Conversation with Stefania Zamparelli - Interview by Laura Campisi

Nothin’ Personal: By Laura Campisi for Bushwick Buzz magazine

May 24, 2015

Children and Stefania Zamparelli - Omo Valley, Ethiopia, February 2013 © Arthur from Poland

You are a traveler. What made you stop right here in New York?

NY was never my travel destination. I just moved here in 1991 to improve my English and to figure out if I could work as a photographer. NY had a special charm at that time and I got under its spell.

How would you describe Brooklyn to someone who’s never seen it?

Brooklyn is demographically compartmentalized. Neighborhoods are divided: Hipsters in Williamsburg, Artists in Bushwick, Russians in Coney Island, the Latinos somewhere else, etc.

Sadly, you will find a mix of different ethnic groups only in areas in the process to being gentrified, which by accident are the more interesting ones.

Please share your best Brooklyn story.

I will share my first Brooklyn story.

It was year 2000 and had to leave the unaffordable Manhattan where I had lived for nine years. I picked Brooklyn not by choice but by financial convenience. Previously I went to see some apartments in the South Bronx but the tiny size or a ground floor position with window facing a dumping area were not appealing. So I decided to check out Brooklyn. I started from Williamsburg. By bike, and block after block, I pushed myself further east and ended up in Bushwick, an all Latino neighborhood at that time. In the local stores the vehicular language was Spanish. I inquired in a real estate agency in Wyckoff Avenue and they said, “You are lucky. We just got a railroad apt vacant on a 3rd floor but it needs some fixing”. It was a two-bedrooms apt with a double entrance for $620 per month. The agency required one-month fee. I was happy and met the landlord, a gentle Italian-American fireman who had just purchased that 6-unit building in which, I later learned that I was the only one paying the rent.

One month passed by and my next-door neighbor, a young man who was running a 24 hours “business,” revealed me the story behind the vacancy of my apartment.

A family of 8 lived in it until one of the teenagers killed someone and run away. The entire family became fugitive leaving behind bills, furniture and mountains of rubbish and that was the scenario I saw on my first visit to the house.

I replaced a fugitive tenant  - I had just taken a convenient rent-stabilized apartment thanks to a crime - I felt terrible!

What’s the most impressive thing you’ve seen or experienced in your travels as a photographer?

The 2011 Egyptian Revolution! The energy created by the gathering of two million people was amazing. I still remember being literally stuck in the crowd in Tahrir and how in the afternoon of February 11 we all learned of Mubarak's resignation by the screams of “Allah akhbar”. It was not praying time but the word of mouth for the victory.

Sadly I could photograph only with a small camera. The military at the airport had confiscated my photo equipment with the exception of the compact one. They sealed and stored my stuff in a deposit. I got all back on February 14.

You had portrayed many different cultures with your camera. What is your take on humanity?

Humanity is the aim of my peregrinations: I search for sparkles of human behaviors.  I escape the darkness around me glimpsing dim lights at a distance but wanting to see them closer and bright.

Humanity and its values are transnational. They have no borders. I try to demonstrate that despite the different latitudes, fashion, eating habits and beliefs,  if exposed to similar circumstances, we all feel the same, just as we can all laugh at the same joke.

Visually speaking: a glance of a mother to her son, a worried expression, a happy smile, sometimes just a gesture in a specific context.

Child, West Papua January 2012

What is it that catches your eye when you are looking for a subject or an object to photograph?

The best is if I photograph within a theme, an event in which I can surf with my cameras in total freedom. Then the entire scenario is catching. Desirable subjects / objects multiply themselves just by my wishing them. I imagine a composition that an instant later is in front of my camera. I believe there is a sort of alchemic energy that makes a vision become tangible. Miracles seem to occur just like constellations appear to move.

I regard shooting out of a theme just as a viewing exercise, an attempt to escape frustrations for not having found a story that needs to be narrated. However, if the available light is right then I can visually appreciate everything from still life to candid portraits.

Selfie, Instagram, Photoshop. Everyone is a “photographer” these days. What are the advantages and flaws of the Image Era in your point of view?

The digital era has automated the act of photographing. It has reduced the emotional impact in favor of casualness. Obviously there are countless fantastic images on the net but often we see series of photos without a thread connecting them.

I mean, making a comparison, if we look at a dream, even the most bizarre oniric image although motivated by fear or desire will reveal its happening through delighting answers to pertinent questions.

Majority of these digital images generate no questions because are disconnected to the portrayed subjects and to the authors’ themselves.

Platitude prevails because there was no creative moment but separated minds and chances, no psychophysical integration, eventually no meanings.

More importantly, only few photographers will copyright their work. The remaining will inadvertently give away images that can be unethically used by capturing media, at the best, or by a state police, at the worst. That’s the case of photos portraying demonstrators.

Tahrir 2011

You were active in the student revolts during the 1970s. Do you still believe a social and Cultural Revolution is possible?

Unfortunately no.

I mean, there is plenty of discontent. People are identifying problems. There is access to alternative sources of info. We can form in groups and challenge the power structure.  Supposedly the new technology is spurring on these changes. We hear of young people using cell phones to topple dictatorships. We even hear how Obama, "change we can believe in", is a product of these grassroots movements. But things are not what they seem.

According to conspiracy theory, a small elite controls the world. Movements get manipulated. In conspiracy language it is called “controlled opposition.” 

Through technology, those who exercise hegemonic world rule favor revolts wherever it is to their advantage. This includes the Arab Spring.

The 68 movements were hijacked. Human rights groups got dismantled in senseless individualism; see gay rights, women rights, animal rights, green movements and more.

“MK Ultra” was a CIA’s project that started in the 50s and was later substituted by the “Monarch butterfly program”. The aim was to use mind control on individuals and crowds. The pop culture, the 60s, etc were all meant to be part of that scheme. Elites through Hollywood, Music industry and social networks still promote violence and death, sex out of grace, drugs for self-destruction and rock & roll for enhanced distraction.

Jails, hospitals, ghettos and cemeteries lend themselves as the “Darwinian” exit as they – the rebellious victims - fell in the trap.

The more I look at history, the more revisionist I become about social movements. There is injustice and need for change, but almost immediately it is channeled by what conspiracy theorists call "an unseen hand". It seems that major revolutions were planned by the very elite that the revolutions were supposed to be against.  England, the great capitalist country of the 19th century, gave home and shelter to Karl Marx. In the 20th century, Wall Street financed the Bolshevik revolutionaries. Even Hitler was financed by Anglo - American bankers.

Of course I still have dreams of social justice but I step back about being part of any political activities.

Tell us about Community Awareness Through Arts

It started as an experience aimed at expanding consciousness.

In the beginning the project focused on the wrongly convicted inmates in NY but it went adrift for reasons I prefer to forget.  Since then CATA has served my itinerant community projects.

Close you eyes and make a wish!

Done ☺

A Glimpse of Syria - All Photos © 2011 Stefania Zamparelli

Citadel of Aleppo

I always wanted to go to Syria, this year I finally did. Sort of making a wish come true.
Before taking the trip I spent few months studying the language improving slightly my Arabic level.
I already could speak some Arabic, I'd had been to many Arab and Islamic countries before. But I felt more was needed since I had heard lots of NWO social media propaganda.
What I found was quite different.
Syria’s attractions are more appealing than the appalling political clichés/demonization we hear all the time via mass media.
And there is a comfort zone.  Syria is actually quite comfortable. 
With some regret I had to put aside many of the survival skills I had learnt elsewhere on other less traveled roads. They were not needed.
But the country is intimidating for the best reasons. The place is beautiful. It actually affected my photography.
I would hesitate to click the photo. It was already perfect without shooting. It did not have to be spoiled. This is not good for a photographer because at the end of the day one takes no pictures.

I started my trip to Syria with great expectations. For once, they were all met; the landscapes, the culture and more importantly the cordiality and the hospitality of Syrian people are unmatched.

Palmyra Castle

In the attempt to overcome the western media propaganda that constantly provide us with false reports underestimating the popularity of Bashar (here a more objective article - in Italian),  I want to share few episodes.
The headline should be, “Syria: a dictatorship?”

A wall in Damascus displaying posters of Bashar al-Assad

Compared to the US robotic society where torn smiles and second-hand small talks have a high level of toxicity especially when they go between the lines of DOs & DON'Ts, in Syria I could experience the compassionate flexibility of thinking beings and that was something that I had forgotten coming from the dehumanized society of America where a phone conversation with a technical support can make me go in tilt for the rest of the day.

My flight to Syria had one stop and transfer in Jordan; it was JFK-Amman-Damascus but the flight Amman-Damascus was canceled and postponed by 12 hours. I rested few hours in the airport hotel and at 4 am I was back on track. The new flight was going to Aleppo and then to Damascus. While we were flying over Damascus the pilot informed us that because of fog he would make two landing attempts before considering flying back to Aleppo.
Later on we all smiled and expressed some relief to the “back to Aleppo - Inshallah” notice. The anxiety was over!
It was January 10, 2011; Tunis’ riots had just started but this is a different chapter and I will skip the matter of a conversation I had with a Tunisian man during this flight.
At Aleppo airport we were informed that we had to wait at least 4 hours before flying again to Damascus.
I was overwhelmed by the predictable news and asked about the possibility to check out in Aleppo.
The reply was, “…but Damascus is far away from here. How are you getting there?” I said, “It doesn’t matter, I will start my trip from north and will move south slowly by land.” They asked me to wait for few minutes while checking if they could fulfill my request. Few minutes later I could see aircraft attendants downloading luggage from the plane. 

Later on they called me and asked me if I could identify my belonging.

I couldn’t believe… they had disembarked all luggage to find my bag!
My checkout generated one more problem that was efficiently and compassionately solved by the Syrian authorities; they were not expecting any foreigner in Aleppo therefore the immigration checkpoint was closed and janitors were mopping the floor. Ten minutes later an immigration point was created just for me!
I was in Aleppo, Alhamdulillah!

Citadel of Aleppo

My in-transit experience was just a small sample of what I could further learn. 

Syrians are very humans, they behave like humans they work like humans and they think like humans! What I mean with “human” is that people there are real and they have no fear to act following their guts rather than the strict rules; they do not obey the orders as a dictatorship would require.

In Aleppo I saw a car driver being stopped by a traffic police for an infraction. The driver shouted loudly at the cop to dispute that infraction! That’s being human being, I thought. The policeman let the driver go on his journey; both behaviors were perfectly human, and very unacceptable from where I come from.
“No strong reasons to demonstrate in Syria - no genuine riots can happen here. There is no misery here and overall there is decency of life among happy, peaceful and secular people. I saw only three beggars in a month. There is freedom of religion and the president, contrarily from his father, is well loved by the Syrians.” This was the jest of what I was writing to family and friends in Italy and New York while traveling in Syria.                 

Dancers at Narcissus House, Old City, Damascus

I was also sending notes about my experience with Syrian authorities. Police stopped me twice indeed and they had good reasons for it, however their mannered way made it both times a pleasant experience.

The first time it happened because I had sneaked inside a governmental factory and there I was photographing workers and machines in actions.

My quest for factories came after realizing that Syria has a good slice of its economy based on industry and that its GDP growth rate is almost double than America’s.

Headline: Obama wants a change

Thinking also about the just starting riots fueled by “facebook” / wikileaks /CNN & all Mainstream Media and thinking about the “directions” of the global economy and the new upcoming role of the old IMF I thought that documenting Syrian factories could have had some artistic relevance because sooner than expected they could be part of the past.

I was somewhere in the outskirt of Aleppo. A taxi driver had just dropped me there obliging my generic request for “industrial area, please.”

I started to take photo of the landscape around the factory knowing that soon

children would flock after me demanding for photos

while knowing that soon workers would stick out of the factory to “rescue” me for a chai. 

It was a well-known script that my imagination was directing without surprise until something happened.

I spent nearly 20 minutes taking photos inside the factory. 

“My” factory produces vegetable oil from cottonseeds and in the process uses 50 years old machinery, nearly my same age, I thought.

الشهباء Vegetable Oil

The factory manager must have heard about the foreigner-taking pictures and wanted to meet me. He sent a worker to take me to his office.

The manager asked me to show my passport and while eye-scanning it he manifested some perplexity with the “mushkila” sound, Arabic for “problem”. My visa stamps were definitely an issue for him. Having been in country like Afghanistan, Pakistan, Sudan must have meant that I was either a terrorist or a Mossad. My passport inspired him to call the secret police to double check on my identity. My Arabic skills were one-more evidence of my deceptive state but I was relaxed. I knew I was an intruder but all I had to do was to express my sincere intentions.
He wanted to see and eventually delete the photos from my camera. While going to his office I had put my second Canon away from the sight, in my bag, saving its images from the bin.
I was offered tea and cigarettes. The party went on. Three gentlemen in plain clothes arrived and questioned me. My passport was Xerox copied many times and eventually the police filed my case. They let me go. I thanked the manager for not having turned my passport into vegetable oil, to which line he laughed while shaking my hand.
Many hours later at 9 pm someone knocked at my hotel’s door. “Would you mind to follow us?” I was stopped for the second time.
Two secret policemen drove me to the Aleppo’s police headquarter where a high rank officer and an interpreter were waiting for me.
I was offered coffee and cigarettes in a very cordial atmosphere. The officer seemed pleased to meet me and had only one question... “Have you ever been to Israel?

In one instant I recollected that I had checked “No” on the Syrian immigration form (and that "no" was a requirement to get the visa)  but that on my website I display a folder titled “Palestine”.

In the Old City, Damascus

I said, “I’ve never been to Israel. I went to Palestine in 1994 and spent there three months. I have always felt the Palestinian condition as one of the biggest injustice on earth.” I was very sincere.
The policeman became even more jovial. He said, “We wanted to meet you for two reasons. We like to know if you need any help from us and also we like to give you a gift.”

An attendant in perfect timing entered the office. He was carrying a bag that was soon handled to me.  It contained two boxes of body care products. I smiled and thanked him.

I was driven back to my hotel.

The Clock Tower, Aleppo

In the light of current events (March 2011) where peaceful demonstrations got infiltrated by foreign elements I totally understand their suspicious way… never trust any stranger.
I met other foreigners who also got stopped by the Syrian police and they were all impressed by the kindness in which they were treated.  

A couple of Syrians confirmed to have received the same treatment when they got stopped years before.

Street Scene near Bab Antakya, Aleppo

Days passed by and by January 25 I was in Damascus where televisions in public areas were synchronized on Tahrir Square.

Pizza shop in Damascus

Damascus

 I had satellite TV in my room in Damascus

Mount Qassioun (Jebal Kasioun), Damascus

although I choose not to have cable TV in my home in NY.

Out of curiosity I got tempted to check out from the exotic Damascus the “revolts” on CNN.

Breaking news said that two days of riots were planned in Damascus for Friday and Saturday, Feb 4 and 5.
The report was false and contradictory and in a gibberish way… “No Internet in Syria and that's why there are no riots … Syrians on facebook are organizing demonstrations for Fri and Sat.”
I went to check out the “protests”. According to CNN they were supposed to be outside the parliament; there I found ZERO demonstrators.
My inner call for Egypt was getting stronger 

Tahrir Square, Cairo

but it was hard to leave the charming Damascus.

Omayyad Mosque, Damascus

On February 7 I flied to Cairo and at Damascus’ airport a security woman gave me one more sample of that beautiful human flexibility. 

I was at the embarking gate and she discovered that I had a cigarette lighter in my carry-on bag.

She said, “This is forbidden on the flight. I should take it away!” Then she looked at me with complicity and while patting on my arm she said, “Don’t worry.” She put the lighter back where it was. 

It came to my mind that one month earlier a similar lighter was taken away from me at JFK while boarding on Royal Jordanian flight. I was on my way to Amman.

On board of Royal Jordanian Flight

On that flight the dinner was served with sharp steel fork and knife… “Hmmm, the usual double standard”, I thought, “If I had tried to carry a tiny knife, the airport security would have taken it away from me, as they did with my lighter.”

……………

Just like forbidding smoking cigarettes in a NYC street where cars are blowing nitrogen & carbon dioxide from their exhaust pipes.

…………….

Please absolutely no social networking invitations, period!

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©Stefania Zamparelli


Dear all,


Nov 12, 04
From Kabul to Mazara-e-Sharif


I am writing from my very basic room at Aamo Hotel in Mazar-e-Sharif, hoping that tomorrow I will be able to send this email. In fact with the favor of the moon the fasting holiday could finally end but the Eid celebration will keep stores and offices closed.
Yesterday I left Kabul at 1 p.m. and arrived in Mazar at 1 a.m., 12 endless hours of which, thanks to the amazing landscape, I could at least enjoy the daytime trip.
Roads are a real disaster; I have seen something similar only in Ecuador!
But I never saw so many car/truck accidents all in one trip. Despite the sadness I felt for each of them, I was only hoping that that would make my driver aware of the danger and therefore more prudent.
I learned to ask for back seats when traveling on busses in India... the few times I sat in front I got too anxious. In Kabul I timidly asked for a back seat but here the laws are definitely against my wish, women in front only!
So I ended up keeping my eyes on the road for the whole trip and, at least a couple of times, I lost control and screamed… predictable laughter followed!
Otherwise, I emitted sounds only on a few occasions; one was at around 4:50 p.m. when I mumbled “Iftar” (=Ramadan dinner) awaking the sleeping atmosphere; I was trying to request a stop for food but I was ten minutes too early... I was starving!
And then when a “talkative” passenger asked me “are you OK?” and my reply was, “I’m driving!” again laughter. My concern was not to be part of those awful statistics, one more of those sad few lines in articles we constantly see in the news, because shit can happen!
I must say that at the end of the trip it seemed like Allah in disguise of Lord Krishna made all of us safely sound in Mazar with a special regard for me.
In fact, the blessed driver didn’t allow me to go to the hotel but insisted that I spend the first night at his house with his family.
The kindness of Afghan people is something very special!

I was given a sultan-like big room, not attached to the rest of the house, furnished with only red carpets and pillows. I promptly added in the middle of the room my orange and red sleeping bag and went to use the holed floor toilet. Three minutes later I miraculously found more blankets on my sleeping bag.
After that, I experienced silence as only few times in my life.
Unfortunately the peace didn’t last long. At 6 a.m. two beautiful children came in and saw me. They were particularly attracted by the shiny color of my sleeping bag. The girl couldn’t refrain from getting closer and touching it to experience its softness and report it to the younger brother with merry sounds and smiles. They both tried hard to engage in a conversation with that strange alien that could say no comprehensible word. In the end they gave up and left. Ten minutes later I learned that they were not surrendering. In fact, while I was naively trying to sleep again, a real militia was getting ready for a second attack. In short, three more assaults followed and the last put me under siege at 7 a.m. Every time I regretted not having the camera in the sleeping bag… I wish I could see those faces again. I was not annoyed at all, just amused.
By the time I was at the bus the whole young population of the village neighborhood was there. These children have a real revolutionary power!

Indeed I got very annoyed and fearful just before I started to write these notes. At around 8 p.m. people knocked at the door claiming to be the police.
I had no choice but to open the door.
The young hotel attendant was there with three ugly, mean-looking guys.
Of course none of them spoke any English and they were in “civilian” clothes. I asked them to show me their ID cards and my request was intentionally or unintentionally ignored.
They wanted to see my passport and from what I could perceive they were not happy with me as a tourist so I told them of my freelancing photography; I showed them my press credentials and at this point they looked like they did not know what to do. I asked them again to show me their police ID cards and this time one of the guys put in my hand a meaningless ID which did not have "police" written on it… it is one of the few words I know how to read and write in Farsi. I started to freak-out but I pretended to be in control.
They left and 5 minutes later came back. This time there were five of them and one, who could speak 10 words in English said, “you…. journalist… hotel bla-bla, not in this place.” I replied, “Ne paisa (=no money), no salary, independent photographer, artist.” Then I said, “I am legal… yes?” And he said, “… your safety.” I replied, “I feel safe here.”
Of course because of those bastard mother-fuckers I didn’t feel safe at all, but in the end they left smiling.
Later I tried to talk to the hotel attendant and he said “no police… commander”.
"Holy shit!", I thought.



Nov 16, 2004

Whiskers

I thought it was a stray cat but my compelling need for communication revealed to me what was behind the appearance.
I was near a butcher stall when I saw the little thing.
I crouched down to caress it and to my surprise the cat accepted my hand and demanded more affection. Yes, that booth was his home. He stared at me and while I selfishly obliged him, I noticed something strange on his face… his nostrils were unusually large and red and his expression was strangely sad… then I realized… his whiskers were cut off!
While still bent over I turned my head up to the butcher, a big mustachioed man who was standing up at the booth, and I looked at him. With a tone expressing disappointment and with my fingers miming the scissor cuts, I said, “his mustaches are cut off!”
The butcher’s face got animated with a big smile; then he proudly and repeatedly kept beating his chest with one hand, and while nodding, he loudly said something. It was easy to understand the meaning… that asshole, with a vicious addiction for blades, did it!
I screamed at him “no-no-no, you don’t do that” while I was again performing the scissor cuts!
He almost got scared, and now his hand was in a halt and surrendering position, as if to say, “O.K. I won’t do it anymore.”
I stood up and could better look at him… he was there all in one piece; he had two arms and two legs, and I shamefully and cynically thought, “not even a landmine would lose its power for you, you’re a hopeless idiot and will always be!“
Then I softened my feelings and reached a different conclusion… he may have just accomplished his mission by revealing to me the possibility of becoming vegetarian.
©Stefania Zamparelli


Nov 21, 2004

I am a Bedouin

I took my last shower ten days ago while I was still in Kabul. No running water in my hotel in Mazar-i-Sharif, and no shower at all, just cold water in beaked buckets to be drained in the built-in floor toilet. Buckets and ablutions can do the job, but in a very partial and acrobatic way.
My clothes smell like a dirty apron and my never washed leather jacket bought in 1996 in a K-Mart store is getting closer and closer to its pre-factory state. It emanates a smell that resembles the buz, that corpse of a calf or goat used for the Buzkashi game.
I can tell you that the folks in turbans crowding Mazar-i-Sharif Streets and me are using the same means; I can sense it… we all carry around the same mother earth odor.
Yesterday I decided to put some energy into cleaning especially because tomorrow I will fly to Herat and it would be nice to start a new chapter in a more decorous way.
So today I had a busy schedule among the many things, I had to pick up the laundry bag. While leaving my room, the hotel attendant tried to tell me not to go out because it was raining. I looked through the window and could see just a little pouring, “No problem!” I said.
I was wrong. Slippery mud everywhere: while precariously walking I was desperately looking for concrete and wherever I found it, puddles were also there. My just brushed shoes regained the prehistoric artifact-look, my buz jacket became heavier, and my cleaned laundry bag… useless… all wet! The laundry man justified the excessive presence of water in the washed clothes by pointing at the gloomy sky… as if to say, there was no other way to dry it!
I was dissuaded from going to the hair salon because an occasional translator said, “Very dirty place… they recycle the shampoo water.”
On top of it, the Internet connection was slower then usual.
There is always a reason for things to get slow or not completely done here, if you don’t want to be disappointed, expect it partially done… buckets can definitely make the job.
I got back to my hotel and found out that my glasses had lost one screw.
Tomorrow on the airplane I will be wearing my stinky clothes, my mudded shoes, my hair will be wrapped in a colored bandanna (my better scarf is in the wet laundry bag) and I will probably be reading a paper with glasses fitted only on one ear.
©Stefania Zamparelli


November 25, 2004

A Japanese stereotype

I am in Herat, and as I write this city name, the word “heart” takes over.
The spell check sometimes makes appropriate changes. The earth of Afghan civilization is right here, very close to Iran.
Streets are in concrete, my hotel supplies shower/hot water, the old city displays a wonderful castle and… that’s as much as I need!
But Herat is not the reason that I started to write, the cause is Ken, which I nicknamed pachyderm. I approached him at Herat airport, the morning I arrived.
He looked like he was lost and I could see right away that he was Japanese… not to mention that no other foreigner would be here with a big backpack and no mission to accomplish. I stopped his walking by saying, “Where are you going?”
I rightly assumed that he was going to Herat to look for a hotel, as I was too. Don’t forget… we are still in the airport.
We ended up sharing a cab and eventually a room that is still hosting both of us.
Reciprocal convenience was and still is the only reason for such a share.
Pachyderm Ken is one of the least interesting human beings I ever met… no taste, no apparent emotion/insight, no charm, no kindness, no POV, no knowledge at all.
He spent the last 15 months traveling and, I dare to add, by inertia.
He says that he travels to watch nature scenes, mostly mountains.
I assume that at one point of his life he identified himself with a rocky mass. Then he had to keep up with that by eating mountains of cookies and drinking rivers of local cola per day… Pepsi or Coke would be too much expensive for him!
Just like a mountain, he has no social skills at all; the few times I walked down the street with him I could notice that he would give no smile or attention to any of the many people who were trying to talk to us. His only concern is “Chaaandas? …How much?” please, read it with a Japanese accent/tone.
His round and big face has a diameter of approximately 11” and that makes the narrow openings of his eyes harder to be found.
While walking with him I pointed at a photo on a building portraying Massoud… I asked him, “Do you know who is he?” In Afghanistan photos of Massoud are everywhere, even embroidered on carpets. He said “no.” I added,
“Maybe you heard his name… Massoud… does it ring any bell? He was killed on September 9, 2001” “No, I don’t know”, he replied.
This 27 year old man after spending more then a month in Afghanistan never got the curiosity to find out about the hero posted all over the country!
The only questions he addressed me was “Which kind of phooootos you take… can I look at your wolk?” “Sure”, I said.
His comment was, “oh-oh… People, instead I take photos of naaatule. ”In fact, for KEN-NO-SOCIAL-SKILL it is impossible to approach people”, I thought. He showed me from his laptop the nature photos taken with a small ultra compact digital Pentax. His laptop “bought in Japaaaaan… very-very cheap” (again Japanese accent please) is a 10”X8” PC of an unknown brand that sounds like Soniac. I asked him which software he was using to edit the photos and he said, “Photo paint… it is a very light softwaaale!”
Pachyderm uses the minimum amount of technology and the “risks” he takes are always very well calculated. He also tries to avoid notice by wearing Afghan clothes!
When he walks, he slightly moves his hips up and down but only every 3 steps, while shaking his hands as they were loosen from his wrists; maybe that is his way to rebalance the mass of his body, I thought. His gestures are feminine and yet he is graceless.
Pachy decided to be part of one of my tours and with some disappointment because my photo equipment was in his words “too daaangelous.”
I obtained a permit to go inside to the - not open to public - Ekhtiaradin Castle in the Old City of Herat. Pachy was lucky enough to be part of this special visit and… he was a real pain n the neck. He took hundreds of pictures obstructing my view and guess what… from my same angles and of the same people: the many guards who were escorting us!
I thought, there are no mountains here motherfucker, and said, “please get out of my sightline, I need room to move around!”
And you should see with what agility he would photograph while lightly jumping from one place to another… he even emulated my short height by bending on his knees… I almost hated him!
Pachy - turned into butterfly - followed me also in a bread-making stall, and also there he enjoyed taking my same photos.

I know that pretty soon my cruel and wild side will come out and already I almost feel sorry for him.

©Stefania Zamparelli


December 20, 2004

Dear Muslim Mothers of Afghanistan,

If you accept the role that your Islamic republic is giving you, you should consider teaching your boys how to cook and how to clean.
I understand that living in the reclusion of your houses keeps you unaware of what’s going on outside… let me tell you, your boys are doing terrible!
Your men are in charge of all thinkable humble jobs; they run hotels and restaurants, they are servants in the upper-class houses, they clean private and public offices and… the result is always dreadful. I ignore how they are managing at a better-paid occupational level because it is none of my business… I am only in transit here, but I do need food.
They pretend to clean but in reality they only minimize their work by using simple precautions like taking off their shoes before stepping inside their stalls… please, for your own wellness, trust my words and stay away from those thresholds-miniatures of desert! Those dusty 3 sq. ft. of shoes-parking-areas are intended to prevent the filthy from becoming dirty… even a mouse would find his path away from those hazardous barriers!
So Afghan women, hurry up, master your children-boys in their in-fashion crafts; in the meantime get ready to serve the society and grab the best career opportunities… it would be nice to see you running a society well cleaned by men.

Fondly.

©Stefania Zamparelli

Dear blank god,

Please reveal yourself to the people affected by collective neurosis: So many flexions are necessary only if one's life style is extremely sedentary.
Away from the desert partial ablutions should be replaced with showers and hot baths.
Ritualism should be replaced with meditation and shrinks, and…
Please, even that act of praying by miming the reading of a book…
Give them real books and the tools to understand the sense of what they say.
Up to now they only got addictions camouflaged within toxic ring tones.

©Stefania Zamparelli

Dear Travel Book Editors,

Please remember to always include the translation of the word “straw” in the food and eating section of your phrasebooks. It can be very annoying to buy a can of coke and to mime the need of a straw.


Dear geographers,

I’m 2000 meters above the level of the sea and a thousand km land distance away from it… I wonder… why bothering the waters if they are in all directions far? Should we borrow the nearest plain?
I’m 2000 meters above the level of the plain and I can hardly wait to get close to the ocean.


Stefania