The Patience Stone 2013

In the mystical realm of Persian folklore, a revered black stone known as Syng-e-saboor, or the Patience Stone, holds the power to absorb the deepest secrets, most profound sorrows, and darkest confessions. Legend has it that this enigmatic stone listens intently, absorbing every word, until it finally bursts forth, releasing all the sufferings and worries that had been entrusted to it. Some even whisper that this very stone resides at the heart of the Kaaba, and when it ultimately explodes, the apocalypse will unfold.

In this extraordinary war film, based on Atiq Rahimi’s award-winning novel, which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt in 2008, we find ourselves amidst the ruins of Kabul, where rival factions of mujahidin clash with frenzied ferocity over the city’s crumbling remnants. Against this backdrop of unrelenting violence and chaos, a comatose warrior lies motionless on a simple mattress within the confines of his own home. The irony is palpable: this man, once a fierce fighter for Allah and his country, was left decerebrated by a bullet lodged in the back of his neck during a brutal fratricide fight sparked by an affront to his honor. His wife tends to him with fervent devotion, her fingers moving deftly over the prayer beads as she chants the ninety-nine names of Allah, hoping against hope that her husband’s condition will improve within the prophesied fifteen days, as ordained by their local mullah.

As the camera pans across this desolate landscape, it becomes clear that we are far removed from the exoticized clichés of Western literature regarding the proud Afghan warrior, honor-bound and rooted in tradition, amidst a backdrop of breathtaking natural beauty. Instead, we find ourselves in the midst of a relentless war, confined to a single house yet still capable of evoking a visceral response through its unflinching portrayal of massacre and shelling.

The Patience Stone is, at its core, a war film that unfolds against the backdrop of a crepuscular Kabul, whose name is deliberately left unspoken, rendering it equally applicable to any Muslim country ravaged by conflict.

As the chaos of war rages on outside, The Woman (we never learn her name) finds herself trapped in a desperate bid to preserve life amidst the devastation. Huddled beside her husband’s bed, she prays, tends to his perfusion, and chases away the flies that buzz around his open mouth, her hands moving with a quiet determination. The absence of her husband’s family leaves her and their two daughters vulnerable, stripped of resources and protection.

In the brief lulls in the fighting, The Woman ventures out into the treacherous landscape to scavenge for water and medication, only to be rebuffed by the water-carrier and pharmacist who refuse to extend any further credit. She also pays a visit to her aunt, who runs a brothel on the other side of town, and it is here that she ultimately leaves her daughters in search of safety. Despite the perils and her own growing fears, The Woman returns repeatedly to her husband’s bedside, her devotion unwavering even as the days tick by.

But beneath the surface, cracks begin to form in her resolve. Her courage starts to wane, and the weight of her devotion begins to take its toll. She stops invoking divine names, still intimidated by her husband’s inert body, yet compelled to continue talking to him, as if seeking some measure of comfort or understanding from his silence.

As she struggles to make sense of it all, memories begin to resurface: the abandoned dreams, the forced marriage to a warrior always on the battlefront, even on their wedding day, and the painful memory of her father’s betrayal, when he sold her sister to an old man to settle a debt. Her voice, initially hesitant and timid, gains strength as she unleashes a torrent of bitter words, long-suppressed thoughts, and secrets.

Once a picture of quiet devotion and self-sacrifice, The Woman now finds herself screaming at the heavens, cursing Allah, men, and their endless wars. She lambastes her husband, a hero brought low by his own hubris, religious zealotry, and hatred for the other. As she speaks, she becomes a symbol of resistance, a voice that has been buried for centuries, finally emerging to claim its rightful place in the world.

In this way, The Woman’s transformation from a devoted wife to a defiant individual is nothing short of revolutionary, as if the very fabric of her being has been torn asunder, releasing a flood of emotions and ideas that threaten to consume her.

As the chaos unfolds, The Woman finds herself forced to seek solace in the cellar of her neighbor’s home, escaping the relentless barrage of bullets and shelling that threatens to consume everything. In one particularly harrowing moment, two marauding warriors invade her sanctuary, their intentions clear. But The Woman, armed with a sharp wit and a deep understanding of the brutal realities she inhabits, manages to talk them down, exploiting the moral hypocrisy that pervades this war-torn world by revealing her own supposed “impurity” according to the sacred texts. Though they depart, the younger warrior returns the following day, bearing gifts in the form of coin, his eyes locked on The Woman with an unsettling intensity. Devastated but desperate, she submits to his advances, her innate maternal instincts slowly stirring as he shares his own tragic tale of orphanhood and abuse at the hands of a cruel commandant.

As their twisted dance unfolds, The Woman’s inner world begins to crack, releasing a torrent of pent-up emotions, long-held secrets, and ancient pains. Her Patience Stone, once a repository for her deepest sorrows, now threatens to shatter, unleashing a maelstrom of magic words that will leave the world reeling. In a moment of raw fury, The Woman stabs the young man with her knife, only for him to wrestle free and strangle her, ending the cycle of oppression she has endured for so long.

Yet, this brutal tableau is not without its mythic undertones. Like some primordial Adam and Eve, The Woman and The Man inhabit a nameless world, their struggles and triumphs reduced to primal, symbolic gestures. And so, as the story reaches its climax, we are left with the enigmatic declaration: “I am a Prophet! I just made a miracle!” - a pronouncement that is at once both a defiant rebirth and a haunting reminder of the indelible mark that this woman’s story has left on the world.