Member Bio: Ava Homa
Ava is a Kurdish-Canadian, writer-in-exile and a member of PEN Canada with two Master’s in “English and Creative Writing” and “English Language and Literature.” Echoes from the Other Land, Ava’s collection of short stories about resistance of modern Iranian women under the oppressive regime, was published by TSARbooks, Toronto. On its universal scale, Echoes from the Other Land, is the story of relationships, of human desires, resistance and passion. Ava’s writings have appeared in English and Farsi publications including the Toronto Star and the Windsor Review. She was a journalist and a member of faculty in Iran. In Toronto, Ava writes and teaches Creative Writing, English and ESL. Visit Ava’s website at http://www.AvaHoma.com
About the book, Echoes from the Other Land, by Ava Homa:
These haunting stories beautifully evoke the resistance of modern women in the tyrannical Islamic Republic of Iran. As a resistance to the national and international oppressions, misrepresentations, and censorship of the Iranians, Echoes from the Other Land reveals some truth about a historically rich but betrayed land. On its universal scale, Echoes from the Other Land is the story of human alienation from self, escapism and wandering. This is a collection of thematically complicated short fiction written in a spare style and simple language that implies volumes of unspoken knowledge—the seven-eighths of an iceberg underwater.
Reviews:
“Ranging across regions, ethnicities, genders, sexualities and political dispositions, Homa’s characters give us a prismatic portrait of Iran that resists both internal tyrannies and Western demonization. Her style is elegantly spare, gem-solid. This is a voice we all need to hear.”—Susan Holbrook, author of Joy Is So Exhausting
“Ava Homa is Canada’s exquisite answer to Raymond Carver. Homa announces new beginnings—less irony, more hope—and from a breathtakingly multicultural and international perspective. Readers will experience awe and beauty at the force of Homa’s art to convey female Iranian protagonists wholeheartedly grasping their lives. A taut and subtle plain-spokenness enlivens her writing, belying rich dramatic tensions that build just beneath the surface—which will surprise readers and then captivate them.”—Louis Cabri, author of The Mood Embosser
“When most of us think of Iran, what comes to mind is the image of women covered in black chadors who move like shadows through a strict, puritanical society. All of this is true, of course, but it’s also true that Iran is a modern, developed country, and in Ava Homa’s first collection of stories, Echoes From The Other Land, we’re faced with a jarring combination of realities that co-exist side by side in her homeland. In these seven stories, veiled women use cell phones, buy CDs, are good with computers, and, along with their husbands and boyfriends, party on into the night in stylish western dress, reminding me of the hidden world of our Nineteen-Twenties speakeasies during Prohibition. The friction between strict laws and customs and the realities of modern life makes the sparks fly in these stories. In “Fountain,” the dissonance is surreal as a young woman, Anis, gets bullied and bossed around by Ali, her unemployed husband, who’s asserting his traditional authority over her while she’s trying to write a computer program. Just as potent in these stories is a kind of resonance that’s set up between parallel situations — different types of oppression, for example — in which one form of imprisonment amplifies the other, allowing the entire story to hum along on a single clear note of perception. For example, in “A River of Milk and Honey,” the narrator, Sharmin, a girl set apart by a facial deformity, observes the equally restricted world of her mother, her aunt, and a beautiful young woman who’s chased by men and whose parents find her the wrong husband. This same resonant effect is equally powerful in the story “I am One of Them.” Two voices pound away at young Sana who’s locked herself in her room: her mother, angry that she’s broken up with her fiancé Zanyar, and her friend Susan on the phone who’s also upset with her. The back-and-forth of these voices is intense and claustrophobic. In “Glass Slippers,” the story is told in the second person, as the narrator addresses herself. She and a friend, Sara, are hiding in a basement, trying to get a glimpse of her husband’s lover. What the wife discovers about her husband may be far more devastating than adultery, and the effect is amplified by the intimacy of the woman conversing with her turbulent inner self. And in the final story, “Just Like Googoosh,” we learn that headscarves — not usually worn around the house — may serve to hide something painful — in this case the loss of Fermisk’s hair, quite possibly because of chemotherapy. What makes these stories work is the simplicity and directness of their telling. Homa suggests much and states little outright. Maybe this approach is, in fact, the true “echo from the other land” — Iran — in which much is unspoken and cannot be said, in which there’s no doubt a vocabulary of signs and signals and coded words with layers of meanings and suggestiveness. This elusive approach to storytelling is subtle and powerful, haunting the reader with the silence between the words. I’d only add that these characters are all quite youthful, and in future stories, it would be interesting to see what Ava Homa might do with a greater variety of characters at different stages of life. That said, take your imagination to Iran with this story collection, and you’ll be rewarded with much insight and fine storytelling.” Ava Homa’s Echoes From The Other Land is published by Tsar Books in Toronto. —Carole Giangrane, author of A Gardener on the Moon
Praise from readers:
“I can only say that having read, critiqued and helped to edit the first drafts of most of these stories, that they are simple, but beautiful. If you’re a fan of Hemingway-esque prose, Ava Homa’s stories will make your literary senses tingle. If you are at all interested in Iran as a political, cultural and social landscape, you’ll enjoy Echoes From the Other Land. There are no clichés in these stories. You’ll have to read them again and again to really understand what’s just happened: this was proven when a very smart member of our class, totally missed the point in one of Homa’s stories (which has since resulting in much teasing) but is easy to do when things are not stated outright, when the reader has to explore to find the answers. The politics aren’t overdone and heavy-handed; this is not a book highlighting Iranian doctrine or Western doctrine. There’s balance here.” —Jenny Lee Ferguson
“Glass Slippers is haunting, thought-provoking, elusive, subtle, all the things a short story should be.”—Dawn Promislow, author of Jewel and Other Stories
“Dipped into it last night to read “Glass Slippers”. For me it was a virtuoso performance where in a very tightly written story you managed to echo so many popular fairy/folk/literary tales, East and West…Cinderella of course but also Bluebeard and Yusuf and Zulaikha to name just a few!…Bravo.”—Ariel Balevi, Story Teller
“Powerful collection of short stories…all connected by the Sufi proverb stated at the beginning of the book “If you cannot fly out of the cage, fly with the cage”.Very strong narration style which makes it hard for the reader to remain a silent spectator as the story proceeds. Its amazing how the protagonist picks up and goes on with her life in each story.”—Smitha Cholakkal
“I relate to these stories. Every time you read a story, you understand it more and more. I have not seen a book before that seems so simple at surface and is so deep. I re-read stories and love them more and more. I recommend these stories to anyone who likes to explore human nature.”—Raha
Echoes is now available in E-book at
http://www.tsarbooks.com/EchoesTTQ8review.html
Book Excerpt:
A River of Milk and Honey
Evening.
“Every relative is willing to donate something, as much as they can.” I recognize Ronak’s voice, my aunt.
“I know, but it’s a high-risk surgery. What can I say? How can I make a decision like that for her?” That voice is Mom speaking.
“Trust God, dear.”
“What’ve I done to deserve this?” Mom asks. “For which sin?”
Same old questions. I lean my head against the hallway wall. Which sin? Whose sin? Who pays for whose sin? Sometimes I wonder if God hates all the people in this city, all the people who live on the border of Iran and Iraq. My father says Sanandaj is a city of revolution and mass murder, tyranny and genocide. I was in my mother’s womb when the war broke out and eight when it was finally over. I do not know what sin these people committed to deserve such horror but I know that God does not ever answer my prayers. Maybe He will in the afterworld.
“God is testing your faith,” Ronak says.
Pushing the door open quietly, I tilt my head so as to peek into the living room. The two women are sitting on the handmade carpet, leaning against the new Kurdish cushions. Ronak takes a sip of her tea and notices me in the crack of the door. “Sharmin is a sweetheart,” she says, raising her voice.
Mom’s white headscarf that she wears during prayer has slid onto her shoulders and her salt-and-pepper hair is messy. “Her situation wouldn’t run me down, if she was, at least, a boy,” Mom says. Placing a hand on her hip, she winces.
“Sharmin, dear, come here,” Ronak says. “You look nice in that shirt, darling.”
Mom coughs and pulls the scarf over her head. I hobble over and sit next to Ronak, and hide my head behind her shoulders, twisting my fingers into the hem of my blue shirt.
From her purse, Ronak takes out a book with a red cover. “Because you finished reading the last book,” she turns her head to me, smiling. “You deserve a new one.”
Good Stories for Good Kids2. On the cover there is a sketch of a young girl in a headscarf, across from a boy. I grab the book and limp hurriedly towards my room.
“Would you like to eat now? Your dad won’t be in tonight,” Mom calls after me.
“Not hungry,” I say over my shoulder, close the door and throw myself onto the bed. I open the book and position its corners on my ears.
*****
Weekend. My uncle’s family will visit us and I pray that Azad will be with them. Mom says he is a man now and does not go out with his parents. When I am on the rooftop waiting for the days to end, I often see Azad in the neighbourhood with his friends. I do not call out and he does not look up. I have a feeling that Azad will come over today, if it’s God’s will. Please, God!
Afternoon. The shampoo slowly slips to the corner of my mouth. The bitter taste. I close my eyes. It’s not hard to imagine myself emerging from the River of Milk and Honey: luminous wings open. Azad passes by and stares. Gathering my wings behind me, I walk elegantly in a white dress towards a garden of red roses, pretending not to see him. A breeze blows through my hair. When I get to the garden, I turn and beckon to him; he has a look of adoration in his eyes. He runs to me. We walk together through the garden, hand in hand.
I begin shivering. The water always gets cold fast—to wake me from dreams, I think. No, “to save gas,” says Dad.
My underdress and puffy pants are silver. I pull on the Kurdish dress, bright red with embroidery, which Ronak gave me last year. She bought it for me in Iraq—the only dress I have that Mom hasn’t tailored. I choose to wear my short-sleeved, silver vest, which I have decorated with white sequins and glass beads tying the long tails of the sleeves behind my neck. The loose fit hides my noticeable breasts. I loop a belt around my waist and rummage through the dresser for a red headscarf and come across a vest of Mom’s that’s ornamented with sparkly charms, traditional amber, red and black beads, and gold jewelry received as dowry. In the last drawer, I find her belt, made entirely of connected and dangling gold lira coins. I have never seen my mother wear the vest or the belt. Mom and my aunts always wear dark-coloured, plain Kurdish dresses, with long-sleeved vests, and with little or no accessories. I, too, do not like to make God angry by showing off. And though I hate covering my thick and wavy hair, nobody should pay for my sins.
I am trying on the headscarf when Mom appears between me and the mirror. She frowns at the messy knot I have made of the scarf and lifts a black scarf from the drawer: “This black one will make your face look smaller.”
I examine her frowning face and then my own face in the mirror. It’s nothing like a monster’s. I am loveable.
“Take it,” she sighs.
“I hate black.” I move towards the door. a
She drapes her arm around my neck and whispers in my ear: “Darling, everything will be fine after the surgery. I mean if your irresponsible father ever cares for his family.”
Driving his truck between Iran and Iraq, Dad is never home but he is not irresponsible. He is kind and never talks about surgery. She pats my head. Turning my head, I search her eyes for something I cannot find. I push her hand away, and shuffle away as fast as I can up the flight of stairs to the rooftop.
I sit in my corner, in my chair. There is a blanket folded over the back, which I wrap around my body and over my head. Here, under the blanket, I see again men with thick glasses and green attires cutting my chin, like in the nightmares I have never talked to Mom about. Azad is the only one to whom I will tell these things.
Footsteps. I feel a presence and steal a look from under the blanket. Azad is standing there and it is not a dream. Hands in his back pockets. I drop the blanket. Azad sees my uncovered hair. I am trembling. He has lost weight; the skin under his almond-shaped eyes seems darker.
“Sharmin!” He says my name in his deep, strong voice. “I knew you would be here! how’re you?”
I blush and clumsily smile; my entire body pulses.
“May I?” He rocks my chair, chewing a gum, his eyes fixed on the Awyar Mountain in the distance. “Exams, exams! I’m not in the mood to study whatsoever.”
I would be finishing high school in two years if I were still in school.
“You’re lucky, Sharmin! Rocking, watching pretty neighbours all day.” He chuckles.
Azad talks rapidly, like always. Mom says he has changed but for me he is very much Azad. He has the habit of pulling his left ear when excited. I’ve wanted to tell him how much I hated the school, the kids and the teachers. I’ve wanted to tell him that I know why they hated me at school—because their heads were small and because they said I could not learn as fast as the others. But I’ve wanted to tell him that I am not stupid. I’ve wanted to tell him all my secrets.
“I’m going to enlist in the air force next year, in Tehran.”
“Air force?”
“I’ll make a good pilot, don’t you think?” He winks.
“You’ll fly people around the world?” I ask. I want to ask him if he remembers our childhood games, during the war, when he would take me around the world in his plane.
“Ha-ha, no, war pilot. I know you have a gorgeous neighbour,” he says before I get to say anything else, and he smiles mischievously. “Do you know which is her bedroom? Do you think she sleeps by herself?” He turns his gaze away from the neighbour’s house and looks into my shocked expression. “Shaho, our other cousin, is in love with her, too. Her beauty is fascinating,” he adds, to explain himself. I tell myself how how glad I am that he still feels close enough to me to share his secrets. He knows that I will keep them to myself. But my throat has constricted. No one else is Vengeance like I am. “Her name is Kazhal,” he says, and walks towards the edge of the roof, bending over it to peer across at the house on our right. “Rhythmical step, appealing makeup, large breasts, flat belly, big lips, God, she’s incredible, just incredible,” he says as if reciting a poem.
I’ve wanted to show him that no one has my hair.
******
Evening. Azad has left. “No one else is Vengeance,” I say out loud, rocking back and forth in my chair. I look at the house on the right where a new family has recently moved in. Unlike ours, it was built after the war so it does not bear the scars. This is the way the city looks: modern, chic buildings next to the old, ones with their plastered-over bullet holes, next to other left to rot.
A child’s voice in the alley calls for her mom. I hobble to the edge of the roof.
******
interview: ava homa
by Jen
I’m happy to be able to bring you an interview with Canadian writer Ava Homa. Ava and I have been friends for a few years, so after the publication of her first collection of short stories, Echoes From the Other Land, I was excited to ask her to talk about her book, writing and reading on a writer’s blog.
Bio adapted from ?her website?: Ava Homa was born in Tehran and grew up in Sanandaj, Kurdistan. Ava experienced war as a child and the aftermath of war in adulthood (Kurdistan uprising, losing loved ones, economic crisis and inflation). She graduated from Allameh Tabatabai University, the Iranian ivy league, in 2005, with Master’s degree in English. In September 2005 she became a full-time faculty member to teach English at Azad University, Iran. In 2009, Ava graduate from University of Windsor with Master’s in English and Creative Writing. Echoes from the Other Land, Ava’s first collection of short stories in English, was published by ?TSAR?. Echoes from the Other Land is the story of human endurance, resistance, passion and pleasure. Onto the questions!
Q: What inspired you to write Echoes From the Other Land? A: I’m inspired by the pain in my and my people’s lives, the oppressive rules under which Iranian people, especially women, magically survive and the humanity that surprisingly stays intact. I wanted to give these struggles, courage and resistance a voice, an authentic image as opposed the image the mainstream currently has of Iranian women.
Q: Speaking about Iranian women, your short stories are all focused on female characters. Which character in Echoes From the Other Land would you most want to be? And of course, why? A: It would have to be Anis from “Fountain.” She is introverted but strong, smart, complicated, rebellious, accomplished and incredibly patient.
Q: Yeah, who wouldn’t want to have those kind of characteristics. Let’s shift gears here and talk about MA/MFA programs. I know you’re a graduate from the University of Windsor’s MA in English and Creative Writing (as am I). What’s your honest opinion about MFA programs or MA programs in Creative Writing? Do you think you have to graduate from one of these programs to be a writer today? What are the benefits/drawbacks based on your experiences? A: You definitely don’t have to be a graduate from a Creative Writing program to be a writer, which is why I did not pursue my PhD. However, you have to write and read a great deal. MA programs make you do that and that’s the best side of it, in my opinion. Also, in a MA program you are exposed to a diverse type of writing, either by professor’s recommendation or what your peers write. Their feedback gives you a sense of how some potential readers will perceive your writing. The negative side of MA programs is that sometimes these things don’t happen. For example, feedback from peers sometimes become the opposite of constructive. Writing is subjective after all.
Q: Okay, so you had to read a lot in your MA program (me too!). That leads me to my next questions: what are your three favourite books and why? A: I am a voracious reader of fiction and can’t really give you a list of my favourite books but I enjoy all the books I finish reading because if I don’t like them I put them aside. Usually, each fiction offers some new insight about human nature and we are such complicated beings that writers can explore our experiences infinitely. I enjoy any fiction that intrigues my imagination, has subtle and powerful dialogue, multi-dimensional characters, simple, spare prose, and unbiased and not judgemental motives. That being said, I have tried reading genre fiction and never finished reading one, have picked up some “best sellers” and never gotten through more than a few chapters. They are not unworthy of reading; it’s just that I am not intrigued enough to continue reading them. To get back to your question, I don’t really have “three favourite books” but Ernest Hemingway, J.D. Salinger and Raymond Carver have had a significant influence on my writing style. They were the writers whose books I read several times to figure out how they created the effect that mesmerized me. I wanted to know what was their secret.
Q: Okay. So you’ve studied some of the masters to write better. Now that you’ve published your first book of short stories, you are in a way a “master” of the art. So, what advice do you have for aspiring writers? A: I have three recommendations:? 1. Write.? 2. Write more.? 3. Write some more. I read that somewhere and I think it is really the most important ?thing writers should and can do. Be your own best reader, your sharpest critic but not before you have finished writing your first draft. Write about the things you are deeply passionate about, what you’ve touched. Feel the joy of writing rather than getting stressed over it. Finally, always respect your reader’s intelligence.
Good advice. Thank you Ava for giving us a little insight into your reading and your writing! You can read more about Ava at http://ava-homa.blogspot.com/; you can visit her publisher’s website at http://www.tsarbooks.com/; or you can check out another book blogger’s review of Ava’s collection at http://www.generallyaboutbooks.com/2010/10/echoes-from-other-land.html. If you’re the tweeting kind, feel free to follow Ava at http://twitter.com/#!/AvaHoma. And if that wasn’t enough, for those of you who would prefer to listen to a short story (or sample Ava’s work) check out episode #22 of the Words to Go Podcast for “Glass Slippers,” at http://wordstogopodcast.com/