All language subtitles for I am trying to remember

This is Gholam.

I was only seven years old when a man

who was neither my father
nor my uncle had stolen my heart.

I'd fallen in love with him.

This is the only photo of him.

I am in this photo as well,

behind the tree.

At the end of Norouz in 1988
when we all went to the mountains together.

Gholam used to always come over.

He was friends
with my father and uncles.

He was unlike anyone else.

He wasn�t like mom and dad.

He was not like Uncle Saeed.

Nothing like the other aunts and uncles.

He was even kinder
than my grandmother.

He was not afraid of anything.

He could read all of first grade's difficult words
with his eyes closed.

He could even deduct 1000 from 20,000,000
and multiply the result by 7.

I loved the smell of cigarettes on his clothes.

Once, I secretly picked up a cigarette butt
he put out in the garden and lit it.

It smelled of him.

I didn't realize whether it was
the cigarette or Gholam's scent,

but I got dizzy and fell.

My eyes would burn
when he looked at me.

I could not look him in the eye.

I would take off his glasses,
wear them and sit in a corner

so that I could watch him
as much as I wanted.

Gholam was one of those people
that everyone was happy to see.

Me more than anyone else.

If he had his film camera on him,
then all the better.

He'd start singing to me
whenever he would see me.

Once again,
me and this dark night without Pegah,

This night without Pegah.

Heaven's reaped the green fields
with a new sickle,

A new sickle.

My mother used to say that it was Gholam
who suggested we'd name you Pegah.

I asked, "what does Pegah mean?"

He said it means the break of dawn.

That is, when the night is over.

Gholam was the only one
with a camera in our midst.

He was always filming us.

He was at every family gathering.

This is one of those home movies.

I am four years old there.

One day it snowed so much
that we could not leave the house.

Gholam said, "Go shovel the snow,
I want to film you guys."

We got to work for the love of the camera.

I did not know what was so special
about lazing around the house

or shoveling the snow
that had to be recorded.

But Gholam must have definitely known.

When I was seven,

I heard the first stories
about the Revolution from Gholam.

I loved when he'd tell us
about his Revolution.

He was one of them.

One of the many reasons that made him
lovable was his American army overcoat.

In fact, he wore that overcoat
better than Americans.

He had revolted
and he had filmed his Revolution.

His hands had trembled
with excitement in many parts of his films.

The stories abruptly ended.

Ten years had passed since his Revolution
until one day Gholam did not come by anymore.

I don't know how long I waited for him.

I missed hearing his stories.

His voice was always in my head.

One night I sneaked to find
the photo from that Norouz trip.

I opened the photo album.

The next day I asked everyone,
"why is Gholam's photo scratched?"

They all responded,
"This is not Gholam.

Gholam was not with us that day."

It made me laugh.

I asked my mother,

and she would not even lift her head up
from the sewing machine.

She just said Gholam
was not with us that day.

I asked my father,
"is mom lying?"

His head was in the newspaper.

He pretended to not hear.

"Grandmother!
why is Gholam's photo scratched?"

"Aunt Zhila,
have you seen Gholam's photo?"

"Uncle, do have any news of Gholam?"

"Do you also not know
why Gholam has been erased?"

They all remained silent.

From that day forward,
even mentioning his name was forbidden.

I became silent too.

I was sure that I had stared at Gholam
that day from behind that tree

and that Gholam was there.

I stared at him for so long
that Gholam came to my dreams that night.

He started to sing for me.

I could look into his eyes without glasses.

But his eyes were not there.

They had been erased.

I asked why have they erased you.

He said maybe they are scared.

I said whoever is scared,
should erase themselves.

He said, in that case,
the faces of the living would all be gone

and only the dead would remain.

You would have not wanted
the soldiers to take your mother and father away.

I asked him
"Why did you name me Pegah?"

He did not answer.

He left.

I wish that I could have
erased myself and left with him.

A while after,
at my classmate Mahin's house,

I was flipping through her parent's wedding album
when I saw Gholam.

I exclaimed, "This is Gholam!

He was at your mom and dad's wedding,
so Mahin, you know Gholam as well!"

Mahin looked at me and said no.
I do not know him.

This is not Gholam.

This is Uncle Mahmoud.
My father says the soldiers took him.

I said but the soldiers did not take Gholam.

Gholam wasn't a thief.

He didn't swear.

He didn't lie.

He was a good man.

Mahin looked at me and said,

my father says that Uncle Mahmoud
was also a good man.

A few days later at school,
Maryam said Mehri was also a good woman.

Fereshteh said;
Hussein was also a good man.

Farah said;
Farhad was also a good man.

Sepideh said;
Reza was also a good man.

Parisa said;
Maryam was also a good woman.

So many.

So many Gholams.

So many Mohammads,

Amirs,

Alis,

Bahrams.

So many Mehris,

Mandanas,

Zaharsadats.

They were all executed.

They were all erased.

I browse through the movies.

These movies are the only things left of Gholam.

A blurry image whose details become
harder to remember as time goes by.

But I am trying to remember.

His light brown eyes,

his grey scarf wrapped
around his neck,

or perhaps it was green,

his raspy but calm voice,

and his smile.

As time goes by,
the details fade even more.

But I am trying to remember.

I am trying to remember.

I am trying to remember.