Da (Mother) 106

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-7-14

Da (Mother) 106

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

***

They said, “We can’t. The danger is the shrapnel might move.”

Just as I felt I was about to die, the doctor came. When he saw me he looked puzzled and asked, “Why is this one still here?”

“She didn’t want to go,” said the nurse.

Enraged, he asked me, “Why didn’t you go?”

“She hasn’t urinated yet,” the nurse added.

“Why didn’t you hook up a catheter?” the doctor asked.

“She wouldn’t let us,” she answered.

“What? Do you mean we’re leaving treatment up to the patients now?” he barked. “We do whatever they want?” Then he turned to me and asked, “Why are you interfering with your treatment?”

Afraid of making things worse, I didn’t say a word.

Uncle said, “If you let us, we’d like to take her home.”

“If you do, see that she gets her medicine and her shots exactly on time,” he said. “And keep her in a germ-free room. Although this is not the cleanest place in the world, we have had some success. Under no circumstances is she to get up. Is there someone who can care for her there?”

Mr. Bahramzadeh said, “Yes, we’ve got family visiting, and there’s a nurse among them who’ll see to her needs.”

While Mr. Bahramzadeh was gathering my medicines, mother and Leila arrived. They arranged to have an ambulance come for me. Mr. Bahramzadeh sat in front beside the driver, and mother and Leila sat in the back with me.

Mother began to cry even before the ambulance got moving: “O my God! You poor little orphan, you’re so swollen.”

“Why are you crying?” I asked.

“I miss Ali. The poor thing, nobody knows where the poor thing is. Right? He’s stubborn like you. When he was in that hospital, he wouldn’t let me do anything for him. He was in a lot of pain, but like you he never let on. And when I did visit him, he’d ask, ‘Why did you come? Don’t, you’ll just cry.’ You keep asking me the same questions. You’re exactly like him. You don’t listen to me. I wish your father were here. I wish he’d only been wounded. At least I got to see him for a few days before he was martyred.”

It tore at my soul to hear her speak this way. I said to myself: The poor creature doesn’t know where Ali is. If she did, she wouldn’t have brought up the time he was in the hospital.

I wished I’d been able to take her head in my hands and caress her. I knew full well how to calm her. I’d been giving her advice since I was a child and, having gotten the better of her intellectually, I was able to change her mind on certain things. Now, given the way she was carrying on, I was glad I had kept the news about Ali from her.

When we pulled up in front of Mr. Bahramzadeh’s, I said, “I don’t want to go in on a stretcher; take me under my arms.” Up to that point every part of me had been in agony. My neck and arms felt like petrified wood. But while I was in the hospital, I didn’t dare show the pain, fearing they’d evacuate me.

Several of Mr. Bahramzadeh’s kinfolk, who had been driven from their homes in Khorramshahr and Abadan, came out to greet us when we reached his house. Among them was a young army lad named Sa’id (later killed), who was visiting his relatives. He stepped forward, greeted me and mentioned he knew Ali.

My heart was in my mouth, as I was terrified he would say something. Then what would I do? As usual, mother, who loved anybody and anything military, started to shower him with endearments. Luckily he didn’t mention Ali’s martyrdom.

As soon as we got inside, a cheerless woman, who had been squatting in the corner of the living room, jumped to her feet. She said, “Goddamn this Saddam! He’s made our lives miserable. He’s killed off all our young.”

Mr. Bahramzadeh explained in a whisper, “This woman’s son is missing. We haven’t been able to get any news about him, which is why she’s in such a mental state.”

I felt bad for the woman. The commotion in the house and the presence of all the guest refugees were making me uncomfortable. Maryam, Mr. Bahramzadeh’s wife, brought me to a room, and the relatives lay me face down on a floor cushion. The woman followed us into the room, wanting to ask about my condition, but Mr. Bahramzadeh said, “Please leave her alone so she can rest.”

The poor woman left the room. Seeing mother wanted to get back to the children, I said, “Mother, stay with me for a bit.” On the verge of tears, she nodded and sat down. “Where are you staying?” I asked.

“At the refugee camp,” she said.

“I went to Sar Bandar and Mahshahr, but I didn’t know where to find you,” I said. “So I just wandered around.”

“I waited and waited for you to come,” she said. “I gave Uncle Gholami a message saying we were at the camp.”

Uncle Gholami worked for the municipality and, after getting his wife and child out of Khorramabad, he returned to the city, but I didn’t see him after that. I told this to mother and she said, “I’ve got to go look in on the children. There’s nobody watching them.”

“What do you mean no one is watching them, mother? There’s always God.”

I asked her about how the children were doing. She wasn’t that happy with them. She said, “Zeynab is constantly pestering me about her father. She’s become very willful and annoying.”

Mother left but Leila remained in the room with me. It had been some time since we had been under the same roof without having the rest of the family around. Things were looking better now. I tried to turn on my side to sleep, but Leila insisted I stay on my stomach.

“I’m tired. Leave me be. I’ll be fine,” I said.

We started to speak about Khorramshahr. There was no news about the war. We were in the dark about the city and how far the Iraqis had advanced. We were also worried about Abdollah Mo’avi, whether he had recovered. But, given his wound, there was very little hope he’d still be alive. Nevertheless, we didn’t have the heart to admit he was gone. My soul yearned for Khorramshahr. It felt like it had been years since I last visited father and Ali. I wanted with all my heart to see them resting in peace.

That evening one of Mr. Bahramzadeh’s relatives, who was a nurse, came by. She had a friendly manner, and behaved like family toward Leila and me. She gave me my shots and left. When the call to prayer sounded, Mrs. Bahramzadeh came by with a pitcher and a washing bowl. I did my ablutions and prayed. She also spread a tablecloth in the room so Leila and I could have some stew for dinner. Then she offered us fruit. I realized it had been a month since I’d last eaten such food. I stared at the fruit and tried to imagine what the girls at Dr. Shaybani’s were going through. Mansur, Hasan, and Sa’id also entered my mind. It made me sick to think of what was happening to them now and how long it had been since they had had a square meal. They were surely having a hard time. With such thoughts going through my mind, I could hardly eat the fruit.

Mrs. Bahramzadh kept coming by, offering more in the way of hospitality. I was so upset and grief-stricken I told her I’d rather sleep.

I don’t know how long I stayed at Mr. Bahramzadeh’s. I think it was five or six days. He had given the hospital his phone number so they could call as soon as a helicopter arrived. He also called them regularly. His wife, Maryam, took on the extra housework our stay caused without a word and wouldn’t think of accepting help from her guests. She told Leila, “You just look after your sister.”

Maryam also pestered me about taking my medicine when it came time. She brought food and carried away the dishes. Her food was delicious. Just the aroma was enough to stir my appetite, but when she put it in front of me, I would start to cry and, except for a few bites, I was still unable to eat. At one point she laid down some plastic sheeting and with Leila’s help I managed to bathe my head and arms. Then, using a washbowl, they sponged down my body with a damp cloth. To be naked like that in front of others was humiliating, but I had no choice.

Mr. Bahramzadeh’s family was like him: very disciplined and organized. They pulled out all the stops for us. Not only did they have a lot of respect for Seyyeds in general, father’s martyrdom and the fact we stayed in Khorramshahr caused them to admire us in a way that was embarrassing to Leila and me.

The nurse also regularly looked to my needs, and for the times she was not on duty instructed Leila how to give injections. Leila massaged my legs according to her instructions. She was very worried my spinal chord would be cut. After a while, I was able to urinate again due to her ministrations and the exercises. The swelling went down little by little, revealing how thin and feeble I’d become. I had changed so much that when mother visited with my little sister Zeynab, the five-year-old was afraid to go near me. She hid behind mother, and I kept assuring her I was her sister.

She would peek out from behind mother only to hide again. Leila tried to make her feel more at home by hugging her. It took a while for her to settle down, but she finally came to me, putting her head on my breast and rubbing my face with her hands. I stroked her hair and kissed her cheeks. She gradually began to talk, and soon we couldn’t stop her. “I missed you so,” she kept saying. “Where were you? Why did you send us away and stay behind? Why didn’t you let us stay with you? When are we going home? I can’t take this anymore. When is father coming home?”

Every answer was greeted by another question. Zeynab had also become skin and bones, and she clearly wasn’t her old self mentally. She looked wilted. Her hair was a mess and there were bruises on her arms. The old Zeynab, always in bloom, the little doll in the colorful clothes father bought her, was gone. Instead, the child was dressed in a long cloth shirt and striped pajama bottoms too big for her. In the cold weather, she wore a green sweater over her shirt. Covering her head and neck was a three-corner headscarf made from netting material. It was so unsettling to see her dressed this way. The worst thing was her hair, which was matted and felt like a gunnysack. With tears in my eyes as I kissed Zeynab’s face, I asked mother, “Why does she look like that? Why is she so filthy? Look at her arms; they’re so rough and calloused.”

“What can I do?” she said. “There’s no damned water to wash her with. You don’t know what I had to go through just to get her to the public bath. What do you expect? I can’t even stand myself.”

To be continued …