Da (Mother) 37

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2023-3-7

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 put these thoughts behind me and noticed numbers of people walking toward Mahshahr. This would be my first time there. Not knowing much about the city, I imagined it wasn’t different from Abadan, because like Abadan it had a petrochemical complex and, of course, foreign forces had been stationed there. But when we got there, I saw it was mostly dry wasteland. It seemed as if the sun was fiercer here—everywhere I looked was baked salt marsh. The city still had a traditional layout, and the dryness seemed to cast a pall over everything. People were in constant motion in the alleyways and on the main streets and avenues.

The van left the main road and entered a side street, sending up clouds of dust. I had to cover my face with my chador. The crowds hunting for vehicles grew thicker as we proceeded. When they saw our cargo, they sent up prayers for the dead. Now what concerned me was where to deliver the bodies. To the military, the mayoralty, or the command center? But the dead, who sacrificed their lives in the service of their country and faith, received a warm welcome at the cemetery, putting my fears to rest. I saw this as Jahan Ara’s doing; he had alerted the authorities in Mahshahr. I heard them saying that they would make all the arrangements.

I turned to Hoseyn and Abdollah and said, “Look at these crowds. Have you ever seen so many people in one place at one time?”

They were amazed. Hoseyn said, “During the past few days I had forgotten, but there was a time Khorramshahr was as crazy as this.”

The van stopped at the cemetery. The guard who was sitting in front said, “Wait here for people to come. Many are still on their way.”

I looked at the men, women, and children in the cemetery; some had picks and shovels in their hands. There were even mechanical shovels, which with their clean wooden handles were obviously new. People slowly crowded around the van and peeked inside. When they saw the bloodied corpses they struck their faces and expressed their sympathy. The women wept and the children, all aged around ten or twelve, gaped. To counter he mentality of mourning I felt I needed to say something about the sacrifices of the dead. Wailing and tears weren’t going to solve anything. The dead were dead; it was time to do something for the living. This was a good opportunity for that.

The day before, I had seen a major standing on a truck in front of the Congregational Mosque. He was haranguing the crowd about conditions at the front and trying to mobilize forces. I asked his name and someone said he was a major in the army called Sharif Nasab.

When I saw all officials of Mahshahr gathered there, I started to have second thoughts, but I came to the conclusion that if I didn’t speak up, I’d be doing the people of the town a disservice. I remember father telling me that the news of the disasters hadn’t reached some of the cities. If the Imam learned of what had happened in Khorramshahr, he couldn’t sit idly by.

I asked him, “Who won’t allow it? Who would stop the information from getting out?”

Father said, “The traitor Banisadr.”

I thought: If I don’t say anything about what was happening in Khorramshahr, I would be a traitor, too. But what if talking did no good? Then what?

So I decided to take the bull by the horns. Whatever happened, would happen. The worst they could say is that the girl is crazy. So let them.

I fixed my chador, stood up at the edge of the van, and started speaking, “People! The bodies you see here are those of the poor young men and women of Khorramshahr. They have been killed defending the honor and faith of their country. They remained out in the open for three days because there was no water to wash them or shrouds to bury them in. The bombardments didn’t help either. For three days they lay under the hot sun like the martyrs of Karbala.”

The tears streamed down as I spoke and at several points a lump in my throat stopped me from going on. But I continued, “People in Khorramshahr have neither water nor electricity; they are even afraid to go to the Shatt for water. Despite this and though they have no weapons, they are fighting tooth and nail to defend the homeland. This is the situation, though soldiers tell me that there’s no shortage of guns and ammunition in the country. There was a time when we had a regional gendarmerie, but now the traitors won’t let fresh forces and weapons reach Khorramshahr. You people must tell the authorities about the terrible fate of the folks in that city. Everybody must help any way they can. Brother soldiers and guards, whatever weapons you can spare—send them to Khorramshahr. You in the municipality or governor’s office, don’t let their cries for help go unanswered. The people are desperate.…”

As I spoke, Hoseyn and Abdollah reminded me to mention the lack of shrouds and water. And whenever somebody in the crowd started speaking, Abdollah, I was surprised to see, would shout at him, “Listen, brother, these words are meant for you!”

Finally I said, “Each of us is responsible for what he or she does. I felt it my duty to speak to you this way. What you do next is between you and God. Khorramshahr does not belong to me or to these poor martyrs; it belongs to all of Iran. Saddam has come to take the whole country. If we don’t stop him today, he’ll take Khorramshahr. Tomorrow he’ll be here, so there’s no choice but to defend the country with everything we’ve got. We’ve all sworn to be the Imam’s soldiers, now we must show we really deserve the name and do what he orders.”

The crowd cried out, “GOD IS GREAT! DEATH TO SADDAM! DEATH TO AMERICA! DEATH TO THE TRAITORS!”

I climbed down from the van, and women surrounded me, some planted kisses on my head and face and expressed their good wishes. They wished they could be in Khorramshahr to help.

Some were curious about the conditions in the city, while others prayed to God for help and praised me, calling me a “lion of a woman.”

It was embarrassing; I didn’t want to make myself the center of attention. I was in the middle of talking to people when a guard interrupted, saying, “If you don’t mind, sister, would you please come with me. The city preacher would like a word.”

I was amazed and a little hesitant: What did such a man want with me? What could I tell him? Asking for God’s help, I followed the guard to the body washers’ where the preacher was standing beside the commander of forces in Mahshahr, the governor, the head of the gendarmerie, and the mayor. As soon as they saw me they stepped forward and greeted me, each introducing himself and thanking me for what I had done. The preacher said, “We are honored by brave women like you. You are putting the message of Zeynab into practice.” Then he asked, “What can we do for you? What do need? We are ready to help.”

“For now,” I said, “nothing. The only thing I ask is that the bodies of the Iraqi soldiers that are among our dead not be desecrated. These poor creatures were killed by their own troops, trying to surrender to our boys.”

“You needn’t worry; they are Muslims just like us and will be buried according to Islam.” Our driver and the guards from Khorramshahr also spoke with the officials. With all my heart I silently thanked God for Jahan Ara’s farsightedness.

Then, led by the preacher, we all said prayers for the dead. They wouldn’t allow me or the boys to lift a finger in disposing of the bodies. No matter how much we insisted, they said it was their responsibility and theirs alone.

Afterwards they brought a bucket of lemon sherbet drink and served it to us. Though there was a coating of dust on the surface, it was cold and hit the spot in that inferno. After drinking the slushy liquid, I noticed my throat was raw from all the shouting I did at the gas station and my speech to the crowd. I felt bad I couldn’t offer a glass of the sherbet to the guys at Jannatabad.

Then they brought us to the guards’ building in Mahshahr where there was a full-spread breakfast waiting for us: bread, white cheese, butter, jam, etc. I had to laugh; there was no comparison between here and Khorramshahr. Since I felt I had to get back, I went through the motions of eating and got up quickly. As I was leaving the building, the commander of the guards was just returning from the cemetery. He kindly suggested that we stay and rest a while. I thanked him and said, “I have to get back.” We were going to wash the van, but when we got to where it was parked, we saw it had been cleaned thoroughly, and that they had loaded the back with full gas canisters.

Leaving Mahshahr, I had mixed emotions. On the one hand I wanted to return quickly to Khorramshahr; on the other, I didn’t want the van to leave. The feeling seemed like a premonition; something was about to happen on the way back: a rocket attack, a traffic accident, Iraqi mortar fire—something, I thought. But I also realized these things no longer frightened me. So what was it that was causing my indecision? I sat down in the back of the van, vaguely concerned, and had no desire to respond to Hoseyn and Abdollah who were jabbering away at me.

Abdollah said, “You know, sis, if there were this many people in Khorramshahr—all with weapons—the Iraqis wouldn’t even get a meter into the city.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Hoseyn.

Ignoring them, it suddenly crossed my mind that something might have happened to Leila. The car might have overturned or come under attack by Iraqi jets. I also was worried about mother and the kids, who, according to Leila, had taken shelter in the Sheikh Soleyman Mosque. We put Mahshahr far behind us, but my mind was racing. I started to hum remembrances for the Imams to calm myself. Back in Khorramshahr, I decided that the first thing—before going to Jannatabad—would be to stop in at the Congregational Mosque.

End of Chapter 8

To be continued …