By Farid Tahmasebi
On the eve of Yalda Night, I watched the documentary “Lost Whispers in the Distance.” It is a narrative by Mansour Forouzesh about the Yalda Night of Iranian and Afghan migrants in the winter of Serbia. The film begins with frames devoid of humans and humanity among the frozen scrap metal in the cold, amid trains that signify departure. Over these images, we hear the melancholic and meaningful song “Caged Birds” written by Masoud Ferdowsi, not in the voice of Siavash Ghomayshi, but a strange voice—perhaps the voice of every Iranian expelled from their homeland, accustomed to loneliness like caged birds.
After this introduction, we see the characters without them speaking, staring at the camera. Three desperate, weary fathers, who have embarked on a journey with great hopes and dreams for their families. Tonight is Yalda, and Hooshmand, along with his wife and son, goes to the market for a modest purchase of fruit. This situation serves as a setup to suggest that despite all the sorrows the film will depict, there is hope and a celebration called Yalda, which signifies a new beginning. The filmmaker cleverly uses this time frame in the film to portray the flip side of all the hardships. At the end of this setup, the filmmaker encapsulates everything in a single frame: Hooshmand, with his wife and ten-year-old son, walking along the roadside, fearfully watching the passing trucks and cars. This frame wholly conveys their isolation and the pressure they are under.
In the first third of the film, several families in a camp are introduced. Just after we learn about the hardships of their lives, the filmmaker takes us to another place. This new setting, which could be compared to a turning point in a fictional story, is completed with Mansour Forouzesh’s shocking images and Soroush Kamalian’s haunting music. A human tragedy is unfolding in the ruins on the outskirts of the city. Mostly Afghan and Kurdish refugees are living in tents in the bone-chilling cold of Serbia in a wretched state.
I have experience filming a documentary on a similar subject, “Black Canvas,” which we shot in a refugee camp in Köpenick, southeast Berlin. These types of characters are very sensitive due to the many hardships they have endured on their journey. Their hearts have been broken many times, and as a filmmaker, you do not want to hurt them. You do not want to portray them as lifeless objects or worthless beings; they are human. There, too, we encountered refugees from Guinea and several other African countries, about whose cultures we knew little. We spent a long time trying to establish a friendly and humane relationship with them before ever bringing a camera. Now, seeing Mansour Forouzesh’s intimate camera, with people speaking so freely and candidly in front of it, I know he has formed a good rapport with them.
In the film, the process of illegal border crossing is referred to as “the game.” Yes, in this process, human lives are nothing but playthings. The film provokes this question in the audience: What has happened to these people in their country that they risk their lives in such a game? And the more important question: Why, despite their dire situation, do they still not decide to return to their country? What fear is greater than the fear of death in “the game”?
In the ending, the filmmaker intended to depict the Yalda celebration, showing the characters’ journey as a new beginning and hope for a brighter tomorrow, singing and walking in a snow-covered landscape. However, a year after the documentary was made, the film’s message is completed by adding sentences at the end about the characters’ fates. This vicious cycle persists, as if there is no destination.