Da (Mother) 44

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2023-5-8

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

***

The girls helped me take her aside. Her body was shaking violently and her mouth was dry. She had no strength left after all the shouting and spasms. The girls brought some sugar water and forced it down her throat. With her taken care of, I had to see to the others. I ran into the yard and got some preserves out of a box. Then I found some bread. As soon as they saw me with the food, they stepped forward and started to gripe. It was a lucky thing I spoke Arabic, because all the hysterical women were Arabs. I talked my head off, assuring them that their safety was my only concern, and I was finally able to calm them down a bit. With the girls’ help, I managed to feed them.

We caught our breath, thinking there would be no more trouble from them. For a few hours at least they would rest their heads on the floor. But less than an hour later, the hysterics began again. They were marching around and making a racket. They wanted to leave, but we wouldn’t let them. All hell broke loose, and now I was quite furious. After all the Arabic chit chat, it was the same thing, and the worst of it was that being cooped up had made them even stronger. One-on-one we were no match for them. We had to get the medical assistant from the pharmacy to help us contain them.

The assistant, whose name was Khalil Najjar, recommended we sedate all victims of shell shock and isolate them in one part of the mosque. After a few hours, relative peace returned and Ra’na Najjar, who had been horror-stricken by the all the shouting, now couldn’t thank me enough, trying to build up my spirits so I’d be ready for the next bout of hysterics. She said, “If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what we would have done.”

Maryam Amjadi’s blood was boiling, and Zohreh Farhadi, whom I had seen clawing at her cheeks during the melee, said, “These people are a disgrace. Why don’t they do something about them?”

Exhausted, I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. A woman I had spotted when I entered the mosque was groaning. Her pregnancy didn’t have long to go, and the girls had tried to get her to the hospital several times. Despite her obvious discomfort, she refused, saying that this was no time to bring a child into the world. She paced back and forth, occasionally stopping to writhe in the shelter of a wall. They kept bringing in the wounded all through the night, and I did whatever I could for them. During the lulls, I permitted myself to lean against a wall and nap for a few minutes. My ears wouldn’t cooperate, however; I would wake with a start at the slightest noise. Father was with me at all times. I saw him beside me and spoke to him. I saw how the pharmacist Mr. Najjar and the girls tended to the wounded, and wondered what would have happened if there had been people like them with father when he was dying. Whenever I asked how he died, all they’d say was: “He was at the front.” This made me wonder what was going on at the front. What was it like? Obviously people were firing at one another. I wanted to go there and see for myself. Because they decided to transport the dead to other cities, there would be less work at Jannatabad. Tending to the wounded would take precedence. If they could be treated in time, we would lose fewer people.

I grappled with these thoughts until morning. At the crack of dawn the pregnant woman got worse it seemed, and she was shouting for help. Men went out to find a vehicle, and finally a truck pulled up. Several of us piled into it, and we took her to a birthing center. On the way back I stopped in at the Salman Mosque, where most people were still asleep. I saw mother with Zeynab busy lighting a camp stove. Hasan and Sa’id were asleep. Mansur was out in the yard. As soon as he saw me, he rushed to me with a big smile on his face. I put my arms around his neck and said, “So Mansur, what’ve you been up to?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to do here. It’s boring.”

Like everybody else, I had thought then that the firing would stop and we could get back to our lives. I told him, “God will bring this to an end, and you’ll be back in school soon.”

I walked over to mother and said hello. She looked up at me with those hound-dog eyes of hers and quipped, “So, child, you’re here?”

“Yeah. What’s happening? How do you feel?” I asked.

“How should I feel? This is a horror.”

“No, mother, wrong word; it’s an honor,” I corrected her.

“You don’t understand, girl; you’re too wrapped up in this. Wait till the war ends, then you’ll get what’s happened to you.” She teared up and said, “I want to visit the grave.”

“You were just there yesterday, weren’t you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember,” I said, “people normally go to the grave on the third day? Wait a day.”

Worried about her health, I didn’t want her to break down again.

“What’s that got to do with it?” she sobbed. “Did I get a chance to have a proper ceremony for him? So now I have to wait for the third day like normal people? Could things get any worse for us?”

This made me angry. I said sharply, “Mother, everybody’s in the same boat. It isn’t right for people to give into their grief whenever they feel like it.”

Our arguing woke up Hasan and Sa’id, and they greeted me with sour faces. Sensing they were on the verge of tears, I also choked up; I couldn’t stand to see mother and the boys cry. I was yelling at mother, I realized, to keep my own emotions in check. A few moments later I calmed down and said, “Mother, just wait a while and I’ll bring you and the kids to Jannatabad myself.”

She was bent double and had wrapped her simple cloth around her forehead the way Kurdish women do when they are grieving. She also wrapped a dark cloth around her waist. She didn’t seem to have the strength to move. I wanted to go and find a vehicle so she wouldn’t have to go to Jannatabad on foot. She said, “I’ll wait for you; if you come, fine, but it not, I’ll go on my own.”

“Fine,” I said. Then I hugged and kissed Zeynab, who had been glued to me the whole time. To her it was as if nothing had happened. Where the family was now living and what was happening to us didn’t seem to register. So it was natural for her to ask, “Are you going to bring that pink dress Daddy got me?”

I looked down at her. Father had just bought the dress for her. She continued, “And don’t forget the toys, too: the doll and the cooking pot. I want to play house here with the other kids.”

I ran my fingers through her lovely hair and said, “I can’t. Maybe some other time.”

Annoyed, she said, “Then take me with you, please, please! I really miss you!”

“No, love, I can’t. Where I’m going is dangerous.”

She squeezed my hand and said anxiously, “If it’s dangerous, why are you going there, Zahra? You shouldn’t.”

I realized what a stupid thing I had said, upsetting the child for nothing, and added, “Oh, don’t be afraid, I can take care of myself, but if you come along, it’ll tie my hands and I won’t be able to do anything.”

With Zeynab still clinging to me, I looked down at Sa’id. Those big black eyes of his seemed to be talking for him; he was so quiet and unassuming and innocent. I pried Zeynab loose and sat down by Hasan and Sa’id; but Zeynab had just gotten started, and, with nobody to stop her, she chattered on and on. Out of respect for the people who were still asleep, I kept my voice down answering her questions. When I go up to go, Zeynab having lost all hope that I would be back, said, “Stay!” I repeated that I had things to do, and she threw a tantrum. The tears finally came and she said, “I’m sick of it here. Let’s go home. If we do, daddy will come.” She had forgotten about his death. I couldn’t take any more of this and left the mosque. On the way back I stopped in at the Congregational Mosque to grab some bread and cheese. I stayed there long enough to see how Leila was doing. Her spirits seemed to have improved since the day before. She told me that they hadn’t brought in any corpses since the previous night. I said, “Mother wants to come to Jannatabad. If possible I’ll arrange for a vehicle so she and the children won’t have to come all that way on foot.”

I gave the bread and cheese to Hoseyn and Abdollah, who were sitting by the curb, and said goodbye. Abdollah took the M1 from his shoulder and ran after me saying, “Ms Hoseyni, I’m coming with you; there’s nothing for me to do here.”

We headed for the Congregational Mosque and hadn’t quite reached the main road when we heard the sounds of some horrendous explosions. They were shelling the area around the Ordibehesht traffic circle. The closer we got to the area, the more I could hear the sounds of houses being blasted apart and shrapnel striking the metal shutters of the shops. The murmuring of the crowd and cries of Allah Akbar also became louder. I told Abdollah to make a run for the circle, which was under mortar fire. Every ten meters another round landed, and I could feel the thuds from the blasts push against my chest, hollowing out my insides. The explosions sounded to me like death itself, and I envisioned myself bathed in a bloody redness before I died. That kind of death had beauty and dignity, which was why I welcomed the roar of the mortars.

At times the noise and the shock waves were so strong they stopped us in our tracks. The houses in Khorramabad, most of which were made of mud, blew apart, sending so much dust into the air that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. The shock waves were so strong some of the houses actually imploded.

Some people were fleeing their homes in terror, while others were running toward the ruins to see if they could help. We got to the lane that had suffered the most shelling, and about halfway down encountered two wounded men propped up against a wall. One of them was an older man with shrapnel in his legs. The other, wounded in the arms, legs, and face, was no more than twenty-five. Neither man’s condition appeared serious. Seemingly in shock, the older man cried, “Look! Look! They tried to murder me!” His leg was bleeding profusely from a gaping wound. I told the people who had gathered to find some cloth to stop the bleeding.

To be continued …