Da (Mother) 25

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2022-12-13

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

***

I turned without saying another word and went back to Jannatabad. As soon as Zeynab saw me looking riled up, she asked, “What happened?”

“I went there and explained. They said they’d send somebody to help and keep guard.”

“I hope to God that’s so,” she said. Then, when I was about to go back into the building, she added, “Come on, pet, let’s bury these poor souls. There’s no more water in the tank anyway. Our hands are tied.”

We took hold of a stretcher and walked to the graves. As we passed the men’s building several people came to help us with the stretchers. Jannatabad was almost deserted; no more than a dozen mourners were there. We got to an empty grave and put the stretcher down. We were about to hoist the body to maneuver it into in the grave, when suddenly we heard the terrifying roar of planes breaking the sound barrier. We desperately scanned the sky overhead and saw two MIGs. Before we knew it they had launched the first series of missiles.

The horrible explosions sounded so close that I thought they had hit Jannatabad. There was total pandemonium. A thick cloud of dust rose into the air. Everybody dove for cover, as shrapnel struck the ground all around us. As soon as I heard the explosion, I let go of the body and dove head first into the grave. As I did, I shouted to Zeynab, “Get down!” As I lay prone in the grave I expected the next round to land by my head, but nothing happened. I looked up to see how Zeynab was, all the while begging the revered Abbas to protect me. Zeynab was huddled on the ground using the corpse for cover. Several of the men, who had also found shelter in the graves, raised their voices in prayers of thanks.

Then the sounds of explosions started to come from the direction of the base, and all of a sudden planes were raking Jannatabad with machine guns. Bullets ploughed the ground about fifty meters from us. I hid my head again. The bullets made a peculiar sound when they burrowed into the earth. I was concerned about Zeynab. Though I found myself plastered to the ground for a few terrifying moments, there was something about the experience I found fascinating. Whatever it was, it only lasted a few seconds. After things had quieted, another thought occurred to me: If I had been hit by one of the shells, the grave where I found cover would have been my eternal resting place. I stayed in it for several minutes to see what it would be like, going over the steps in the burial process in my mind: putting the body on the proper side, face down, laying the gravestone by the head; then darkness and solitude. I was suddenly struck with horror as I reviewed my good and bad deeds and watched scenes of my life pass by. I prayed to God to take me from this world after all my sins had been forgiven—in a state of grace if that what it was—so I wouldn’t be terrified when death finally did come.

Zeynab’s voice brought me back to life, “Why are you doing down there, girl?”

“I wanted to sample a taste of death,” I said. “Shovel some dirt on me so I can see what it’s like to be a corpse.”

“On your feet. This is no time for jokes.”

“So that’s it! This one belongs to you and you’re evicting me?” I joked.

She laughed and said, “No, the owner is this poor soul. I’m just her representative and only heir.” Then she extended her hand and pulled me out of the grave. Fearing that the MIGs would return, we hurriedly buried the body. Then we walked to the place where the shells had landed and noticed that some had hit a few of the graves, while others had ploughed into the ground around them. People had already collected some of the shells and were looking at them in shock and awe. They were big—at least five centimeters. One man joked, “One of these is enough to bring down an elephant. These bastards have come to kill us.”

From there we went to the Sabaean cemetery.[1] It was located in an empty lot between Jannatabad and the homes built for educators. There were fifty or sixty cement graves, each a considerable distance from the other. The first round of rockets landed in this cemetery, obliterating the graves there. We didn’t stay long.

Toward evening Jannatabad emptied completely. All of us worked so hard we could hardly stand. I couldn’t straighten my back. There were still corpses to be buried. The body washers said that it wouldn’t be good to bury them in the dense night air.

When I saw that they were stopping for the day, I told Leila to go home.

“You’re not coming?” she asked.

“No.”

“So why do I have to go, if you’re not?”

“I have to stay.”

“Fine, I’ll stay, too.”

“No,” I said. I didn’t feel she should remain there and go through the hardships of the graveyard at night. During the day, I could see how hard working there was on her, how much pressure she was under from all the running around. The other thing was that mother would be angry with both of us away from home all night.

She got up reluctantly and said goodbye to the women. I accompanied her to Daneshsara Avenue. When we were about to part, I told her to tell mother not to worry about me. I’d be with Zeynab and Maryam.

She nodded and left. I felt terrible sending her away like that. I stood there for a while and, after she had disappeared from view, returned.

As soon as I came back to the cemetery, the evening call to prayer sounded on a radio belonging to one of the old men. I washed for prayer and went into the women body washers’ lounge. The room was bare but for faded carpeting on the floor, a metal cabinet for clothes, and a couple of blankets. As I looked around, I wondered how we were going to cope with all the work?

It didn’t take long for me to regret staying the night. Why, I asked myself, should I stay here? It would have been better to go home and rest. At least I would have gotten a good night’s sleep and return energized. Mother also could have slept with peace of mind. But then I consoled myself with the thought that there was a reason for staying.

This wasn’t such a bad place. If I had gone home, I wouldn’t have slept a wink; my mind would have been here. It was definitely God’s will that I stay.

I found some consolation in these thoughts, but the scenes of what happened that day began to flash before my eyes. Of all the horrors at the body washers’, the things that terrified me the most were the aborted fetuses. They came in weird sizes and shapes, some with their features contorted, as if they had been put in a clothes press. It was said that the shock and terror produced by the explosions and the falling debris caused women to abort. I didn’t get around to seeing the dead fetuses until late afternoon and by that time there were many little bodies wrapped in shrouds and stacked in a corner. In order to clear them away I had to touch them. Though I was run ragged going back and forth between the cemetery and the body washing room, I picked up two of the small corpses. They had become very heavy. The cold from the little things penetrated my body, giving me the shakes. Just the memory that one of them still had its pacifier in its tiny mouth and that the other had dried milk on its lips, made me want to die. But my curiosity wouldn’t permit me to do what others would ordinarily have done: leave the corpses unexamined. I looked at their outer clothing and swaddling clothes. From these things I could tell what kind of families they came from, whether they were from the class we called “the oppressed” or whether their parents had some means.

Again I wondered why we, Leila and I of all people, had to face such scenes. It was strange because previously we would faint at the sight of blood and we had no tolerance for seeing even the smallest cut. When father was working as a welder or a builder, his legs would be all cuts and bruises. He’d come home and sit on the porch, asking for us to bring salve and gauze. Even these small wounds so upsetting to us we couldn’t look at them. How did things change? It made me dizzy to think about it. I asked God to end this misery as soon as possible and grant me the strength to go on.

While prostrate in prayer, I cried my eyes out. I got up and tried to process my thoughts. I rubbed my eyes to make the tiredness go away, but the faces of the dead still haunted me. Then I heard Zeynab’s voice, “Where are you, girl? Get up and join us out here. Stop moping in the dark.”

I pulled myself together and went out to sit by the others. In front of them was an old tray with some boiled potatoes on it. Someone brought bread and onions. After an “in-the-name-of-God,” they began eating. As she peeled the potatoes, Maryam said, “I wish we had made a stew with the onions.”

One old man said, “Dream on, sister.”

Another said, “It’d be impossible. Where would we get the cooking grease? Besides there’s no stove.”

Everyone sat around in the darkness, balling up the bread and onions. When they saw I wasn’t joining in, they insisted I eat, but I said I wasn’t hungry and thanked them.

That wasn’t true. I was famished but couldn’t eat. I didn’t feel comfortable with these people who had been around cemeteries, washing bodies all their lives. When Zeynab saw that the potatoes were almost gone, she offered to get some skins for me.

I said, “No thanks,” but I knew that eventually she would make me eat. So, to stop her from force-feeding me the skins, I picked up a small potato, and peeled and salted it. I shoved it in my mouth and swallowed it without chewing, but it seemed to force open up my throat as it went down and I finally felt like eating. I tore off some bread and ate the rest of the potato with it. I was thinking about what she said, about the wild dogs and whether we would have to confront them. The sound of dogs barking came from far away, conjuring up what we might have to face that night. Again they insisted I eat more, but I wouldn’t. They wolfed down the potatoes and bit into the bread they had packed with onion. Then they made tea and offered some to me, but I refused.

As they had their tea, they spoke about their families and some of the strange things they had seen during the past days. It occurred to me that more than any other people, they were able to understand one another because of the type of work they did. It was like they were members of one family.

To be continued …