I can start the first question.
So that was the film.
I was explaining to some people earlier on.
A lot of the time, I would make myself scarce when Eliza was
meeting these women because I wasn't--
sorry, I wasn't to be seen.
And so there was one situation there.
There was a child being abused by an elderly man.
I was actually waiting in the car
while Eliza was doing some interview.
And it just started happening in front of me.
I don't know what that was.
It was quite a long sequence.
I used only 20 seconds of it.
But he cycled away with this young boy.
And the boy tried to run away.
And then he grabbed him again and cycled away.
It might have been the father.
I don't know what the situation was.
But it's an extraordinary place of mystery.
And actually, looking at that now, I'm missing it so much.
But it's a tough place.
And you can see that life is.
And people have to really struggle to survive.
And of course, women, I mean, you
forget that, after a few days, you
take for granted that you just don't see
women's faces on the street.
In Kabul, you do.
You see the odd brave woman who's
going to an office job or something.
And she'd have her hair covered, but she won't cover her face.
But outside Kabul, main cities, you just don't see that.
So it's just a different culture.
What can I say?
If anyone has any questions--
I know Fred wants to--
Just following up on what you said,
I see that the recording of the poem, the film itself,
as an intervention.
Did you have to make a decision that you would never intervene?
Or was there ever a moment where you did intervene?
Well, I certainly didn't want to spoil what Eliza was doing.
And we came to an agreement that she
worked very hard to find somebody
who would be able to talk to her about landays.
I mean, the next step would then be to get that person
to recite some landays.
And so it was typical journalist.
You get your foot in the door.
And then you work on it.
And you try and expand it.
At times, we thought we were never
going to get this thing done because people would say--
they would let her in.
And they wouldn't--
The-- first few days I was there,
the first week, I was stressing because I wasn't
getting pictures of women.
And then I decided in my head actually
that was not what I needed to do.
But Eliza, yeah, so I certainly didn't
want to interrupt what she was doing.
A couple of times, I was invited in.
We went to a refugee camp where she convinced
this man who had three wives--
and the wives were all sitting around him.
And he was a bit of a bragger.
And I think she appealed to his manhood that, of course,
you're going to let the photographer in.
What have you got to worry about?
You're a big guy.
And so I found myself in the room.
And what was interesting was she said that these women had been
really brazen and had been really raucous and quite rude
to the husband and to her.
And as soon as I walked into the room, they put on the burka
and just sat there mute, which is what you normally see.
You see these women walk around these shadowy figures.
Actually, it's not like that at all.
They're really ballsy.
And they run the show a lot of the time.
Of course, they're denied a lot of rights.
But it's not what we think it is.
So I got inside.
And I was able to take photographs.
But they weren't very interesting
because they were just these mute, typical representations
of what we see on the street.
So it didn't really do any good.
There was one camp of people.
They were a slightly marginalized tribe.
And the young women didn't have their face covered.
I got some pictures of those.
And they're in the book.
So they're in the Poetry Foundation Magazine.
But generally, it's like going to the front line in a war.
You think, I've got to get to the front line.
This is where I'm going to get pictures.
I'm going to reveal what's going on.
Actually, you get there and it's often very boring.
Or you get pictures of something that sounds, and at the time
was very dangerous and you think is going to be very compelling.
And then you look at it afterwards
and you think, well, if you weren't there,
actually it's not as good as the picture of the boy holding
the chicken or whatever.
So it's funny how that works.
The context, when you're doing it, seems so important.
And if you were going just for information,
I was talking to somebody earlier on
and saying the information is very overrated.
The information of that situation is very important.
Here I am in this situation with these women,
three wives of this one man.
And I could have taken a photograph of that.
But then it would have required a huge caption.
And the picture itself wouldn't have
stood alone on itself, whereas other pictures--
I tend to try to find the picture exists on its own,
and then try and match it with one of the poems.
A lot of the photographs would have
worked with any of the poems.
That was interesting, too, same with the footage.
I mean, I shot all that footage pretty much
not knowing what the poem is going
to be because while I was out there filming,
Eliza was in there recording.
And then later, we'd try and make sense of the recording.
Her first task was to get the women to talk about the landays
and to give her landays.
And then afterwards, in contemplation
with the interpreter, they would work out what that meant.
What was interesting was that the landays,
from what I can understand of it, they're a series of words.
And they have this form of two lines and 22 syllables.
But it's almost like random words.
The words aren't random, but they're
thrown out in a random way.
And then they find their form in the listener's mind.
But it's instantaneous.
It's not like it's what's interpreted by each person.
It's not.
The words are thrown out with probably no grammar.
So cat, mat, dog, whatever.
But because of the meaning of the words
and because of probably the references
from previous landays, they make sense.
And so when a landay's spoken, as soon
as the people listening hear the series of words,
they immediately get it.
And they laugh or they react to it.
So it's quite extraordinary form.
But she would do that all afterwards
because she didn't have time to be
doing that while the woman was sitting there.
She would be trying to get as much out of this woman as
possible-- where the landay came from,
something about the woman's life.
And then also, do you know anyone else that's
going to help us with this?
So she was doing a real investigative job.
So the actual translations will be done later.
So while I was in Afghanistan, I didn't really
hear any of these poems.
I was just out filming life.
And then later, I put them together.
So at the magazine too, we'll look at poems or debate poems
sometimes.
It'll come up.
What is this, just word soup?
And are you supposed to-- what does this mean?
Or how does this mean?
And so something that comes up one time at an afternoon
discussion we had with subscribers,
we were talking about a particular poem
and what does it mean.
And someone said, well, I think it can mean
whatever you want it to mean.
This means this to me.
And people agreed.
And I think, up to that point, I agreed with that idea, too.
And someone spoke up who had traveled quite a bit
and worked with many different cultures and their poetry
and chimed in saying, well, you know,
I think that's a very privileged position to have.
And.
To feel like these words can be whatever
you want them to be neglects people in places
where these words have very specific meanings.
And it often is a matter of life or death.
And it's funny to hear you describe these poems
and how it does come out as a word soup sort of or just
maybe without this particular sense.
But I'm curious to know how your idea of poetry
has changed through this experience
and through this encounter.
Yeah, if you could speak to that a bit.
Yeah, not just poetry, but art generally.
Yeah, there is no ambiguity.
I mean, this context is particular.
Obviously, it's dangerous.
And also, most of the people that
are writing these or creating these poems are illiterate.
So it's very instantaneous.
It's like-- I don't know--
universal, Charlie Chaplin.
Everyone gets it.
Everyone laughs at it.
It's as simple as that.
It's brilliant as that.
So I suppose, yes, it is privileged.
I mean, we shouldn't throw away the privilege, though,
because I think that ambiguity is what--
we have nuances because we have access
to freedom of expression.
And we're able to read other country's literature.
These women aren't.
They can't even read.
So we shouldn't overrate that directness either.
I mean, it's wonderful that they're able to do this.
But the other side of it, too, is very important, I think.
So I think it makes you appreciate maybe what
we have as well, but also appreciate
what they're doing to achieve, in a way, the same effect.
I suppose it's all in relation to one's life.
It's relative.
To them, it's that.
To us, it'll be something else because we
don't have to go through what they go through.
It would be very odd if we produced the same art
as they did because, in some cases,
they're still living in--
I wouldn't say the Stone Age, but it's very primitive.
And I won't take up all the questions
because I think you all have things to ask Seamus.
But one thing I would like to also hear you talk about
is if you could explain--
so we released this issue.
And we felt internally, this is something
we need to do more of.
This is what we need to be doing.
And other people are saying, oh, this is so wonderful.
We want more of this.
And so can you tell us a little bit--
I know it's very complicated.
But how does something like this happen?
What are the practical considerations?
What's the process?
How do you even begin to embark on this sort of journey?
Well, it's interesting the evolution of this
because I came across a book--
I've been going to Afghanistan since '94.
And I came across a book.
I'd never heard of landays until 2012--
2010, actually.
And somebody gave me give me this book that Eliza described,
The Songs of Love and War.
And I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
And so I said to Eliza, look, she and I know Afghanistan.
And we both had decided before this
we'd love to do a project together
that really was more than what the mainstream media portrays
Afghanistan as, as we and most journalists
know there's a lot more to it than what we see on the news,
or in newspapers, or even in the magazines.
There's a lot more going on.
But it's very hard to find a story that
really gets under the surface.
And we thought this would do it.
We thought there was so much to this.
But initially, we thought maybe we
could do a story about this poet who
was the guy who collected all these poems from the refugee
camps in the '70s, late '70s, '80s, when the Mujahedeen were
fighting the Russians.
Maybe we could do a story about him.
And then Eliza came across this story
about this woman who killed herself.
And we thought that would be a way in
and that would get us there.
And the New York Times commissioned that piece.
And then after we did that trip, we
realized there's a lot more to this
than we were doing justice in the story.
We'd love to do more.
We had no idea about a book at that stage or a poetry
magazine.
But it's that thing of going back to a place,
and getting to know it, and being able to go back.
And it's about money as well.
It's about support.
In the old days, through her contacts or my contacts,
we could have approached a number of media outlets
and got a little bit of money from them
or a little bit of interest from them, maybe not even doing
this story, doing another story, but then
being able to do this on the same trip, which
is the way a lot of work is produced
in these circumstances.
It was amazing that Poetry supported us
in the way they did.
And I have to say that we would never
be able to do it without Poetry Magazine.
It was extraordinary, the support.
And then FSG also, because of Eliza's connection with them,
saw the potential and said, we'll back this as well.
So it's about old fashioned journalism,
which unfortunately is hard to do
these days because of funding.
The internet it's killed it.
In 1976, I was studying one of the other languages
of Afghanistan.
And one of my teachers was a woman from Afghanistan.
And I wondered why--
Eliza was talking just now, why did
you choose to use the figure of 12 years of war?
Did she?
I think she might have made a mistake.
Oh, she made a mistake then, yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah, 30 something.
Yeah, we all had this-- when you study a language,
you always want to go to the place.
And it was just so hugely disruptive.
And it seems like it's been incredible war that since--
'79 at least, yeah.
OK.
Yeah, I think she just--
I wondered if there was a specific--
Maybe she was thinking of the 12 parallel or 10 parallel.
I mean, our country's intervention there,
but that was just one of a long series.
Yes.
Well, I should say our country's more overt--
Overt intervention, yeah.
Yeah, exactly.
Yeah.
I did a story for the New York Times magazine actually.
It was the fall of Kabul after 9-11.
And I remember at the end the picture editor saying,
OK, now we need just to pay you.
So we're going to pay you, which is normal,
they pay you double for danger.
That's the normal way.
And she said, OK, so you were there for 45 days.
So when did the war begin?
And they paid me for five days of war.
Over here?
Earlier, you said that, when you weren't
able to photograph women and particularly able to photograph
their faces, you made the decision to photograph
what they saw around.
And then when we got to our later discussion
about subjective positions, it occurred to me
to ask you about the gendered nature of your participation
in the project.
I couldn't change my sex, so yeah.
Where you were photographing to help
us see what the women were seeing, but, of course,
women and men always see things a little bit differently.
And so I also wondered if you had shown any of the film
or any of the images to the women who
had given you the poems?
No, no.
I mean, Eliza at one stage, she met this woman,
a young woman poet.
And it's a long story.
But it's in the back of the book.
There's a little chapter on it and a picture of her,
meeting this woman in a hospital park.
And the woman gave her a poem and gave her a scarf.
And then Eliza was really hoping to give her a copy of her book.
And then she suddenly thought, my God,
if I give her a copy of the book and she
goes home and someone sees it, it'll
be like, where'd you get the book from?
You've been seeing a man?
It just goes on and on and on.
So these are fleeting meetings and encounters
that you do your best to protect the source.
So no, I haven't.
I haven't had an opportunity to do that.
I mean, maybe Eliza could if she was in that circumstance, sure.
But I think even doing that would then worry them.
Who else has seen this?
And would my husband get to find out?
Of course, he won't.
So that way, and the thing about the gender, I think everyone
sees things differently.
But I happen to be the guy who went there and had this idea.
And so sorry.
What can I say?
I think a lot of Western women photographers
have done amazing work in Afghanistan.
I mean, I'm sure you've already seen it.
And the pictures I could never get because, yeah,
so they had the edge there.
I just wanted to ask the question
about how the film was composed because it's an incredibly,
beautifully composed film.
And it seems to allude to the history of art
and the history of photography as you move through it.
And so I'm wondering how you think
of film and the films that have been important to you
as you think about framing your own film.
I don't know.
I think it's like photography.
I was never taught photography or film.
So my references are usually things
I've seen, yeah, like films or books, exhibitions.
And I think you have a memory.
And you just have that.
And then you work out what it is you like.
And then I think you start mimicking.
You begin by mimicking, I suppose, things you've seen.
And then I think, at a certain point, hopefully
you find your own voice.
And that voice, I'm sure, is made up
of these other references.
Yeah, I mean, I can't be more--
I mean, I'm conscious of what I like.
But I don't analyze it too much because I don't really want--
I was doing a project in America I started in 2005.
And it's still just about finished.
I think it might be done.
But I stopped looking at any books
on America, photography books.
I never looked at The Americans by Robert Frank.
I'd seen it years ago.
But I very consciously would not look at it
because I just think that what you don't
want to be thinking is second guessing yourself saying,
oh, hang on a minute, I'm doing this because I've seen this.
I'm sure it's true in many cases.
But there's always the opportunity
to do it another way.
And there's the old cliche that everything's
been done before anyway.
But the film was really--
I make documentaries this way.
I use the camera like I use a stills camera.
It's like reportage.
It's in that way.
And then I put it together cinematically
and hopefully make sense of it.
The landays were great because they allowed me to do that.
And the meaning came from the words, what was being said.
And the juxtaposition of it?
Yeah, absolutely, absolutely.
I mean, I work with this editor.
We work very closely together.
And it's a lot of that going on.
But it's huge fun, huge fun.
I love it.
We have time for one more question.
And then we'll carry on with informal conversation
at the reception.
Hi, thank you.
So I actually have two questions, sorry.
First of all, I wonder if you could give us a sense--
or if I missed it, I'm trying to get
a sense of how embedded the landays are in the culture.
So is the idea that most or all of Pashtun girls and women
have this repertoire of landays and when they get together
they trade them back and forth?
Or is it a more specialized and unique thing
that only certain women and girls engage in?
And also, the other question was--
Eliza mentioned that about 40,000
are in circulation at any given time.
So I'm just curious to know, after the person you referenced
who had collected these in the '70s, are there local experts?
Or where does that number come from?
How do we know?
Yeah, second question, I don't know
where the number comes from.
But it would definitely be someone
she spoke to and someone she respected.
We met some extraordinary people in Kabul--
a couple of academics, some journalists.
All of them just absolutely loved landays.
I mean, it's a passion.
One guy who was an old communist academic, great guy,
he was very passionate and said he
thought that those were the highest form of art
because these women were illiterate.
They would not have had access to books or education.
They weren't trying to impress anyone.
I mean, they were trying to impress their friends.
But they weren't trying to impress anyone.
They weren't striking a pose.
They weren't doing the latest fashion.
It was literally from their heart.
And they were risking their lives.
And they were risking all kinds of stuff to do it.
So for him-- and I kind of agree with him.
It's such a direct line of communication between what
you feel and what you express.
I mean, isn't that what we all aspire to?
I mean, that's incredible.
And so that was the second question.
What was the first question?
Oh yeah, I think it's like everything.
It's like if you meet some kids who are into rap.
There'll be some that are better than others,
and then the one guy who doesn't say anything.
So I think it's the same thing.
They do tend to do it at weddings.
And usually, it's done to music as well.
There's somebody playing a drum.
There's one landay that girl says,
I'll be a [INAUDIBLE] if you'll--
I'll be testing your drum.
That drum would be referring to this drum
that they beat to keep the time for the landays.
And what was interesting too is that landays are written
by and largely for women.
And even when men recite them and write them, which is rare,
but they do, it's in the voice of a woman.
They become a woman.
So it's definitely a female domain.
Seamus, thank you so much.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]