she never even imagined an Iranian
audience for the tale.
“The audience of the film is really imagined as a young,
British teen audience. They’re the primary people I was thinking about.…
This is more of a film about England than it is about Iran, and about
the asylum experience when the characters arrive…. I pick it up where
they have to leave, and they have to make this journey, and survive. And
survive when they arrive.”
One of the film’s main strengths is the ambiguity that
pervades the plot. Nasrine’s flight from Iran, although the result of a
horrible encounter with the police, is actually a direct result of
pressure from her parents. These are not idealistic stock characters
yearning to be free, but real people in a difficult situation who are
forced out for a variety of reasons. As Gharavi explains, “There is
always this idea that every young Iranian wants to leave Iran, but I was
quite convinced that there are many people who feel that there is good
work for them to do in Iran, and that they want to stay.”
“They should be thankful just to be here”
Stories of refugee migration involving Iranians and other
Middle Easterners have emerged in the last decade as a battleground
between conflicting narratives of the region and of its relationship to
“the West.” These migration narratives often follow a predictable
pattern; reducing the complexities and difficulties faced by refugee and
asylum-seekers in their search for a better life into stories of flight
from the backwards, oppressive East for salvation in the progressive,
free West.
These narratives, of course, erase the complicities of
their audiences in the violence and economic deprivation that leads many
migrants to flee in the first place, displacing unhappy reminders of
colonialism and contemporary political intervention abroad with
self-serving tales of the West’s warm and fuzzy bearhug of the
downtrodden. Not only do they obscure the relationships of Western
audiences to their migrant protagonists; they are also often replete
with wild misrepresentations. The difficulties of migration do not end
when the migrant flees the homeland or even once they arrive at their
destination. Indeed, the systemic obstacles to social integration they
face as a result of Western reception regimes and unsympathetic host
populations often work to prolong the nightmare of flight and
reconfigure it rather than actually resolve it.
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| A map of immigration regimes and migrant deaths on Europe’s borders. Source: Le Monde diplomatique, courtesy Ajam. |
As Sima Shakhsari highlights when discussing the experiences of trans* and
queer Iranian refugees, it often seems that violations of the rights of
Iranians are hypervisible when they occur back in Iran, but somehow
invisible when they occur abroad.
Shakhsari analyzes the
case of a young Iranian trans woman who was the subject of a
documentary about her flight from Iran and arrival in Canada, which the
film presents as a tale of escape from the claws of oppression to a
successful arrival in the domains of freedom and liberalism. The film,
however, fails to tell the viewer that the young woman committed suicide
prior to the film’s release, caught between visa regulations and a lack
of healthcare that made life a living hell. While the deaths and abuse
suffered by Iranian trans individuals inside Iran become the stuff of
international human rights campaigns, those who die after having
successfully arrived in the West often pass away in obscurity.
While refugees are often granted papers due to the extent
of damages done to their bodies (or their ability to convincingly make
the case for harm suffered in their homelands), they are frequently not
given the ability to provide for themselves (through work permits) upon
arrival, as Miriam Ticktin reminds us
in the French case. Thus, refugees are treated with a limited
understanding of humanity, focusing only on biological functions and
stripped of their socio-political lives. These liberal humanitarian
regimes often create Kafkaesque bureaucracies that selectively choose
“ideal” refugees, restrict their mobility, and prevent them from
working, organizing, or acclimating. This creates a sort of legalized
limbo where refugees are allowed to exist, but not much else.
These details, of course, disrupt the narratives that many
in the “West” like to tell about themselves and do not fit neatly into
international human rights campaigns purporting to save Iranians from an
oppressive regime. Similarly, young Syrians or Libyans killed defying
authoritarian regimes become martyrs, while those who die in the passage
across the Mediterranean wind up as dead bodies photographed splayed across Italian beaches.
***TRIGGER WARNING: PHOTO OF DEAD BODY***
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| A migrant’s body lies lifeless on a Spanish beach, after drowning off the coast in September 2000 (Javier Bauluz). Courtesy Ajam. |
The selective visibility of migrant bodies, of course, is
not incidental, but is instead an integral part of a self-congratulatory
project of Western liberalism that configures even the slaughter of
those trying to reach its shores as proof its civilizational
superiority. Even reports of the incredible suffering of migrants often
fail to induce emotional responses, instead eliciting all-too-common
retorts such as, “If they hate it so much, why don’t they go back to
wherever they came from?” or, alternatively, “They should be thankful
just to be here.”
But what of those migrant lives and experiences that do not
fit the model of a flight from Eastern backwardness that finishes with
ascension to Western paradise? Who tells their stories?
Between Roma and Immigrants
When the main characters of I Am Nasrine arrive in England,
they are astonished to find a society in post-industrial decline and
gripped by poverty, xenophobia, and homophobia. Gharavi offers a
narrative of Iranian migration that is strikingly different from the
majority of the self-representations produced by the Iranian diaspora. Racialized as brown “Others”
and lumped in with immigrants as well as English Roma, Nasrine and Ali
find themselves pulled into the worlds of distinct “brown” racial
communities that exist on the margins of British society.
While Ali finds his way into a world of South Asian and
Arab immigrant male camaraderie, Nasrine befriends a girl from a
Traveller community. Travellers are an historically nomadic group in
England that share many features with Roma communities (previously called Gypsy communities) across Europe.
Nasrine’s relationship with the Traveller community offers
an unexpected critique of British anxieties about immigration and
assimilation, for the film shows quite clearly the extremely
marginalized position of this white, British minority. The Traveller
community’s existence troubles any notion of a unified, utopian, happy
British “we” that existed prior to immigration, and lies bare the notion
that immigrant difference is at the root of the state’s failure to
address social needs or to combat anti-immigrant hysteria. But the
existence of Roma, the British other-within, is part of a larger
critique of anti-immigrant hysteria that Gharavi pushes forward with the
film.
As Gharavi recounts, “There’s so much immigration that’s happened, and yet today it’s only visible immigration
that seems to be the problem. But the island is very porous, and it has
had many waves of immigration over history. This isn’t a new
thing.” These complexities of history, however, are erased by a
collective memory that forgets those parts too inconvenient to remember.
“The immigrant is often threatening to the indigenous
population because they can hold up a mirror to society in a way that if
you’re a part of the society itself you can’t see as easily,” Gharavi
explains. “And then if you’re here, you have to be co-opted before
you’re allowed to speak. So they silence migrants for a long time
because they don’t want to hear what you have to say about them. ‘You’re
just lucky you’re here!’ they say.”
“What are you, gay or something?”
Just as constructed notions of racial and cultural
difference in immigration buttress a certain narrative of the
West-as-safe-haven, stereotypical notions of Middle Eastern sexualities
also figure prominently in the grand narrative of immigration. Western
imaginaries of queerness and Muslims intersect in the film in the figure
of the marginal, queer immigrant. One of the film’s protagonists enters
into a relationship with a local individual of the same gender,
creating a tense situation in the housing project where the siblings
live. Their status as brown foreigners liable to perpetrate acts of
terrorism combines over time with their illegibly and ambiguously queer
sexual and gender presentations in the community, making their situation
increasingly untenable.
The fact that their desires are suspiciously illegible to
the community only adds to the sense of their outsider status, for the
fact that local bullies cannot figure out what exactly is wrong or off
about the two siblings (“What are you, gay or something?”) creates a
heightened, uncomfortable tension in each interaction. Their lives and
relationships in the community grow increasingly unstable until it all
erupts in a pivotal, shocking moment of violence that cuts the migration
narrative short in a pool of blood on a Newcastle sidewalk.
The murder leaves the viewer with a disturbing and
uncomfortable awareness that it is impossible to discern the exact
motive of the killing. Was it homophobic? Was it Islamophobic? Was it
xenophobic? Does it even matter? Why is our first response to figure out
what box on the hate crime form we should check in order to make sense
of a senseless tragedy?
This implicit critique of a liberal politics of identity —
and the categorization of human life that it entails — is a thread that
runs throughout the film, drawing parallels between the
bureaucratization of life that immigration necessitates and the social
formations that similarly indicate where and with whom an individual is
supposed to be.
The catalyst that sets Gharavi’s narrative into motion is
an act deemed to have violated moral convention, and thus requiring
correction. In the case of the first act, the event occurs in Iran, and
the arbiter of morality is the state. Ironically, the narrative also
ends with an act intended to be such a correction, a cleansing of the
British housing estate of its unwanted others. In this case, however,
the correction does not target a single act but a certain type of brown,
immigrant, and illegibly queer life that was deemed to be in violation
of local moral convention by its very presence. The farther that
Gharavi’s protagonists travel to escape moral indictment, it seems, the
more potent its effects became.
Via Ajam Media Collective
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