Da (Mother) 28

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2023-1-3

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

***

Mansur wrapped the other puppy in a cloth and picked it up. Then we walked home with big smiles on our faces, but it was just our bad luck that father was standing by the front door. When he saw us, he asked, “Where were you?”

“Just down the way, dad,” we said uneasily.

“What were you doing there?” he asked.

We started hemming and hawing. All of a sudden Mansur brought the puppy out from behind his back and said, “Ali said we should go and get this.”

Father looked first at Mansur and then at Leila and me and said, “What did you think you were doing, bringing this home?”

We were almost too scared to breathe. “It’s not my fault,” Mansur said and, pointing at Leila and me, added, “they made me.”

Father looked at us again and said, “Bring it here now; let’s take a look at this thing.”

Mansur raised his hands and the little thing struggled to get out of the cloth. Suddenly father said angrily, “Why did you do that to the defenseless creature?” He looked at the puppy for a moment and continued, “Don’t let it run around in the yard; it’ll make a mess.” I felt a little better after he said that. I got the sense that Ali had already spoken to father and had received his permission—dad was just joking.

Mansur, now happy, said, “What should we do with it?”

“Put it in a box,” father said, “so it won’t run wild in the yard.”

We kept the puppy in a big kerosene tin for several days. Afterwards father and Mohsen made a doghouse on the roof for it. They also made a rope leash so it could only go so far. Father would sometimes untie the leash to let the dog run free on the roof. I brought it its food. The boys found playing with the puppy on the roof so much fun they no longer hung out in the alley. The puppy with its golden coat got bigger, more attractive, and even more energetic by the day. He felt at home and whenever he saw one of us, he would become insufferably adorable and try to rub up against our feet and lick us. We didn’t get all that close to him, and with these ground rules we got to know what made the dog Hasan and Mansur named “Jimmy” tick. This is why I felt the dogs following me were just looking for protection.

When I got to Amir Kabir Avenue, the sounds of explosions got worse. They were hitting the areas around Chasbi and Persian Gulf Avenues. When the dogs realized that I was not going to be of any help to them, they scattered to the four winds looking for shelter.

I went straight to the body washers’ and noticed Leila had gotten to Jannatabad before me. They had also brought in a number of corpses. Everyone was busy working, and I tried not to be noticed so they wouldn’t ask questions. I entered the building feeling tired and depressed. I hoped to God that they wouldn’t ask about reinforcements so they could say, “Told you it wasn’t going to do any good.”

As soon as I said hello they could tell from my expression that I’d come back empty-handed. Maryam asked, “What’s new?”

“Nothing,” I said. “No change; they made the same promise as yesterday.”

Zeynab said, “Lord knows it’s a mistake to have any hope from other people. We’ll just do what we have to do here and let God take care of the rest.”

Seeing I was very glum, she said, “There’s no reason for you to get upset about it. You don’t have to go there and plead with them. They’re the ones who should think of something. After all, it’s not as if we’re working just for ourselves. Any volunteer is welcome, but even if they don’t come, well God be with them also.”

Both Maryam and one of the old women agreed with her, but several minutes later when Parvizpur came by, they said, “You’d best be looking for new people; we’re dead on our feet.”

He said, “I swear we’re on it, doing everything we can, but things are such a mess; it’s every man for himself. Some of the men have gone to get their families away from the shelling. Others have gone to the front. The rest have to provide backup for them. There’s no one left to come here.” I was in such a state that I didn’t even ask Leila what happened at home the night before. Could it be that mother had said nothing about my absence? Leila also saw I wasn’t in the mood to talk. Zeynab and Maryam were talking, but I remained in my shell, wondering what was stopping them from getting this place in order. They must have thought it was the municipality’s responsibility. Fighting was the duty of the military. Why should anybody else get involved? Taking care of the wounded was the medics’ sole job. So, they probably figured, since everyone had their own work to do, why should they help Jannatabad?

The volume of dead bodies was so great I worked nonstop, which gradually helped my mood. I was still stewing on the inside and tormented spiritually, though. Again there were only a handful of volunteers and, again, our supplies were running out. The last body we washed that morning belonged to a woman fifty plus years old who appeared to be very well preserved. Her hair was in two long braids and her blouse suited her quite well. It was made of a fine fabric with a bright blue background and turquoise colored roses; her pants were navy with tiny gold and crème flowers. It took four of us to hoist her on the bench. There were no wounds on her body. When we were finished the old woman body washer brought a shroud and said, “She’s the last one.” The shroud was too small; we had to jam the woman into it. With the sound of the noon call we all broke for prayer. We were standing by the water truck, when I saw Salarvand had brought a lunch consisting of bread, cheese, and watermelon, which he had gotten from the mosque. Walking behind Salarvand was Parvizpur, who announced, “The hospital called. They want to deliver a load of corpses because there’s no more room in the morgue.”

An hour later a pickup arrived with about fifteen bodies stacked one upon the other, a terrifying sight. They had tried to separate the women from the men, but the bodies had shifted during transport. All were covered in mud and grime and some of the bodies had deep wounds, which meant they had been pulled out from under rubble. Every body cavity and orifice was filled with dirt, even the eyes and mouths. Noticing how shocked I was by what I saw and hearing me sigh, the driver explained, “There were even more, but they sent them to Abadan.”

I noticed the corpse of a schoolgirl on top of the pile. She had an elongated body and wore a simple blouse and had a dark scarf around her neck. I reached out and, with the help of the pickup driver, hoisted the girl onto my shoulder. Her ample, radiant hair hung down from her head. It felt like the bones in parts of her body were broken; it was very elastic. I felt sick, and my body shook as I carried her. I managed to put her in a corner and returned to the truck. With Zeynab’s help I carried another body inside, but suddenly I had had it. I stayed inside. When Zeynab entered she said to Leila, “Help me carry these so we can empty the place.”

She meant the two or three bodies that had remained in one corner. I had the feeling she realized the state I was in and purposely turned to Leila for help. I didn’t have the heart to abandon her, so I helped them bring the stretchers and together we loaded the bodies onto them. Leila and I took one stretcher, while some men helped Zeynab. We had to put the stretcher down several times before we reached the graves. My back was breaking, but Leila, who was more muscular, was better able to cope. We were waiting for the old man to say the prayers, when a number of men and women appeared, wanting to take a look at the bodies. They didn’t find any of their kin among them, so we covered the faces of the corpses and put them in the graves.

As we returned from the cemetery, I noticed a green jeep with two passengers entering the compound. It pulled up in front of us and the driver, a slim boy, asked, “What should we do with this body?”

“Give us a second,” said Zeynab, “and we’ll bring a stretcher to take her into the body washers’.”

While we waited, I looked in the back of the jeep and saw the body of woman with a black chador over her face. I asked the passenger, who, unlike the driver, was chubby with sparse hair covering his forehead, “Is she a relative?”

“No,” he said. “We don’t know her.”

“Where did you find her?” I asked.

“We were driving up Naqdi Avenue looking for cars that needed a tow. They had hit the area, and we saw the woman lying in a doorway. We asked all around if anybody knew her but didn’t get a straight answer. So we brought her here.”

From their dark overalls, I guessed they were garage workers. Zeynab came with the stretcher, and we put the corpse on it. The chador fell off revealing that it was the body of young woman. The two men helped us bring the stretcher to the building. We learned their names; the larger one, who showed signs of shaving regularly, was Reza, while the driver, who had a full head of hair, a silky beard and large, piercing eyes, was Khosrow. They took great care in lifting and putting down the stretcher, a sign they were responsible, principled young men. We could appeal to them to help us. More importantly: they had a jeep.

I decided to take the plunge and asked, “With that vehicle of yours it would be a good deed to go around town and pick up dead and wounded.”

“Where would we collect them?” asked Khosrow.

“Anywhere that’s been hit is where you’ll find them.”

They looked at each other. “Aren’t you going around the city to tow cars anyway? Fine, you can look for bodies as you make your rounds.”

They said, “Okay. Let’s see how it goes. There are bad problems with gas and spare parts; but we’ll do our best.”

While I was very happy to have these two helpers, they weren’t enough. I went back the Congregational Mosque five or six times asking for more people. I still couldn’t get over the shock of stepping on that corpse; it had gotten worse and poisoned my overall attitude. I was less patient with people who promised they were going to help us at Jannatabad. The only way to rid myself of this plague was to go and shout my head off. They’d have to answer me then.

I thought they had forgotten about us, and I had to do whatever it took to get them to take the dead at Jannatabad seriously. Though I was exhausted and my arms and legs ached—even my finger joints were swollen from the strain of lifting the bodies—I still went to the mosque but achieved nothing. My irritability was so bad that I was even ashamed. I realized I kept repeating myself, but I was at a loss. The mosque, I noticed, was now command headquarters, a place where decisions were made, where the food and security needs of terror-stricken people were met. It was the one place to find people with answers: military commanders, mosque board members, city leaders. I didn’t know them well, so I spoke to anyone I could find. They would tell me to see so-and-so, to talk to this or that Hajj Aqa. As far as I can remember I spoke to Hajj Aqa Mohammadi and Hajj Aqa Nuri (the Congregational preacher of Khorramshahr), as well as to a Mr. Soleymani and a Mahmud Farrokhi….On occasion I would raise my voice without knowing it. I recall describing the situation at Jannatabad to Hajj Aqa Nuri, who was holding a weapon at the time. I told him we were out of water and shrouds.

“Well,” he said, “the situation is desperate. You can bury the bodies without washing them with water and without shrouds. Khorramshahr is a war zone now, and the dead have the status of martyrs on the field of battle. There is no need for washing, and they can be buried in their own clothes. People who touch the corpses are absolved from performing the ablution for the dead.”

“There is a way to get water,” I replied. “They have trucked it in with a tanker in the past. The only problem is that we don’t have enough personnel. You’ve got to figure out how we can get new people.”

“And where am I going to find them?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “if you can’t provide us with personnel, at least let me have the weapon you’re holding.”

He refused, but I wouldn’t budge trying to get the weapon any way I could. He got irritated. I got equally angry and said, “God be praised! You have neither forces nor weapons. There’s no way I’ll allow anything to happen to our dead; I’ll protect them with sticks and stones if I have to. Tomorrow it may be your turn to die. Do you really want the dogs to tear your corpse to pieces?”

To be continued …