The Society of the Spectacle by Morteza Mardiha

Some kind friends ask why I don't write anything. And my answer is: what should I write, and why? If I were to ignore the conditions Iran finds itself in today and turn to other concerns (literary or scientific, for instance), there is the fear that the general audience would say, the house is ruined from its foundations, and the master is preoccupied with the design of the porch. And if I set about speaking of the principal afflictions and obstacles (or what are taken to be principal), what can I say that others haven't already said, and is any problem ever solved merely by talking? A huge portion of what we constantly say and lament about the governance and the micro- and macro-management of society resembles scratching a wound. It brings a little relief but solves no problem. Scratching, too, requires no expert instruction. These repetitive recitations of ours, sometimes from morning till night, are just a pouring out of the heart, which for some acts like a radiator, slightly reducing the fire within. For me, it has no such function. That is why I flee from it. As for those who still imagine that by chewing over the aforesaid matters they are raising awareness, and that this awareness will presumably lead to social action and liberation—may good fortune and the hand of God be with them. I pray for them and wish them success, but I have no realistic hope for any benefit from either that effort or this prayer. Don't ask me, then, what is to be done. I don't know. Perhaps nothing. That an answer is unpleasant does not mean it is necessarily incorrect. There is no prohibition against people continuing passionately with exposés, expressions of anger and fervor, and promises of swift and abundant events, but nothing substantial has come of it either. Two months ago I wrote an analysis and laid out my reasons for why neither a war will occur nor negotiations. I sent it to a young friend of mine, a knowledgeable PhD student in political science, to get his opinion. He said: "What is this, really!? You've closed off all the paths! Write something that offers some hope." I was reminded of Sheikh Ahmad Kafi and his famous story, "Perform an estekhareh that comes out well." I decided against publishing it.

We are a society of the spectacle, and this is, of course, not a slight against us. The instruments of intervention and participation have been taken from the people, and the populace resembles a flock in line at the slaughterhouse. They look around helplessly, and there is nothing they can do. I know that many feel disgust at this allegory, even when they know it to be true. In high school, during composition class, our militant teacher read a story called "The Tale of the Sheep That Became a Wolf." That story is the manifestation of the wishes and regrets of all those who process their suppressed complexes of humiliation and coercion in their imagination and thought, in the form of social revolution and any kind of resistance and struggle, but in many cases, it remains in this realm of speech. The tale of hope for fundamental changes based on mental models mixed with enthusiasm and devoid of the touchstone of experience is not unlike the story of Mulla Nasreddin and the Ash-e Qeysarieh. In the past year, there were not a few who, citing that the impoverished layers of society would revolt due to unbearable economic pressure and become uncontrollable, or citing that the great powers can no longer tolerate this situation in the region and its effects on the whole world and will soon take fundamental action, became convinced that they would count their chickens at the end of this very autumn, which, of course, they did not. Two objections to this statement are possible and common. One is that this very prediction leads to its own fulfillment. When it is instilled in people that they can do nothing fundamental, they are indeed convinced that this is the case, and the capacities for serious opposition wither away. My answer is that the dominant voice, as it happens, was not this, but its opposite, yet it was of no use. Many radio stations, televisions, and websites are engaged in encouraging action and, indeed, predicting fundamental change. Something whose failure to materialize has perhaps led to disillusionment and depression. The second is that it is said the story of this heavy wave of verbal opposition and the prediction of the end is the story of the thirsty and the water. If people truly cannot do anything, at least they can vent their frustrations. Why should one wage war on their imagination and shatter their dreams? The answer is that there is no necessary 'should.' Truth and reality are supposed to serve happiness and comfort; if they do not, they can sometimes be circumvented, by strengthening the imagination and, with the hope of change, making the malevolent times a little easier to pass. But there is also a point. There are two kinds of imagination and two kinds of hope. Suppose I, contrary to all evidence, imagine that I am a great person and that in future generations everyone will recognize my infinite worth, and even a large statue will be erected in my honor in the main square of the city. Such an imagination probably harms neither me nor others. It circumvents reality in favor of fantasy and sweetens life a little. But suppose I, again contrary to the evidence, imagine that I have ten billion tomans in my account. This is a dangerous fantasy. Because I might rely on it to make purchases and end up in prison with a bounced check. Hope is the same. Sometimes a person is generally optimistic and hopeful. This is, of course, a good thing, and even if none of their hopes are realized, by the grace of this hopefulness, they pass the time more easily. But if, contrary to the evidence, they pin their hopes on a specific and particular event in the near future, repeated failures may break them and inflict soul-wearing wounds.

Being a society of the spectacle and becoming an instance of “I saw with my own eyes my life ebbing away” is not a fault of us people; it is a historical misfortune. Something not too far from a biological misfortune, like being short in stature or having an incurable disease. Of course, there is a difference between these, but not as much as we have imagined. An acquaintance who, last year, heavily promoted that it was all over and that for this reason and that, “we have reached the sun and become the final dust,” when it did not happen, I asked him how things were. Sarcastically and mockingly, he said everyone is sitting at home expecting a change to occur. I said that is precisely the problem. There is a foreign proverb that says someone said if we all unite, we can solve our problems. And someone replied, my friend, if we all united, there would be no problem left needing to be solved. For better or worse, humans think much of the sea and its benefits but hoist little sail, heading for dangerous, high-profit ventures. They prefer the safety that lies ashore. It seems there is no solution for the time being. This may be abject, but the high-mindedness and honorableness of the Don Quixote kind has not availed us either. Let us not mistake; our being Don Quixote does not mean we are insubstantial, delusional, and possessed of hollow, empty personalities. It is just that we might, in this fray, mistake our lame donkey for Rakhsh and our rusty sword for Zulfiqar. This lameness and rustiness, of course, is not our fault, or perhaps not even our negligence. Like many other nations who were trapped at certain junctures and had no possibility of confrontation, resistance, or escape. I think, for now, what is possible is that while preserving hope and optimism of the first kind, we set aside the second kind and strive, as long as this inequation remains as it is, to reduce the amount of our active suffering with as cool-headed a gaze as possible upon this historical misfortune (which I know is exhausting).

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A piece by Morteza Mardiha titled “The Society of the Spectacle”

Source: Morteza Mardiha’s Telegram channel

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