Truth and the Price of Onions

Truth becomes a scary word in the film Silent Waters. One must be a “true Muslim” in order to serve Pakistan, and Allah. Pakistan is the “true Islamic nation,” and Muslims the “true keepers of the soil.” True is a word loaded with such religious and political significance. From the mouths of those who believe in their own truth (a truth they themselves have defined), a black-and-white border extends. But what is true? The borderland that results from the ambiguity created by terms like “true” and “false” is cavernous and dangerous. Because, in the borderland, dwell the uncompromising leaders and the victimized. Hardly any in between.

I think we mistrust people who seem too certain of “Truth.” At least I do. The two Muslims from Lahore, in the movie, are callous and single-minded, certain that Islam is the only way (although, in the beginning, one of them does want to go about converting people more subtly-- get to know them first) and we know they bring trouble from the start. I think as outside observers, too, we are frightened by how quickly sheep find their shepherd. Crowds and groups of people will gravitate to anyone who sells something convincingly. The strongest, loudest voice ends up speaking the “Truth.”

Memories are influenced by this idea of Truth too. The stronger something is advocated, the more likely people are to remember it. The more convincingly something is delivered, the more people will CHOOSE to believe it. I think memory essentially becomes choice. Saleem chose his path, and how to remember/forget his mother. He will choose which part of her to remember- Veero or Ayesha? (I really liked what Dawn said about this in her post…) He chose to abandon what he knew of his mother’s past, to preserve nothing of her family’s memory. Yet that memory lives on with Zubeida (even though what exactly she knows is unclear) because she chose to keep Ayesha’s necklace. Who knows what will become truth when looking back? The “Truth” depends on the stories Zubeida and Saleem choose to tell.

Ayesha was stuck in a borderland, between places and times, between the past and the future. She chose not to tell Saleem about her past, to keep her Sikh identity hidden. That identity is hidden in her old name and possessions, and somewhere in her memory, and yet she chose not to tell her son until the very end of the movie. That choice affected the way Saleem’s whole life played out. New knowledge found out so late in his life couldn’t become “Truth” for him after being so indoctrinated in something else.

Silent Waters definitely builds on questions of memory and identity that we’ve raised with almost book we’ve read. Said’s memoir, in particular, raised the question of memory v. fiction. His story, and how we remember him, depends on his own memories, how he chooses to remember them, and how he chooses to include them in his book. Memory is story, story is memory, and both are choice.

Zubeida’s quote at the end of the movie sticks with me: “I remember Ayesha very well. But what’s the point of remembering her? Does it change the price of onions?” Truth and memory sometimes have little bearing on reality.