Where Roots Fail to Meet

Ask yourself: “Where is Here?” 

The answer might seem quite obvious, whether it's your bed, school, or your living room couch. We all have places we deem familiar, where we have put down our “roots.” For Azam, our protagonist, the answer isn’t so clear. 

Directed by Naghmeh Samini, “Where is Here?” is a one-woman show, played in both Farsi (by Sarvin Alidaee) and English (by Azadeh Zanjani), that “delves into the reality of the immigrant experience.” Azam, the main (and only) character, is never quiet. She makes great use of the play’s only set, a baggage claim area. Throughout the play, I was left confused on where we were, what was happening, what was real and what was not. The story's inability to cement itself into one place, one conflict, is bizarre, and yet makes Azam's story truly a work of art. 

When we are first introduced to Azam, the audience can’t help but laugh. She is a lovable dork, who rambles on and on with bursts of excitement and energy – yet, as she rambles, a more subtle, aching sense of longing emerges. One might get easily bored of such an act, but instead it feels strangely comforting—her performance is like sitting down with your enthusiastic, albeit obnoxious auntie, who somehow leaves you amused despite her endless rambles. 

One of this play’s greatest strengths—other than clever use of a small stage—is deception. The more we listen to Azam: her hopes of marriage; the new life she wants to have; the roots she plans to put down; the more we realize we are being deceived. Azam isn’t ready to let go of her roots in Tehran, and, through the false reality she’s made for herself, comes to realize that she’ll never be able to truly uproot the soil here, either.

Where is Here? is centered around one thing: baggage. Behind Azam, there is a conveyor belt, but as she waits and waits, her suitcase never comes. Instead, one by one, objects from her life in Tehran begin to show up. Through every item—a cassette player, nail polish, and even a tea set—Azam’s resolve begins to crumble. Then, finally, in a coffin, we see her mother. In that moment, she embraces her dead mother —not in the flesh, but in the tender way she holds the past close. With this she finds comfort. “Azam is here,” she says. “And Azam is very happy.”

At the turning point, something shifts in Azam. The whimsy and joy that once defined her is replaced by a profound sense of loss. This Azam is one we haven’t seen before; angry, bitter, demanding her suitcase, utterly confused on “where here is.” She wants nothing but to feel at peace with herself, to tie her roots deep into the ground, to place her feet firmly in the soil and finally feel at home. 

I left the theater frowning, not sure what to take away from this experience. What was Azam trying to tell us? What did this all mean? I was frustrated by my own lack of comprehension– but now I’ve come to terms with it. Perhaps, that was the point—not to have all the answers, to feel the uncertainty and the discomfort, and to accept that some things aren't meant to be fully understood.  

With such a restricted medium brings both room for experimentation, and room for failure. The play made spectacular use of a single setting and one actor, but the 70 minute run undermined its emotional impact. I understand, Azam is a talkative character, but the sheer volume of her dialogue becomes overwhelming, causing even the core message to get lost. With so much dialogue, the nuances become harder to comprehend, and the plot often feels like it’s stalling to fill the space. If the run time were reduced to something more concise—around 40 minutes—it would have left a larger emotional impact on the audience. The play would have benefited from focusing on quality over quantity, allowing the dialogue to breathe. 

This play is also a testament to the fact that language is often lost when stripped away from its source material. I’m sure there were moments that were better explained, or held more emotional weight when performed in Farsi. Perhaps the message could sink further into the skin of someone who is from Iran. Although the message can be misunderstood by an unfamiliar audience, it has the ability to strongly resonate with those who have breathed the same air as Azam, walked the same streets, and watered the same roots. And that's the thing about native tongues, they cannot be tamed.

For me, leaving Iraq wasn’t an easy decision. I still reminisce on childhood playgrounds, my grandma's tangerines, our old colorful rug. But the older I grow, the more I realize I can’t call that place home. 

Growing up in the U.S, I always felt a little silly. Unlike my friends, I wasn't sure how to define home. I never felt content with calling my Kent apartment “home.” I hoped, desperately to inhale gasoline with every breath, to peel dried skin off my arms. I was a victim of the sun, one that I’ve turned my back on.

Azam left Tehran to become someone special, to let go of the disappointment she felt in herself. She didn’t realize that the disappointment would follow her. While she is waiting for her baggage, and remisenses on her life in Tehran, she realizes that she will never have a place to truly call home. A place where she can truly feel “here.”

Lead photo: Sarvin Alidaee in Where is Here? Photo Credit: Soolmaz Dadgari.

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