Category: Life & Culture

Is the House Black or Our Lens? Empathy, Confusion and The Stretched Moral Knot

by Krishiv Agarwal

Watching “The House Is Black” makes you do something awkward: you feel empathy, then you check that feeling and come to wonder whether empathy is a moral failure. Faith sits beside this confusion, the ‘victims’ are not angry at God; they pray, thank, accept. This steadiness is not a religious resignation but a dig at us: why do we imagine suffering as an external problem for God to fix rather than a politics for us to change? And if you help, with what gaze, who is looking up and who is being looked down on, on the ladder named empathy? The film attempts to resolve these questions by refusing clear answers.

“The House Is Black,” by Forugh Farrokhzad is a short documentary filmed in 1963 set in an Iranian leper colony. The film pairs stark images of daily life, children, rituals and chores with lyrical fragments that read like a diagnosis: the world looks away, and the ordinary lives of the afflicted become the measure of our moral imagination.

The film opens on a woman, hijab framing her face, staring into a mirror. The shot stays. That stare is the contract the film makes with the viewer: look with me, not at me. The mirror is literal and theological with the hijab suggesting God’s presence and concealment, as well as its inability to hide the fact of suffering. When the camera pushes in, the image is not sensationalized; you are made complicit in the act of seeing. Why does this matter? Think of global crises — refugee camps, bombed hospitals, pandemic wards — where televised images invite a burst of outrage that is soon recycled into a moral spectacle. Farrokhzad denies spectacle. The dry scene of a man walking along a wall towards us, then moving away as the audio fades in (Saturday, Sunday, Monday) is quietly savage. Time continues, the world rotates. That audio only fills the frame when distance returns. The ethical rhythm of modern life goes like: move closer, make it private; step back, give it a week; resume.

There is also an explicit moral address: “Oh Muslims, I am sad tonight” (lines from Forugh Farrokhzad’s own poetry), not just as a lament but as a commentary on faith itself. The sadness is not directed at God; it is about the unbearable strangeness of living in a world where suffering feels endless and the crescent moon hovers like a symbol of both fragility and endurance, reminding us that devotion can be inseparable from despair.


Artistically, the film is ruthless. The camera is often at household level — low angles, hands, utensils — leaving each one of us as an observer. Subtle editing stitches do not dramatize, it accumulates. When you place these formal choices parallel to current crises, some patterns emerge. First, the moral economy of pity can reproduce hierarchy. Pity often contains a quiet contempt, a desire to be relieved rather than to redistribute. Second, the film insists that structural questions like medicine, social exclusion, state neglect are not solved by feeling alone. The archives of war and pandemic now accumulate images to the point of numbness; Farrokhzad’s method counteracts this by reintroducing friction. No jingles intrude; no fundraising cutaway softens the image. Where TV would turn suffering into a charity proposition, Farrokhzad leaves you in a room with it. 

The Dove and The Politics of Hope

There is a voice in the film that wishes to become a dove, implicitly wondering whether an earth without suffering is conceivable. Distant things — moons, birds, future on Mars — become the only places where human hope can live, because they are tidy, one-dimensional and therefore palatable. When suffering is immediate and total, the mind prefers a far, digestible, horizon over an ugly, almost irresolvable, present. God, too, functions like that horizon for many: a promise so remote that injustice now feels slightly bearable.

But Farrokhzad complicates this consolation. The residents of the colony fold their suffering into ritual. They do not curse God in a way the privileged might expect. That is the moral sting: if those who suffer are not enraged, why are we? Are we compassionate because we imagine ourselves above them? Or because we are recognizing a shared humanity? 

The film refuses an easy ethic. In the end the film is deliberately, disturbingly unresolved. The director makes you sit with a confusion that feels almost criminal: you feel, you judge your feeling, you fail to act; you watch again and feel something else. That recursive discomfort is Farrokhzad’s point. Empathy here is not the end of ethics, it is the beginning of an interrogation. And that interrogation is, quietly, a little fucked up and gloriously necessary.

References and Time Stamps

The House is Black:

Time Stamps:

  • Hijab Scene: 00:45
  • Person walking along the wall: 02:49
  • ‘Oh Muslims I am sad today’ poem: 04:49

The Dual Nature of Reality

by Margherita Greco

We live in a world today that praises progress but trembles before crises. Heads of State invest in technological and scientific research but remain paralyzed when dealing with climate change, famine and genocide. Therefore, we should ask ourselves: “Is reality the story of human triumph or the story of our limits?”

This ambiguity in the perception of reality is not a new phenomenon. In the 19th century, two of the greatest philosophers of modern times offered two opposing  interpretations. On one hand, the German Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel viewed reality as humanity’s steady progression toward freedom, civilization and ultimate triumph. On the other hand, Søren Kierkegaard underlined how reality was the place of despair, anxiety and impossibility, in which hollow men wander aimlessly in the shadow.

Even if these clashing interpretations were expressed two centuries ago, they remain more relevant than we could ever have imagined. Today, as opulent wealth and selfishness collide with hunger and poverty, we find ourselves living in both worlds at once. This dogmatic relationship with reality mirrors the uncertainty we live in today, caught between optimism about progress and despair at seemingly insurmountable crises. 

The Hegel’s optimism remains woven into modern narratives. His idea that history tends toward triumph has shaped both liberal democracy and Marxism and persists in today’s faith in human progress. This triumphalist spirit is reflected in higher forms of social unity, specifically in the technological realm as artificial intelligence, renewable energy sources and medical advancements are developed.

In the “Phenomenology of Spirit,” Hegel argues about “the fight for life and death,” which, in symbolic terms, should be interpreted as a conflict involving all humanity, in which those who have not been afraid to die win. In contrast, those who are afraid of dying  — those who have given up — succumb.

Through this conflict, men will obtain inner freedom and gain emancipation through work. This concept becomes apparent when applied to contemporary society: the desire to prevail over others is always more disruptive, reducing social relations to mere relations of necessity and power. 

But despite this hierarchy of strength, there is always a glimmer of positivity that is evident in the necessary interdependence of the strongest with the weakest, giving all the possibility to hold power. 

If Hegel interpreted reality as the place to advance towards the best, Kierkegaard, however, cuts against this triumphalism. For the Danish thinker, reality was not a matter of rational progress but a confrontation with despair. Anxiety, failure and faith were not detours on the road to victory: they were the essence of being human. Kierkegaard would likely be anguished by the growing climate crisis, global inequality and political polarization. How can we resolve these types of issues when we are only humans trying to make our lives a bit more bearable? Our limits, which we cannot overcome, ultimately render reality a place of impossibility, clashing completely with Hegel’s optimism and trust in progress.  

Living in our modern society requires us to be light-footed, jumping between optimism and despair with ease.  In our daily lives, we face the decision to feel like Hegelians, focused on development and innovation. However, we often find ourselves in a state of anxiety and paralysis, as Kierkegaard expounded, as we confront the digital world and the fragmentation of our identity, as well as wars and biodiversity loss.

To navigate this dilemma, we need to treasure both visions: cooperating and trusting the collective progress, while accepting certain limitations and having faith in the community to make our existence more tolerable. 

2025 is composed of two intertwined essences: progress and despair. We worry about climate change but, at the same time, fall into the blindest consumerism; we fight for individuality and freedom to express our thoughts, yet we criticize others online.

Perhaps, to live today is to accept this paradoxical nature of reality. Our world cannot afford blind trust in progress, nor can it survive steeped purely in despair. It is fundamental to realize optimism and doubt are companions, not opposites — both are necessary to navigate and improve this fractured world. 

We should collectively stand in the gap between Hegel’s and Kierkegaard’s theories, recognizing that reality has a dual nature that demands both faith and carelessness. 

By embracing this duality, it is possible to act wisely: advancing with hope, yet being aware of our boundaries. Only by assimilating this equilibrium can we dream of a future where human progress goes hand-in-hand with human vulnerability, in which we act consciously about our limits for the greater good.

Jacques-Louis DAVID : When Eyes and Strokes Speak Better Than Words

by Nahia Onchalo-Meynard

Image Credit: Nahia Onchalo-Meynard

“One shouldn’t just look at the model, but should read it like a book.” This quote by the famous French painter Jacques-Louis David couldn’t be more opportune when it comes to characterize his own work. Indeed, a freshly set exposition at the Louvre, retracing his whole career as an artist and activist, is unveiling its captivating perspective on life and an undeniable talent, alongside a historical time-travel all the way to Antiquity where he drew his inspiration. However traditional, mainstream and excessively spoken of him and his work might appear, this exhibition did but prove this all wrong. The acknowledgment of him being a key figure in the French Revolution and a pre-romantic painter, as well as the popularity of very few of his compositions solely led to a well-known but unknown artist. Looking beyond the patriotic spirit that the Revolution and Napoleon stirred up in him, one can actually fully grasp the timeless aspect of his paintings. One discovers a touching sensitivity that resurfaces through the overwhelming gaze of Psyche and the teasing smirk of a cherub, or a die-hard humanity, be it in the dramatic astonishing fights between Romans and Sabins or the most discreet behaviors in the many portrayals he made. The latter brings a refreshing, lightening mood to the collection full of meaning. It does so by embellishing the most common day of one’s life, and picturing real, unfiltered and imperfect faces and realities, bringing not only a strangely comforting atmosphere to whoever looks at it, but also a deep realization of the very existence of these people, that once treaded upon the same ground.  Not only does he depict the “model,” but he indeed constantly strives for a deep understanding of it, well-conveyed to the observer, almost as a dialogue between people, eras, cultures and languages.This exchange, as one might call it, is in fact a leap backwards, a sneak peak into fascinating and foundational eras of history. Portraying myths and legends, representing real major events (or non-events), one does not only passively stare at the canvas, but actually learns alongside them. The observer knows from this point forward Brutus’ sons’ tragic fate, Romulus’ wife’s crucial role in the pacification of the Roman Empire, Socrates’ temper — and even reflects about dreaded dilemmas, such as the choice between the nation’s well-being or a close one’s life. These paintings appear indeed as heavily meaningful ornaments. Beauty is undoubtedly what comes to mind when contemplating most of the works. Nevertheless, it is merely a glimpse of what they contain. The eyes are pleased, but the soul is triggered, the heart flinching and the mind frozen. When picturing humanity with sensitivity, it also means picturing all of it: love, peace, courage, but also grief, terror, evil. It would be an understatement to say that it is hard not to shed a tear while looking at the portrait of a  13-year-old boy, dead because he enrolled in the revolutionary army to free people that never intended to do such for him. Its devastating impact on the spectator is enhanced by its unfinished state, highlighting a hardly sufferable violence, unrepresented,  maybe for the better. The death of Marat is not more comfortable to be around; made in three similar versions, they circle the visitor when he enters the dark room, conveying oppression, dread, horror and anxiety, underlining the price paid for peace.  So then, this exhibition did not allow only to readdress an influential yet unsung artist’s work, but also to dive back into an era, into feelings, into thoughts that one will probably judge as still relevant at any point of his life, be it academically, socially or personally. Even if the Crown jewels or the Joconde are worth your attention too, make the most of your passing at the Louvre to discover these gems and get a snippet of one unique mind in the revolutionary storm!

The Secrets of the Roots, and Other Stories from the Village

by Konstancija Kevisaite

Foreword from the Author:

Before you delve into the story of a life still set in dark, misty forests, surrounded by Lithuanian mythological creatures and supernatural mysticism, it is important to note that these stories are not entirely the fruits of imagination. Samogitia, a Lithuanian ethnic region, was the last place in Europe to be christianized in 1413, 200 years after the mainland. Even though many believe much of the water has flown under the bridge since then, ancient traditions were incorporated into the new religion, and old Baltic superstitions still thrive in countless households.

Many Lithuanian ethnologists and historians claim that the foundation of the nation lies in a tree cult culture and that a person’s entire life cycle depends on their relationship with a tree, from the kids’ toys to wooden kitchen utensils on the oak dinner table. There are not many private properties without a garden or some arable land, so while cities evolved, village life remains closely tied to the seasonal cycle.

These stories are distinctly Samogitian, born from its language, myths, and ethnic past. The following excerpts were written over six months during a challenging personal journey, driven by burnout and a longing for grounding.

Medė švabieja api Pondeivs žėna kū, no būktas api žmuonis. 

Trees are whispering about only God knows what, but probably about the people.

May your walk in the woods be peaceful.

​THE SECRETS OF THE ROOTS, AND OTHER STORIES FROM THE VILLAGE

How do you fit together a city daughter, raised among grey, few-floor Soviet-like buildings, and a village granddaughter who was only allowed to cut her hair when the cherry trees started to bloom and the Moon was still young? How do you fit remnants of the long-gone past in the person that is so modern it barely has time to take a breath? How do you explain to the hectic world around you, that you start carrying a coin in the back of your pocket so you would not be condemned to eternal poverty when the first song of the cuckoo bird escapes its trembling, tiny body after a long, harsh winter? How do you say “no” to someone who wants to borrow your hairbrush or try on your ring when you were constantly reminded that this would result in soul exchange? How do you even ask these questions out loud? .. Do I seriously sound insane when I say I cannot sit on the ground? There has not been a thunderstorm yet.

A three-hour gap between classes turned into a drive to the nearest forest. The treetops intertwined into an incomprehensible labyrinth. The dense forest increasingly resembled a long-lost kingdom ruled by ancient tree spirits. The rustling leaves followed every step like a mysterious whisper. Moss hid its secrets, swamps of unfathomable depth, beckoned with the forest’s treasures. When animals noticed a wandering person there, they would remember one’s face, immediately smell one’s intentions, and eventually run away to complain to some deity about how someone would kick a mushroom, hit a tree branch, or scream at the top of their lungs. Mom used to say that only by merging into the flow of forest life could one escape from it. Nature does not satisfy human needs; it protects what should be eternally sacred. I stop at the winding path. In front of me, there are the remains of the stairs up to the castle mound. For a couple of centuries, an eternal fire burned here, golden threads of fate were woven, grass snakes slithered, and bees sought refuge. Now, only a lone oak tree remains in place of the altar, like a witness or warrior guarding a place of eternal peace, or so it still thinks…

Once the storm passes, I will harvest the fruits, and my mother will make my favourite jam.

I told my grandmother I was exhausted from all these current changes when we were sitting on the bench outside. Her limb fingers, suffering from arthritis, held a knife and skillfully wielded it to peel apples and later throw them in the bucket. The wind picked up, and I could hear faint raindrops falling on my dirty boots. The toughest woman I know glanced at me for a second and then her eyes returned to the falling peels of bright pink apples. The last thunder of the season shook the ground. I have just realised I do not remember a time when she addressed it by its common name, perkūnija, rather than the god Perkūnas, who is responsible for it. She always tells me that everything will pass in a matter of days, and if not, a few moons. I knew the remedies of the soul by heart – honey with milk before bed, lavender in the closet, small rituals in the morning, daily walks outside, preferably away from the city.

Hug the tree, borrow its strength. Will that get me through these upcoming weeks?

​

Beyond Peaches: The Concept of Dreaming Big in a Small Country

by Nini Iaganashvili

Whenever I say I’m from Georgia, people light up and ask, “Oh, really? How’s Atlanta?” But, a simple correction — not the state, the country — resets the entire conversation. And in a way, that small misunderstanding says a lot about where I come from and who I am. 

This is a story of what it means to grow up Georgian, in the Caucasus region; in a country woven with traditions, hospitality, the famous “Supras” where strangers become lifelong friends, various unpopular concepts, wine and the words, the voices of some of the greatest writers of our age, where beliefs are more than personal — they are collective, binding communities together across generations. 

Ever since I can remember, I have been fantasising about what was outside my existent borders, or how far I could have stretched those borders, or even so, where it started, and where it ended. Not everyone can have the answer to that question. Everyone has their own possibilities and realisations towards this concept.

I have to mention Georgia’s historical and geographical context. The country lies between Europe and Asia, it borders Russia and is a post-Soviet country. Living in the constant shadow of Russia with centuries of invasions, meant living with constant fear and tension. It meant that acquiring independence in 1991 was both liberation and uncertainty, the moment when my parents’ generation had to suddenly adapt to a future they had never been prepared or taught for. Generations before my parents, my grandparents had been fighting for the freedom of our country, for the best of it all, and now my generation has taken the matter of EU integration into their own hands.

All this tension has shaped me into who I am, as much as the traditions have. As you can already tell, traditions have been a cornerstone of our community for generations. Starting from early teenage years, as I grew, I understood that in my family, my community and in the whole of Georgia as one, the rules and beliefs were two-sided. While I perceived these unyielding beliefs and traditions as huge walls of obstacles, I learned how to use them as a beneficiary for myself; I understood that maybe these walls were the ones that needed to be broken down in order for me to grow and actually pursue my goals. 

I have always known, not even thought, that I was born to live life to its fullest. However, that conviction carried its own doubts:  the fear of making wrong choices, choosing the wrong career, or taking a step that might seem irreversible. It was scary, too, because of how much effort I poured into my goals and how much pressure I placed on myself. At times, the weight of those expectations felt overwhelming. And yet, I also knew that Georgians — my family, my community, even teachers — would have been supportive in their own way, proud that I was trying to reach higher. But it appeared that the fear of standing still was greater than the fear of moving forward.

Dreaming big has always been my quiet rebellion, especially in a country deeply rooted in tradition. The concept of leaving home and starting a new life at such an early age, as a minor, was seen as an impossible privilege that only a few had. I can recall many times whenever I mentioned studying abroad, while talking about future plans at various Supras, and the guests would just laugh it off, while I was left merely confused, as if this was something equivalent to traveling to space; the concept of studying abroad has always been achievable to me, as long as I worked hard. This specific concept was never just a dream, or something I looked at from afar, or something I knew there was no point in trying, but instead, it was a destination that I refused to let go of. Therefore, having grown up in a place where aspirations, that may not be popular, can be seen as ambitious and biased, I learned from an early age that it is better to stay patient and reach beyond the set borders, be stubborn when needed  and have faith in the said “impossible”.

For me, studying abroad was not just about education, but about possibility. Growing up in a small country often overlooked on the world map, I wanted to prove that voices like mine which were shaped by tradition, history, and centuries of resilience, deserved to be heard on more of a global stage. And finally, each effort, each late night study session, each moment of doubt that I had and have overcome, became another step to me fulfilling my wishes and setting an example to my younger brother, cousins, and loved ones. 

Starting a new life at 17, packing my whole life into a suitcase and flying over 3,000 kilometers across the world appeared to be harder than I had anticipated. Getting away from the loudness of such a small country, of my family, of the small fights me and my friends would have, of my relatives and most importantly of the Supras which we hosted every Friday night as a family; and then living in small apartment all alone, in the deafening quiet, was probably one of the hardest things I had to deal with. I remember putting on music  first thing in the morning so I would not feel the loneliness of my own company. I call France my second home, but even now, when I was coming back, I remember crying on the way, as I remembered all the good times I had spent with my family, relatives, even remembering the scent of my mom’s perfume on her jacket, that specific scent of my house, my room and so on. However, my determination, my goals, my community: those things have kept me going all this time. Knowing that I get to go back in no time, knowing that I will see the proud smiles and watering eyes with the tears of happiness, makes it all worth it. 

Still, I never wanted to leave Georgia behind, but I did not have to. To dream big from a small country is not to abandon it, but to carry it with you, to take its traditions along with contradictions, its warmth and sometimes scars, and weave them into different stories you tell the new people you meet while living your new life. To me, that is what it means to be Georgian, beyond stereotypes and beyond peaches.