Da (Mother) 20

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman

2022-11-8

Da (Mother)

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman

Persian Version (2008)

Sooreh Mehr Publishing House

English Version (2014)

Mazda Publishers

***

She was right. Early in 1980 the city announced that Jannatabad was closed, telling people that they would have to bring their dead to a new graveyard near the shrine of Ali, son of Hoseyn, on the road to Shalamcheh. After this announcement, visits to Jannatabad went down a lot. Exceptions to the prohibition were made in the case of martyrs; three of them—Musa Bakhtur, Abbas Ferhan, and Seyyed Jafar Musavi, who were all killed in skirmishes—were buried at Jannatabad. But in the space of two days with so many people killed, the cemetery was packed with new graves.

Although we hadn’t been away half an hour, we found the entrance to the body washers’ now swarming with people. Unlike the day before, they hadn’t bolted the door and we had no trouble entering the building. Leila looked around with a mixture of curiosity and astonishment at the bodies being washed. She seemed transfixed by what she saw and her expression spoke volumes about what she felt. She looked at me as if to say: What am I supposed to do with this? But this didn’t last long, and she quickly got down to work. Maybe she remembered what I had told her about not hesitating; nevertheless, she kept her distance from the bodies as I did the day before. She fetched water, cut shrouds, and helped shift the bodies on stretchers. It seemed that she was able to get used to the unfamiliar environment at the body washers’ more easily and sooner than I did. My descriptions of the place had probably set the scene for her. My presence was also, no doubt, reassuring. I found that having her there bolstered my confidence that I could do a good job. I knew I had to work even more seriously than I had the day before. Necessity also helped me in this process.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Zeynab, who was calling for me. She said, “Hold the edges of that wound and see if you can make the bleeding stop.” When I saw she was referring to a large gash on a woman’s side, I panicked and said, “I can’t do that. Tell me to do anything else, but I don’t have it in me to do that. I’m sorry.”

Zeynab folded several pieces of cotton and put them on the wound. She said, “You’ve got to get used to this. You’ll probably have to see worse things. Now put pressure here; maybe it’ll staunch the bleeding.”

I stepped forward with my body all pins and needles in anticipation of touching the cotton. For a moment I felt as if I was trapped in molasses with my brain locked. My stomach turned over and I stood motionless with my hand on the folded cotton. The paralysis, I thought, would last forever. The bloodier the cloth became, the queasier I got. Afraid they’d throw me out of the room in front of Leila, I didn’t dare show any emotion, but deep in my heart I was asking myself: Why did you come here? With everything else that needed to be done, why here? Why here?

I turned around so that the others wouldn’t see how I was feeling, but as luck would have it I saw the bodies of several girls that they had just brought into the building. They had the looks, and I imagined they also had sweet voices. I was angry at myself for thinking these children were delicate, innocent blossoms that would be buried beneath the ground.

Once Zeynab finished her job, she called me over to help tear the clothing off the corpses. This was very difficult. Out of modesty, I didn’t look at the naked bodies. It took all my strength not to react. All my life I was used to seeing people clothed; now I had to cut the clothes off the corpses stacked on the floor. The prayers of the body washers mixed with the moans and cries coming from outside the building.

In the end, it was huge workload that forced me to take the bull by the horns. I went over to one of the corpses. I don’t know what it was that finally made me roll up my sleeves—the sense of shame of seeing the bodies of the children or the fatigue of the body washers or the injustices visited upon the dead. One of the women and I lifted the corpse of a dark-skinned Arab woman about fifty from the floor and put her on the washing bench. I cut off her clothes and got ready to wash the body.

I hesitated before reaching for the soap and the bath mitt. I wasn’t wearing gloves, so I had to handle something that had been in contact with the corpses. This was a tremendous spiritual challenge for me, but I said to myself: You’d better do this now, otherwise there’s very little value to your being here. I glanced over at Leila. The well-fed, pampered girl, who always had had her own way in life, now bowed to circumstances and carried out whatever they asked without a peep. Feeling nauseous, I began to wash the body. I thanked God that the bulky old woman was helping me, because I was incapable of washing the head and the hair of the dead. In the middle of it all the water ran out. But that wasn’t the worst of it; blood wouldn’t stop oozing through the frizzy grey hair of the Arab woman, a problem when there was no water.

They finally managed to rig a hose from a tanker to the body washers’ and work continued. The sound of the Arab woman’s daughter crying “Mama!” came nonstop from behind the door. They wouldn’t let her in, because in the past when some of the family members were present at the washing, they would beg the women washers to be gentle with their relatives.

After finishing the washing, I got a shroud and wrapped the body in it, wondering what I had done to deserve this. How did I come to be doing this? How did I get so hard-hearted that I was now washing corpses? Putting these feelings aside, I got the next corpse and the next and the next.

There were certain things I just wouldn’t touch. The fetuses aborted by wave after wave of bombings, for example, had horrible expressions on their tiny faces that scared me out of my wits. I also drew the line at infants and small children; just carrying them ate away at my very being. When it came time to wash little boys and girls, I would merely help the others. There was one six-month-old they had brought from the hospital that broke my heart. They had opened his throat and there was a bandage around his chest. Despite his dark skin he was very cute, quite loveable for his long eyelashes and the curls on his head. When they told me to lift him, I said I couldn’t. Putting my hands on his calves, I felt that they were rough; it was clear that he had started crawling. The sound of low-flying jets breaking the sound barrier gave me a start. Everybody stopped working and said a benediction under their breaths. My eyes were still on the infant; he made me think of our own Zeynab, Sa’id, and Hasan. I missed them terribly and worried about what would happen to them. I asked God to watch over them and protect our family. Then there was the sound of explosions and everybody prayed that they hadn’t hit the bridge. Because the bridge was our only way out of the city, the Iraqis tried to destroy it. While all this was going on, a woman standing in front of the door shouted, “You’re not finished with that child, yet? The father is waiting here to take possession.”

Hearing the word “father,” I decided I would try to find my father after the attack was over. He had told us that they wanted him to dig graves, so he was undoubtedly in Jannatabad. I waited all morning for a chance to go see him, but it never came. I missed father. Mother wasn’t happy about our working in Jannatabad, but I had no worries on that score, because I knew that father backed the decision. Still, I wanted to talk to him to make double sure that mother wouldn’t get him to change his mind. I managed to break free from the body washers’ around noon.I made my way through the graves to the new section, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw father there. It had been almost a day. He was digging with others with picks and shovels. The closer I got the better I could make out his torso rising above a grave. He was wearing a white shirt with blue stripes and dark pants. I knew that he put his body into the work, but his spirit longed to be at the front. I wanted to run to him but I knew that he wouldn’t be pleased if I did this in front of his coworkers. I quickened my pace and, when I got close, said hello. He had his back to me. He looked around and stepped back, saying, “Hi, darling. Are you okay? Where have you been?”

“At the body washers’,” I said.

He put his shovel down and climbed out of the grave. I locked my hands around his neck and kissed him. He returned my kisses. I massaged his hands, which were raw and red from digging. I kissed them several times. Father kept saying, “Don’t do that. It’s bad manners with people looking.” Then he asked, “What do you do there?”

“There’s a lot to do. Many people have been killed.”

“You’re not scared?” he asked.

“I was at first but not any more. Even so, every once in a while something comes over me and I don’t feel too well.”

“These people are like us; we’re all human. There’s nothing to be afraid of. They used to be alive and now they’re even more alive. The only difference is that they have gone on to eternity, while we’re still stuck in the temporary world.”

“What’s troubling you father?” I asked. “Why are you so upset?”

“Why shouldn’t I be upset? They’re mowing down our youth, massacring our women and children, and instead of fighting they’ve got us digging graves. I for one am going to the front. They can do to me whatever they want; let them throw me out, those pen-pushers sitting behind their desks ordering us to dig graves.”

To calm him I said, “What difference does it make? Work is work—whether you serve in a cemetery or on the battlefield.”

“No,” he said, “there is a difference, a big difference between someone like me who knows how to use a weapon and one who doesn’t. I can do a better job. It’s my responsibility to go and fight the Baathist infidels.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. He knew about all kinds of weapons, light and otherwise. He was the one who taught us how to use a G3 assault rifle and the Colt that Ali had brought back from his time in the army. Even when blindfolded he could dismantle them and put them back together in no time. It seemed that he’d been preparing for this kind of warfare all his life. He would often tell us to work like “partisans.”

Some mornings after his usual exercises, he would tie knots in a rope and attach one end to the roof and throw the other end into the yard. He would scamper up the rope to the roof by toeing the knots. Then he would untie the knots and, locking his feet around the rope, slide down to the yard. He would also use a metal porch support to climb up to the roof, then let go and do a drop-and-roll back onto the ground. I was amazed at how multi-talented he was, and, when he saw me watching him admiringly, he said, “Come on, child. You try, too.”

“No, I’m afraid,” I said.

“I’ll spot you.”

I declined. I often insisted he tell me where he had learned these things, but no matter how many times I asked, he wouldn’t say anything. No wonder he wasn’t satisfied with digging graves. Given the crisis we were facing, how could such a spirited man remain calm?

I gave up trying to sooth him and said, “Dad, with your permission, I’ll go now. There’s a lot of work.”

“Go, darling, goodbye.”

I said, “Dad, there’s so much work here, I’ve got to come every day. Sometimes it’ll go on for a long time and I’ll stay with the others until it’s finished. Any objections?”

“No. Now is the time to work. Everybody’s got to work. Just try not to be too late so the streets aren’t completely deserted by the time you get home.”

I said, “Mom’s all by herself during the day, and Leila is with me. She might get mad about being alone.”

“Try to work out something so your mother won’t get that upset being all alone,” he said.

That was a relief. I kissed his hands again and said goodbye.

Back inside I noticed they were out of cotton and camphor. Zeynab said, “Go to the office and get some; see a man by the name of Parvizpur.”

To be continued …