Da (Mother) 75

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2023-12-10

Da (Mother) 75

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

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“Why me?” I asked. “Why did they have to place this burden on my shoulders and go? How much can I stand after all?”

Zeynab said sympathetically, “Girl, it’s not like you to give up. Weren’t you always the one to give us the strength to go on? Didn’t you always tell us we had to learn from the blessed Zeynab? Have you forgotten?”

“No, I haven’t. But who am I compared to her?”

“You’ve got to be strong. They’ve placed a burden on you, and you’ve got to go on. If you want your father to be proud of you, hold his head up high in the next world, you’ve got to show strength.”

“I don’t want to,” I said. “How can I be strong? There’s no one to prop me up. How do you expect me to show strength when there’s no one behind me?”

“Zahra,” she reminded me, “you have always called on the blessed Imams for help, haven’t you? They’re the sources of blessing and grace. What’s worrying you? Besides, the most precious thing a person can have is God. When you put your trust in Him, you won’t need anybody else. God Himself will become the head of your household.”

After pausing, she continued, “If you’re okay with it, I’m willing to take on any role, be a mother, a sister, whatever support you need from me. Now get up. Don’t let it bother you. God is great. He’ll never leave you. Do you imagine you’ve suffered all these hardships on your own?

All of this was the hand of God at work. And don’t you dare forget it.”

“I know,” I admitted. “If it hadn’t been for God, I would have died a thousand deaths by now. But it’s still impossible.”

“I agree, but if you put your faith in Him, the difficulties will disappear.”

I had never felt as close to Zeynab as I did then. I had seen how she had acted as a mother toward Leila, but this was the first time we had been so close. When she meekly asked to be a loving mother to me, in my heart I realized what she had said was true. Although there was nothing particularly special about her, Zeynab was a so kind and innocent that for the first time I was able to surrender myself completely to her embrace. The last the thing I wanted was to leave her side. I had been too reticent, too   proud to show how torn up I was. Here I was, so fed up with the world that I wanted to die. Now, after a good cry, I felt relieved. A weight had been lifted and the fires raging in me had cooled somewhat. I was certain that had Zeynab not done what she had, I would have gone mad. She was a true comfort to me. Even mother couldn’t have improved on what Zeynab had done for me. Mother needed someone to lean on herself. I was certain she didn’t understand me. I was sure the news of Ali’s passing would so upset mother she’d lose all sense of reality.

I wanted with all my heart to stay in Zeynab’s embrace. With my head resting against her chest, I looked up at her face. Her olive skin and dark eyes told me she was from a village in the southeast, Jiroft or Hormezdegan, but I couldn’t be sure. There was something special in her look that people found attractive, though she was not a particularly attractive woman. She just had pleasant features. Even when the pressure at work got too much and she became annoyed or started shouting, the love and kindness never left her face.

From the very first day we started working together at Jannatabad, something told me that she would be a friend.

Sensing I had calmed down, Zeynab caressed my face with her hands, which were rough and ragged from work. She communicated a special warmth and kindness to me. Her hands were the hands of a true mother. The maternal feelings she had for me radiated through my whole being.

Before we got up, Zeynab recited the opening of the Quran and, addressing the graves, said several times, “Blessed be your good fortune. Lend us a hand.”

I sensed the extraordinary sorrow she felt in saying this. We returned to the rooms. At Zeynab’s insistence, I washed my hands and face. She poured some tea for me. “I don’t feel like tea,” I whispered. “My dear girl,” she said, “you’ll just have to put up with it. If you want you can go and wash the kettle and brew some yourself.” “Forget it,” I said. “I don’t feel like it.” Then I looked at Leila, who, contrary to me, never lost her appetite. She was sitting happily eating and drinking tea. I managed to get down a little bread and cheese. “I want to go to the mosque,” I announced.

“Go,” said Zeynab, “go, but keep in touch.”

After I got up, I saw a motorcycle entering Jannatabad. As it got closer, I recognized the photographer with, as usual, a camera slung around his neck. He also had his film case with him. He parked his motorcycle near the rooms and got off. He was very upset. “They hit the laboratory,” he said. I let out a deep sigh and asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean everything was blown to smithereens.”

On the day Ali was martyred, he had taken pictures of his body and scenes of the burial. Those pictures were some consolation. At least mother, who was not at the funeral, would believe that her son was actually dead. But now? This was all I needed—one more sorrow to add to the mountain of suffering. I stormed out of Jannatabad and went to the mosque. I explained what happened to Zohreh Farhadi, who also became upset. Then I decided to look in again at the Darya Bod Rasayi School. Zohreh also wished to see the place. Together we walked out and, seeing Abdollah and Hoseyn along the way, the four of us went to the school. After rummaging around in the hallway and the classrooms of the school, we couldn’t believe that we found a Samsonite briefcase. Hoseyn said, “Let’s open it to see who it belongs to.” Without waiting for an answer, he sat down in a corner and fiddled with the combination lock until it opened. The minute I saw the contents, I was shocked; it was Ali’s.

The first clue was a piece of wax inside the case. I was sure he used it to exercise his fingers. I had a strange feeling as I took the case and pulled out the contents one by one. A bandana lay under a towel from the Mithaqiyeh Hospital, a last will and testament, and, most importantly, an envelope full of pictures. It is hard to describe how happy I was to find them. I greedily took in the pictures one by one, unable to stop crying. These were pictures of him on separate occasions during his hospital stay: giving the call to prayer; unconscious, being taken from the operating room; sitting in a wheelchair. Many of the pictures were of various public figures visiting Ali and the other wounded men: Ayatollahs Khamene’i and Beheshti, Mr. Falsafi, and others. There were also picture of Ali at the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery and at the Congregational prayers.

While I was looking for him, I was curious to know about his time in the hospital and other events. The pictures told me everything—what he had done in Tehran, where he had gone, whom he had seen. Many of the snapshots showed Ali and the other wounded men fooling around, shoving their wheelchairs and aiming their canes at one another. The pictures were so clear and vivid that it was as if they were speaking to me, making me laugh and cry at the same time. I felt I wasn’t myself, seeing the pain on the patients’ faces, and I was uncomfortable being with Hoseyn and Abdollah. I said to myself: I wish I could have been there with you and taken care of you. What a difficult time you had. I picked up his skullcap, which still had his scent. He must have had it with him when he was traveling. It made me happy to smell it. Then I opened his will. It had been written quickly, on the road, I guessed.He wanted us to give his books to Hojjat, one of his dear friends in the Construction Corps. To me he gave his camera. There were a number of debts that he wanted us to pay out of his pocket. Because of his surgeries, he had been unable to fast during Ramadan, and he wanted us to hire someone to atone for it.

I went out of my mind reading his will and breathing in the scent of his clothing. My tears upset Hoseyn and Abdollah, who left the room, but a few moments later Hoseyn with his usual strength and maturity returned saying, “Sister, think of me as your little brother. I’m begging you. Don’t upset yourself like this.” Zohreh Farhadi also tried to console me. I closed the case, which Hossein took from me, and we went to the clinic.

I placed the case on top of one of the armoires so, given the opportunity, I could get back to it.

The flow of doctors coming and going went a long way in putting my mind at ease about our stock of supplies and drugs. People could come and help themselves now, whereas before Mr. Najjar had to go to the hospitals and drugstores to get what was needed. When we told him not to go himself and send one of us instead, he would say, “It’s not your job. I’m the man. I’ll do whatever it takes, even if it means getting into a fight to get what we need. You can’t do that.”

The Bustani Drugstore, which was across from the Congregational Mosque, put all its drugs at our disposal. The other drugstores made it known that they would do likewise. Although we worked with the new medicos, we still considered Mr. Najjar our supervisor. When the first team of doctors left, we asked Mr. Najjar, “What should we do now?” “What we have to do: cooperate,” he said. “These people have made a tremendous effort leaving their homes to come here.”

It was easier for us to work with Mr. Najjar, given how well we had gotten to know him, but this familiarity had no effect on how he treated us, of course. He cut us no slack and sometimes during work he would warn us, “Watch it, now.” That gave us a scare, not knowing exactly whom he meant. He would say, “You know who I mean. You’re dawdling and if you want to work like that, don’t stay here. Leave now; this isn’t your grandma’s house. You’ll have to be better than that to pull a fast one on me.”

I was hugely interested in treating patients and, fearing Mr. Najjar would tell me I wasn’t cut out for the work, I tried to learn quickly. Mr. Najjar had also noticed how serious I was about the work. He said, “Thank God. How sharp you are. You get everything so quickly.” Even though he didn’t know it was out of fear, I was happy I was learning the latest medical advances and the use of medication. Lidocaine intrigued me the most, anesthetizing a wound with just a one or two percent injection. The deeper the wound, the higher we made the concentration. Mr. Najjar taught us when to inject around the wound or in it.

We got more work done at the Sheybani clinic than at the mosque. In addition to not having panicky people around, the environment was better; it was easier to reach the patients and see to their needs. Gradually we gathered the equipment and paraphernalia in one corner. We filled the empty spaces with beds so that if the number of wounded increased, we wouldn’t have to put them on the floor. Still we could only perform the kind of simple surgeries we did in the mosque. If people needed longer-term care, we would transfer them or they would come and go, and we would change their dressings and give them injections. No one stayed overnight. Ambulances and vans regularly ferried the wounded to Abadan or Mahshahr. This allowed things at the clinic to run very smoothly. But in my heart of hearts, I still wanted to go to the front lines. Whenever there was no work at the clinic or during the bombardments, I would leave and go around the city or the places that had been hit looking for the dead and wounded.

End of Chapter Thirteen

To be continued …