Da (Mother) 113

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-9-1

Da (Mother) 113

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

***

After Yaddi finished what he had to do at the jetty, he drove us back to the camp. That night, after a dinner of potato omelet mother cooked and greens she had bought at Sar Bandar, our small room became wall-to-wall sleeping cushions. As there was no room for Mohsen, we sent him to Uncle Nad Ali’s. My back was killing me and I paced most of the night, trying to deal with the pain. I eventually was able to fall into a peaceful sleep.

Before dawn I awoke in a fright and called out to the girls. It was difficult to wake up Sabah, who was still tired from the previous day’s exertions. We got dressed and, as we were leaving the house, mother was coming in with a kettle and a flask of water. Seeing us dressed and ready to go, she asked, “Where to?”

“We want to see if they’re going to send us to Abadan.”

Obviously annoyed by our departure but not wanting to show it, she said, “Sit down now and have some breakfast. You can’t go just like that.”

Sitting around breakfast, we told her—leaving out the details—about almost getting executed and had a good laugh. Zohreh Farhadi, the youngest, was afraid something bad was going to happen. She insisted we watch what we said. Sabah said, “Yeah, whatever we do we have to keep from getting into arguments.” Raising my voice, I said, “Since when is it a law we have to say ‘yes sir’ to everything others say? If we’re telling the truth, we mustn’t back down.”

Busy pouring the tea, mother looked up and said, “Zahra’s just like her father. Her mouth’s going to be the death of her.”

I remembered this was what she always told father. Once he said about work, “It makes no sense. The boss was bullying some of the workers. None of them had the nerve to say anything. I couldn’t just stay quiet while this man bullied them. So I talked back.” Mother got upset, because father had just found that job. After going through all that misery and poverty in the past, she was afraid he’d be fired again. She mumbled in Kurdish, “Your mouth is going to be the death of us.”

Father laughed and said, “Don’t worry, nobody’s going to come after you.”

I repeated what he said, adding, “Don’t worry, I won’t let anybody harm you. If anybody’s life’s going to be ruined, I’ll make sure it’s mine.”

She looked at me and said angrily, “You should be ashamed of yourself, mimicking your father that way!” As we were leaving, she said, “Fine, leave, but why are you forcing Leila to go?”

“I not forcing her to do anything,” I said. “She wants to come.”

But as we were walking, I said to Leila, “Go back. It’s not right to leave mother all alone. She can’t manage the children by herself. She’s still in agony over father and will need someone who’ll listen to her. Any minute now somebody will knock on the door and tell her about Ali. If you’re with her, you’ll be able to manage the situation better and look after her.”

Leila said, “If that’s how you feel, why don’t you stay instead of trying to talk me into going back?”

“Well, I can do more at the front than you. I’ve learned how to be a nurse.”

She said, “Fine, but just like you I can learn nursing, too.”

“But it’s going to take a long time.”

“Since when did I know how to shroud and bury corpses? But I learned how in a day and got over my fears.”

“Whatever you say, but it would better if you stay with mother.”

We had had it out over this before, but every time I said I would go back, she would say, “I’m coming with you. Wherever you go, I go.” She was so stubborn at times she made me want to spit, and I yelled at her, “What about mother and the kids?”

We went to where the busses for Mahshahr were, but the area was such a madhouse we changed our minds and started to walk. On the way we got a ride on a pickup to the town and from there a truck loaded with workers took us to the jetty. By that time the sun was high overhead, and we were feeling the heat. As we searched for the previous day’s commandos, a khaki-colored Toyota pulled up next to us. We turned around to find two Revolutionary Guards sitting in it. I immediately recognized Jahan Ara, and my face lit up. I don’t know why I thought I was seeing father; Jahan Ara was not that old, but you could imagine he was father to us all. His face for all its sternness invited trust and confidence. He got down from the driver’s seat and we said hello. He responded and glanced along the jetty, which was teeming with workers and soldiers, and asked gruffly, “What are you doing here?”

Since we spoke on the telephone, I had the impression he was a straightforward and measured person. I was shocked by his present tone. I saw the girls looking at one another, at a loss as how to respond. Finally I said, “We want to go to Abadan. We came here for a pass.”

“What do you want to go there for?” he asked.

“We’re nurses,” I explained. “We want to go to the hospital and help with the wounded.”

“They have all the people they need right now,” he said.

“We’ll do anything they ask,” I said.

Suddenly he turned to me and asked, “You’re Seyyed Ali Hoseyni’s sister, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“The one who was wounded?”

It amazed me he knew about it. “Yes.”

“How can you possibly want to go back, given your condition? There’s absolutely no need for you there. Your family has paid its debt to the war effort in full—you’ve made your share of sacrifices and you yourself have been injured. You’re all refugees. Could anyone be more deserving? If the Imam were here, he’d say the same thing.”

I was upset and insulted. Until then I had thought of Jahan Ara as a father. I grumbled, “No, I will go. I have my father’s permission. No one’s going to stop me.” The girls said, “We only want to be of use in Abadan; we’re rotting staying here.”

Everybody started speaking at once. Suddenly the other passenger in the jeep, a guard who until then had been staring into space, turned and glared at us. The look, which showed he was beyond annoyed, was truly terrifying to me. I retreated a little and, standing by Zohreh Farhadi, whispered, “Who could that man be?”

“Reza Musavi, Jahan Ara’s deputy,” she said.

Jahan Ara went on, “Don’t stay here. It’s not a good place for you. If we need you, I’ll personally issue a pass so you can go to the front.”

Then he stopped talking. We looked at one another wondering what to do next. It was a standoff: Jahan Ara waiting for us to go, we waiting for him to leave. After a while, I came to the conclusion he was not going to back down until he had sent us from the jetty. “Let’s go, guys,” I said. The girls looked at me in surprise, as if to say: How can you back down so easily after insisting you wanted to go back to the front? Resigned, I repeated, “Let’s go, it’s time. Didn’t you hear what he said?”

About to go, I had second thoughts and asked, “You’ll really let us know?”

I had to know if he actually meant to call us or whether he had just said so to get us to leave.

“At present there is no need for you, and I don’t expect there will be one,” he said. “Right now we need fighting men, but if nurses are called for, I’ll let you know.”

This made me think he was being honest. As we walked away, the girls asked, “What did he say to satisfy you about leaving?”

“The way they were stopped there told me they would never back down,” I said.

“So now if those commando friends of ours arrive and see we’re not there, where are we going to get our passes?”

I said, “Guys, we aren’t really going. We’re just pretending to go.

We’ll wait for them to leave, then we’ll double back.” We walked along the side of the road for ten minutes or so, but every time we looked back, we saw they were still there, making sure we were actually heading home. At the same time we kept our eyes peeled for any vehicle with our commando friends so we could tell them to wait for us by the jetty. After a while, Jahan Ara and Musavi’s Toyota passed by us and stopped. Jahan Ara stuck his head out of the window and asked, “Would you like to wait while I get a car for you?”

“No,” I said. “We’ll go to the main road and get a lift.”

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

“Camp B.”

If there had been enough room in his jeep, I was certain he would have driven us himself. Fortunately there was no room. We walked on for a while and, after I was certain they had gone and couldn’t see us in their rear view mirror, we doubled back, running and laughing all the way to the jetty. Zohreh said, “It’s a good thing the commandos from the War Room aren’t here. They’d remind us about saying the only orders we followed were Jahan Ara’s and about how traitors caused the fall of Khorramshahr. They’d ask us why weren’t we following his orders now!”

I don’t know who answered her by saying, “It’s all right for Jahan Ara and the others to be at the front, but, when it come to us, all of a sudden there’s no room there?!”

We came back to the jetty and for an hour stood to the side, watching the nonstop confusion of new forces arriving by truck. We were afraid of doing or saying something that would get us thrown out. It was so hot our heads and the soles of our feet were baking. Finally the friendly commandos arrived in a white pickup. We ran to them eagerly, but our mood soured when we heard they couldn’t get passes for us. “Something’s supposed to be done about it, because only five of the eight of us were able to get passes,” they explained. Then, pointing at the building where they arranged helicopter passes, Sabah said, “So let’s go and do it on our own.”

“You shouldn’t,” the commandos said. “We’ve been tasked to go to the navy base at Khorramshahr and remove papers and documents there. We’ve added your names to the list of names on the mission. If you say you’re nurses, they’ll want proof. There’s no point waiting here. Come back in the afternoon when we’ll definitely have passes for you.”

Sabah said, “We shouldn’t go. No doubt we’ll run into somebody who’ll be able to do something for us.”

To be continued …