A story called 'I Chose This Sky': 'Secret Ballot' (2001/Iran, Italy)

Watching a movie I saw a long time ago, after much time has passed.

It is like going to meet 'the me of that time,' and even the scent of the wind and the color of the light come back vividly just as they were, filling me with a strange sense of nostalgia.

Today, I rewatched an Iranian-Italian film called 'Secret Ballot' for the first time in a while.

It is a beautiful work, wrapped in quiet humor.

When I was in my 30s, I lived in a town enveloped five times a day by the sound of the 'Adhan' (اذان).

'Adhan' is the call from the mosque that announces the time for Islamic prayer. It has a deep, resonant melody, and I felt it was somewhat similar to Buddhist sutras.

In a broad sense, I am a 'Buddhist,' but I am a person who doesn't feel religious sentiment in daily life, and if anything, I am 'non-religious.' In fact, I consider myself an 'atheist.' Even so, for some reason, I felt a sense of peace in the Adhan I heard at the mosque in that land.

As for me before that—
I was studying Italian in Italy.

The reason for this was also quite something, but since I am the type who absolutely must act once I set my mind to something, I studied intensely on my own while working (for half a year), went through an Italian language school and private lessons (for half a year), and then just quickly went off to Italy.

And so, from a life where I didn't care at all about showing my shoulders or navel, perhaps it was fate, but I ended up in a conservative Islamic culture where covering one's skin and hair is the norm.

I wonder if this drive and adaptability should be called 'reckless.'
I wonder if it was just 'youth.'

No,
I think I might still do it even now.

A country where olive groves stretch out beyond the horizon.
There, I lived just like the local people.

In the morning, I would cook using fresh eggs, vegetables, and yogurt. The children living nearby would go to the bakery to buy me fresh, fluffy sesame bread. And always, always, I would drink freshly brewed hot tea.

Sometimes, I would have them teach me the Arabic 'Quran' (القرآن, the sacred scripture of Islam) at a nearby mosque—and afterwards, I would even get treated to sweet, sweet treats.

I also tried fasting (Ramadan).
Dinner during Ramadan (Iftar), when the fast is broken after sunset, felt like a celebration every night, and the feast shared by the whole family was the greatest joy of all.

I lived in a rural area far from the city.

There, many adult women covered their hair with a hijab (scarf). Occasionally, I would see people wearing a niqab, a pitch-black cloth that reveals only the eyes, but most wore colorful scarves.

Of course, I wore a scarf the whole time, too.

The 'hijab' has various variations not only in material and pattern, but also in how it is wrapped, fastened, and draped. In the city, women would even exchange information, saying things like, 'I hear orange tones are going to be popular this year.' It was what you might call 'fashion trends'.

So, when the men were away from home, everyone would take off their scarves for a big fashion show!

Although they never showed it normally, hidden under their scarves were exceptional hair accessories or beautifully styled blonde hair. Invisible fashion—beauty shown only within the home—I felt that this way of being was also part of their aesthetic sense.

It is true that there are regions where women's clothing and educational opportunities are restricted in the name of religion and tradition (though that is not the whole story).

However, at least the women in the area where I lived had a proud sense of identity and a firm lifestyle, saying, 'We are Muslimah!'

A strong life without hesitation. And yet, they were shrewd—in fact, they were sometimes 'henpecked' households. At first glance, it looked like they were deferring to their husbands, but in reality, it was completely the mothers who were running the household.

Women are so strong.

There was also an encounter I cannot forget.

It happened when I went to a mosque at a tourist destination.

At the 'Wudu' (الوضوء) washing area, where people wash their hands and feet to purify themselves before prayer, a very elderly woman spoke to me while I was waiting for someone. This was actually very common, and no matter where I went, I was often asked, 'Are you Chinese? Are you Japanese?'

At that time, too, I told her that I had come from Japan and that I was being taught a little about Islam and the Quran. And then, I also told her, 'But I am not a Muslim.'I felt a little apologetic.

Then, the woman said this with a very gentle expression.

You are a kind child.
(I was over 30...)

Even if you are Japanese or a Buddhist, nothing changes for us. I am sure God is watching over you and will protect you.

...I was at a loss for words.

It was a huge shock. It was like the feeling a thief must have had when converted by Shinran Shonin's 'salvation for the wicked' doctrine, or when Jean Valjean was forgiven after stealing silver and fleeing.

Like, 'Oh, can even someone like me be saved?!'

Well, to be honest, I don't really need to be saved by God. But for me, still young at the time, it was a 'shock' to realize that 'religion'—something often spoken of in exclusive or aggressive terms—could, depending on an individual's state of mind, possess such profound capacity for inclusion.

I cannot live the same life they do. After all, I grew up learning about 'Darwin's theory of evolution' as a matter of course, so to be told now that 'God created humans from soil' honestly leaves me feeling bewildered.

But even so. Every time I saw their noble way of 'believing,' I felt as if some pure part of my heart was being stirred.

The sky, you know. The blue sky. Most of the world I could see was sky.

Blown by the wind, under a vast sky with pure white clouds floating far above, I thought every day, 'So the Earth is mostly just sky.' I had never known such a wide place before. I had never seen it. I hadn't been able to see it.

That day. Standing alone on a hill, I watched countless flocks of sheep scattered like dots. The wind, carrying the scent of dry grass, blew comfortably from far, far away, and I took off my scarf and simply surrendered myself to that wind.

My hair, now free, swayed as it pleased in the breeze, and it felt wonderful.

Gazing at the blue sky that stretched on forever and ever, I vaguely wondered, 'Where am I heading from here?'

The town where I once lived became a combat zone with IS, and I have never visited it since. I will likely never stand under that sky again. Yet, sometimes, the days I spent in that town overlap with the scenery in the film.

"Secret Ballot" is an Iranian film that uses surreal and humorous storytelling to depict a day in the life of a young female election official, who diligently encourages voting to realize democracy on a traditional Islamic island, and the somewhat laid-back guard who ends up accompanying her.

The election official and the guard ride in a jeep, bickering, yet still washing their hands together to eat. Along the way, she takes out a compact mirror to check her appearance—every one of these small gestures is portrayed with such endearment.

The feeling of one person caring for another. That endeavor remains the same in every country.

Certainly, if viewed through the lens of 'Middle Eastern cinema,' it might seem like a story from a distant land.

The difficulties faced by Western-style democracy in a land where religion and tradition are deeply rooted. Or perhaps the reality of swaying between political systems and faith. Such complex themes are likely embedded in this film.

However, what struck me most directly was something else entirely.

The scene where she is blown by the wind in the middle of the desert.

That single moment brought back the scenery that had been inside me, as if illuminating it.

The vastness of the sky.
The dry air.
The gaze of the people.
The quiet time of prayer.

A sudden, nameless nostalgia and pain welling up inside me.

It felt very similar to the scent of the sky and the touch of the wind from back then.

A landscape I had forgotten.
Yet, something that certainly remains within me.
A view I can no longer return to, one I will never see again.

If this were the ending of a movie or a novel,

'Will I ever see that vast sky again?'

I might conclude it with such beautiful words.

But this is my story.

I am living now under a small sky, where power lines cross like a musical staff, and the sky finally peeks through between utility poles, buildings, and houses.

Even if it is small, the wind blows and the seasons turn.
It will bring summer clouds soon.
What a, what a beloved sky.

I chose this sky.

That day's sky,
I think it has been leading here
the whole time.

Nothing was in vain.
Nothing was wrong.

For this very moment.

Straight ahead.