All language subtitles for Boengels(2019)

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- A legend
in the Talmud says

that when a child is born, it
carries a candle over its head

as a symbol that it
knows everything.

In the moment of its birth,

an angel blows the candle out

and the child forgets it all.

During the path of its life

it must learn to remember
everything it had forgotten.

- Mommy.

It was 1991.

My mom Nargess was 26 years old,

and she was living alone
with me in Germany.

Momma.

I also had a father,

but he couldn't be with
us for some reason,

that's why we would send him
this video message to Iran.

Iran was the country
we were from,

but I could neither
remember Iran nor my father.

* Until you take
your last breath *

* But you

- Two years later,

I just came back from summer
camp, my mother told me,

"Your father Kasra, is
coming to see us soon."

And there he was, standing on
the other side of the street,

dressed all in white.

And I ran into his arms
as if I had just seen him

before the summer break.

The truth was last
time I did see him

it was in one of the most
horrible places in the world.

But, of course, I
didn't know about that.

* No one answer your prayers

* Until you take
off that dress *

- Today,
I'm 35 years old

and I know my father
couldn't be with us

because he was trapped in a
political prison called Evin.

I also know

I was born in that prison.

And that's basically
everything I know.

I mean I know I'm an actress

and I'm pretty good at telling
other people's stories,

but I'm at a point in my life

where I don't wanna hide
behind those stories anymore.

I wanna find out
what my story is.

But where in the world to start?

For a long time I had been upset
with my work as an actress.

I was tired playing
those cliches of refugees

who fled from made-up horrors.

I had been a refugee myself

and I had a story to tell.

I mean born in prison.

Who in the world is
born in prison and why?

The problem was, I had
no clue what my story was

and finding it out,
actually terrified me.

What I knew were bits and pieces

my mother with
publicly speak about.

Yeah, that's my mom today.

It is really true,
I mean what a story.

My mom was somehow
released from prison,

fled Iran as a single mother,
wrote a PhD in psychology,

and became the first
female migrant candidate

for mayor in Germany.

It's crazy.

20 years ago she
met my stepdad Kurt,

and gave birth to
my sister Mira.

That's my stepdad Kurt.

He's a psychoanalyst and a
child of Holocaust survivors.

He's a famous researcher on
how trauma is being passed on

from one generation to another.

Kurt's work has always been
a huge inspiration to me.

Since 15 years, he meets with
Shoah survivors every week,

listening to them,
supporting to them,

eating lots of cake and
sharing a couple of jokes.

- She's so young.

She's so young.

- My sister
Mira is much younger

and was born with a disability.

So in my family we say
we have got them all.

People with disabilities,
foreigners and Jews.

My mom and I get
along super well,

but we just can't
talk about the past.

Three decades of silence

and not once I had asked her,

"Mom, what has happened
to us in prison?"

And not once did she tell me,

"Maryam, I think we should
talk about something."

On a summer holiday I took
my courage in both hands

and told her about my plan to
do a movie about our story.

I even showed her a
trailer I had made

and hoped that it would
open up the conversation.

That we would finally
talk and cry a little

and everything would be said.

And in fact, she was very moved,

but eventually the
conversation did not come up.

It was too painful
for my mom to talk

and at the same time, I
couldn't go on living in denial

of the questions I had anymore.

I had been in
psychoanalysis for years

and I knew I was
pretty much sane

and this wasn't about
me finding myself.

Something about my birth
was just not personal

and I had to find
out what it was.

So what is it that I do know?

I found this picture of my
mom before she fled Iran.

She was 19 and already my mom

and that wasn't a costume.

She had no choice whether she
wanted to wear that or not.

The law forced her too.

In school I learned that my
parents grew up in a monarchy

and the ruler and dictator
of the country was the Shah.

Under the Shah, my
parents were allowed

to wear whatever they liked.

But everything else, like
freedom of speech, was denied.

- Could
a journalist in Iran

dare to criticize His Majesty?

- He could, but I don't
think that he would.

- The Shah and a
small minority of the country

lived in fame and glory,

while the rest of the country,
was struggling with poverty.

My parents were against that.

They listened to John
Lennon, read Marx

and sang "The Internationale."

And they were not alone.

Massive protest spread
around the country.

That's when my parents
met, decided to marry

and became revolutionaries.

In 1979, the Shah
was overthrown,

but the just and free society
they were fighting for

would soon become their
biggest nightmare.

Khomeini, the so-called
religious leader

and just another dictator,
proclaimed the Islamic Republic.

Tens of thousands of
political opponents

got persecuted,
tortured and killed.

In 1983, my parents were
arrested too, and me,

who was still in
my mother's belly.

Now what happened to us
there is the missing piece

of our family story.

My dad spent seven
years in prison

waiting for his death penalty.

He also survived
the massacre of 1988

when thousands of political
prisoners were murdered

in less than a few months.

After his release, he sent me
this video message from Iran,

trying to overcome the
distance creatively.

That's the first picture
of me taken after prison.

It's kind of cute, but
what does that child know

that I don't remember?

Interestingly, my
mom recommended

I should meet our
friend Shadi Amin.

She was a human rights
activist, a researcher

and had interviewed hundreds
of female prisoners.

She had a special technique
of working with them

and had a agreed to
work with me too.

I wouldn't give up so easily.

I knew of someone else
who could maybe help.

My aunt Sima in Paris.

She was the first one we met
after our arrival in Germany.

She was my father's sister

and I spent most of
my summer holidays

with her and my
cousins and friends.

This is Maryam, my
mom's oldest friend.

They were cell mates in prison.

She also lives in Paris,
and is a therapist too.

On the weekends she
works voluntarily

in a gardening project.

She's the only one I know of
who was present at my birth.

My mom was angry.

Maryam had called
her after our meeting

and apparently told
her that I was confused

and obsessed with prison.

My mother wasn't sure
this film was a good idea.

And I stared believing it too.

I was about to cancel my last
meeting with Chahla Chafiq,

the famous
sociologist and expert

on the ideological
prison system in Iran

when she urged me
to come meet her.

Chahla not only encouraged
me not to give up my quest,

but also told me
that in Florence

there was a feminist
conference held every year

of Iranian women
living in exile.

Not a few of them were
former political prisoners

who would maybe be
willing to talk to me.

But I had to introduce
my project and myself.

I had never publicly
spoken about my birth

and the idea of talking
in front of them

in my disastrous Persian
seemed really overwhelming.

But I had no other choice,

and they seemed kind of nice.

Okay, I'm going to
speak in English now.

So I know how difficult
this undertaking is.

The whole project still
seems to be a very dark

and stubborn dark hole

where a lot of puzzle
pieces are missing

and, therefore, I
reach out to you,

specifically the mothers and
children of that generation,

to talk to me.

Me and my team will be here
for the next three days.

Thank you.

So the child of my
father's executed friend

was probably still in Iran.

Iran, the one
place I couldn't go

without risking being
imprisoned again.

In Florence, I hadn't
met a single other child

of my generation.

But I was given some contacts.

I wondered who they had become,

what they knew of their story

and if their mom's had
ever talked to them.

Unfortunately, most of
them didn't wanna talk

in front of the camera.

But there was one girl who
finally agreed to talk to me.

The night before our
interview in my hotel room,

she left me a voicemail.

In Hanover, a conference

of former political
prisoners was held.

It was the hardest
one to get in.

The experience had made
them very skeptical

of anyone trying to
attend their gathering,

but with the help of my
father we were allowed in.

We had explained our intentions

and still once we arrived
they asked me again and again

who I was and what I was doing.

The Iranian regime until today
sends their secret service

to all kind of places, so their
fear was not unreasonable,

but I was starting to
feel really pressured

trying to tell the story
with all these restrictions.

So I was standing
outside this conference

and somewhere really close
to me was a child of prison

not wanting to enter the
building, very strange.

At some point, I contacted
Shadi, our friend,

and asked her for help
to find any other child,

no matter where it in the world,
except for Iran, of course.

I had a dream last night that
I was arrested with my father

and sent to prison.

We were in a cell when guards
with machine guns entered.

Each of them pushing a child

and pointing their guns at them.

I was convinced they
were trying to scare us.

But then suddenly, one of
the guards pulled the trigger

and shot the child
in front of him.

I turned to my father to see
if this was really happening

when one of the guards
stepped towards me

and shot me in the head.

I realized that I
was about to die

and that everything was ending

and while I was accepting my
death, I thought of my mom

and that I still had to tell her

that life actually is beautiful.

Was this dream giving me clues
to some hidden knowledge?

Did other children of prison
have dreams like this too?

There was a child who
had publicly spoken

about her family's persecution.

Back in 2012, in The Hague,

where a people's
tribunal took place

families of executed
political prisoners

organized the Iran tribunal

investigating the
massacres of the 1980s.

One of the witnesses
was Chowra Makaremi,

a child of my generation.

- I was eight months old
when my mother was arrested.

I was two years old.

So she was arrested
on 15th of June, 1981.

I was two years old

when my aunt was
executed in October 1982.

I was eight years old when
my mother was executed

in the massacre of
the summer of 1988.

What maybe I can
say to the court is

what my grandfather wrote.

I quote him.

"We learned she had
been tortured at length.

"Her spine was cracked.

"The eardrum of her left
ear had been punctured

"and there were burn marks
on several part of her body.

"She had been whipped
with electrical cables,

"plunged into a pool
of freezing water,

"wires had been wrapped
around her breasts

"and she had been
given electric shocks.

"She had been burnt
with cigarettes.

"Her teeth had been smashed.

"Boiling water had been poured

"into the sensitive
parts of her body.

"She had been hung
upside down by the feet."

That's all I have to say.

- Again, sorry, and
thank you very much.

The evidence speaks for itself.

It constitutes
overwhelming proof

that systemic and systematic
abuses of human rights

were committed by and on behalf

of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Graves of executed
prisoners stretching out

as far as the eye can see.

Men were arrested at 10 in
the morning and dead by 11.

Rows of prisoners were
shot by firing squad.

The legacy of abuse is extensive

and inevitably persists
to the present day.

The commission concludes

that these violations
of human rights

were devised,
instigation and executed

by a single, central
authority and as such,

the government of the
Islamic Republic of Iran

is the only authority
responsible for these acts.

- Yes, that's my mom.

She was there back in 2012
when the tribunal was held.

Even though it was only
a symbolic tribunal,

since the perpetrators
were absent,

it was a milestone
for the survivors.

But until today, the Iranian
regime remains in power

and denies all responsibilities.

I traveled back to Paris
to meet brave Chwora

where she was working
on a documentary

on the massacre of 1988.

Yeah true, that's an
interesting parallel.

- They are exactly
in the state of mind

that I was kind of
pointing or denouncing.

I think there is so much guilt.

I think one of the key

to the anger, to the
reluctance to talk,

is the guilt, is the guilt

because they survived, because
they lost the revolution

and all the time
they're thinking

of how could have
things been different.

The people who were
children like us

they live with this burden,

but most of them don't
want to talk about it.

It doesn't mean it's not
present in their minds

and in their inner life,
and even if it's not present

then there's a freezing silence

and so they don't hear that,
but they don't much else.

And that's why I called
my part the crossing,

because you have to
cross through that

and then when you cross,
then it's behind you

and you're not afraid
of ghosts anymore

because before I was, before
I read my grandfather's memoir

I knew that he was talking
about my mother's imprisonment

and tortures and execution,

so I knew there was
something really terrible

behind this door, I
didn't want to open it,

but it was terrifying me,

but then once I open
it and I saw it,

yes it's terrifying, it's
gruesome, it's awful,

it's very painful, but
you can name things.

You can put names.

It has a shape, but I would say

as children of defeated
political opponents,

who can each of them
totally stand on their feet,

but collectively they
have been defeated,

we are programmed to do well.

We are their resistance.

We are their answer
to the society.

Like, you know look.

And that's the point.

So we all kind of, we
have become good adults,

good responsible,
successful adults

and that's the answer of
this generation to raise.

Maybe it's not on purpose,

but maybe we also feel
that responsibility

to raise an army of
successful, beautiful people

to show okay this is
what we wanted to do.

- Chowra
herself had not

been imprisoned as a child.

But I had heard
about Nina in London,

who guess what, was
a psychologist too.

- Thank you, that's really nice.

Thank you very much.

It's beautiful.

- Perfect thank you.
- Thank you.

I think my experience
of time in prison

it would only be one.

When I was about 12,
13, I just kind of had

the same kind of dream
over and over again.

So the dream was that

is this baby is held by this man

and the baby is
crying hysterically,

like really, really just
shouting and screaming

and it's a woman in front of
her who's just being tortured

and there's just
blood everywhere

and they're just
hitting her and hurting.

She's in a lot of pain and
just blood everywhere really.

So I went and woke
my mum up and said,

"Mum, I keep having these
really horrible dreams.

"Well, same dream.

"What is this?"

And she goes, "Oh who told you?"

Kind of like, who told me what?

So anyhow, when I told
her what I had seen,

she was like, "Yeah
that's what happened."

She expresses her experiences,
but it's never been where

like how has that
made your feel?

I see the impact every day.

She won't really tell me.

- Just because of
what you were saying,

I don't know if you've heard

about the
psychological phenomena

that's called scenic memories.

- Yeah, uh-huh.
- So my stepdad is working.

That's like his field
and when I was 22,

I was in Morocco
and I was taking,

'cause I have no memories
of prison at all,

like zero, nothing,
nothing, nothing,

but then I was like 22
and I was in south Morocco

taking a bus up to the north

and then they were playing music

and I was like getting
really kind of,

starting to sweat and
being super stressed out

and I normally didn't have that,

i didn't understand
what was going on

and then I realized that
I was really bothered

by the sound to the extent

that I started using
a towel around my head

'cause I was like I
can't breathe anymore,

I'm losing my mind in here.

So I went to the bus driver
and they turned off the music

'cause I was like
screaming at him,

turn off the music.

Anyway, months later I
told this thing to my dad

and he told me that one
of, you know probably,

it was Qu'ran.

So yeah, they said one of
the acoustic torture methods

was to play that.
- Really loudly.

- Real loud constantly.

So that was a first time
I was like oh my God,

so there is some kind of
memory or something engraved.

- They look good.

- Here you go.

- Thank you, thank you.

Thank you so much, that's good.

I think it came to a
point when I realized

a lot of my relationships
were kind of like

I became the mother
and a lot of the times,

the guys were quite, they
come from a very kind of,

not a very pleasant
background as well.

And then you kinda just
wanna go and save them.

My mother always says you've
got it on your forehead

if you have issues,
psychological issues,

please come this way.

And it's unbelievable,
it's true.

And I think yeah,

maybe it's we think
they could relate to us

because we think our
life wasn't normal

and our life wasn't
normal really.

Maybe we think they
could connect with us.

And we clutch onto them

and then we realize Jesus
Christ what have we done?

- Well, I think
if we wanna change

what's written on the forehead.

Until now if it says all
psychopath men towards us,

now we wanna change
that into healthy.

I don't know.

- Well proportionate,
mentally stable,

psychologically.
- Balanced.

- Balanced men, please
walk towards me.

And anybody else who has even

an ounce of stress or

what's the right word?

- Trauma, traumatic past.
- Traumatic past.

No self-esteem, no confidence.

Please do not come towards me.

Take a left and
go straight down.

- Nina had
gotten into prison

when she was almost two.

But I really wanted
to find a child

who was also born in prison.

What would it be
like to meet someone

who experienced life
for the first time

at the same gruesome place
where my life started?

Would we have
something in common?

After months of
searching, I had found one

on the other side of
the world in California.

Sahar Delijani, the
author of the book,

"Children of the
Jacaranda Tree."

She was born only
two months after me,

so there's a chance
that we even met before,

like baby prison buddies.

- That's fun.

I wanna do it next time.

- Yes, you can.

So the first chapter in your
book is a birth in prison

and in order to research that,

you did talk to
your mother, right?

And you said that you kind
of grew up with knowing,

of course, who was
born in prison or not,

but did you ever have
that sit down conversation

about your own birth
with your mother?

- We were on flight to
Canada, going on vacation

for a few days and
we were sitting

and the seatbelt sign came on

and then I thought okay,
so this is the moment.

She can't get up,
I can't get up.

Let's talk about it.

So she was just sitting
right next to me

and then I was taking notes.

So yeah, that's the moment
when she told me the story.

Something she doesn't really,

she had never really talked
about to anybody you know?

But she has these moments
when all of a sudden

she says something.

She was telling me the other day

how she got angry at someone

because of the thing
that person was saying

and how her hands were shaking

and she said, "Never in
my life my hands shook.

"Never, not even in prison

"when they would call
us for interrogation.

"Everybody was like okay,
come on get dressed."

My mom was like, "I
would always say,

"they're the ones who
want to talk to me.

"I don't want to talk to them.

"They wanna talk to me,
so they should take,

"I can take my time,
they can wait for me.

"So I would just wear my socks
and put my blindfold on."

She would talk about it as
if she was getting ready

to go to a party or
something, you know?

Then she's like, "But
this woman, this person."

- Yeah, my mother, she
would never refer to prison,

but now slowly since
I'm doing this movie

she sometimes says something
and there was one time.

She smokes, so my
mom stopped smoking

and then she starts smoking.

Like I did always, but now
I stopped for two years

and she said, I said,
"Mom you know the smoking

"why do you do it and stop
it and blah blah blah."

And she said, "Well, it's
my expression of freedom."

I like, "That's bullshit,
that's not freedom.

"I know you think that."

And then suddenly she
turns around and says,

"You know my best
friend in prison,

"when they asked her what the
last thing was that she wanted

"before being executed,
she asked for a cigarette.

"Just a cigarette, and
they denied it to her.

"So then we went to a
corner and the last moment

"they would take her and
pretend they would be smoking

"and it was our
expression of freedom."

On the other side of the world

I came to understand
that, in fact,

it was never about my
mom's silence, but mine.

It wasn't about her
answers, but about me

phrasing my questions.

When you got to prison,
did you tell them

that you were pregnant?

And did they really
kick you in the stomach?

Did you wonder if I may be dead?

Did you talk to me when
I was in your belly?

Were you worried that
they'd kill my dad?

Is it true that you had to
give birth to me blindfolded?

And did you not see me then?

Did they torture you
and was I present?

Why and when was I given out?

And how was that for you?

What happened when
you were released?

Did I recognize you then?

If not, I'm really sorry.

Did you ever plan to talk
to me about all this?

But the truth is, it's not
even about all these questions.

But that I wanna tell you

I'm not afraid of
ghosts anymore.

You only need a candle
to light darkness.

And most importantly,
I wanna tell you

I'm sorry for all you
had to go through.

* No one will answer
your prayers *

* Until you take
off that dress *

* No one will hear
all your crying *

* Until you take
your last breath *

* But you

* Will learn

* To mind me

* And you will learn

* To survive me

* Your father before you

* And your sister too

* Your husband and
blah, blah, blah, blah *

* You

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