Third Regiment: Memoirs of an Iraqi Prisoner of War Doctor – 22

By Mojtaba al-Hosseini
Translated into Farsi by: Mohammad Hossein Zavar Kabeh
Translated into English by: M.B. Khoshnevisan

2026-3-22

Third Regiment: Memoirs of an Iraqi Prisoner of War Doctor – 22

By Mojtaba al-Hosseini
Translated into Farsi by: Mohammad Hossein Zavar Kabeh
Translated into English by: M.B. Khoshnevisan

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Of course. Here is the translation from Persian to American English, rendered in a formal, analytical tone suitable for a historical or political context.

***

I spent a few days enjoying this delicious dish. One day, I asked one of the soldiers about the secret behind it. He replied, “The truth is, this dish is sent as a gift from the 1st Regiment of our brigade to the brigade commander.”

I said, “Which 1st Regiment? Isn’t that regiment part of the Iraqi army?”

He answered, “Yes, it is. But they have a few local sheep that they’ve taken as spoils of war.”

I said, “I understand.”

It seemed that Major Hasan, the staff officer commanding the 1st Regiment, had stolen the villagers’ sheep after the poor residents fled their devastated villages. The next day, I asked that soldier to excuse me from eating that food. So he wouldn’t become suspicious, I said, “This dish is a special gift for the brigade commander, and if I eat it without his knowledge, it might cause trouble for you.”

A week later, Lieutenant Colonel Maz’al was transferred to the Political Orientation Directorate in Baghdad, and in his place, Staff Colonel Abdul‑Mon’em Suleiman, the commander of the 20th Brigade, took over the command. He was an officer from Mosul who had been teaching at the Staff College. Officers from Mosul are generally experienced, capable military men who are devoted to serving in the army and support one another. Because of this, everyone from senior officers to conscripted soldiers receives special attention from them. I, too, as a graduate of the University of Mosul, benefited from this attention and support. Although I consider this phenomenon entirely negative and unpleasant, under those circumstances I made great use of it. The brigade commander and staff officers treated me with respect, and Colonel Abdul‑Mon’em himself held physicians in high regard.

Although I was living in relatively decent conditions, the artillery attacks had turned our lives into an unbearable hell. I carried out my daily duties only within my own bunker and the operations and command bunkers, which were no more than fifty meters apart.

January 28, 1981 was a relatively mild and sunny day. At two in the afternoon, I was standing at the entrance of my bunker, talking with First Lieutenant Adel. The entrance to the medical-aid bunker was right in front of me. While we were speaking, I noticed flames shooting out from the doorway of the aid bunker. Moments later, my driver, Ali, emerged from within the flames in a state of panic and ran off screaming. We rushed after him. When he fell to the ground, I used my own blanket to put out the flames that had spread to his clothes. I sent him by jeep to Field Medical Unit 11. I must admit that I had never seen a scene like his emergence from the flames except in movies. The poor man had been cleaning his clothes with gasoline while smoking a cigarette when the gasoline suddenly ignited, setting his clothes—and the bunker, which was full of cotton, alcohol, and medicine—on fire. Thick smoke was rising from inside the bunker. This was dangerous for all of us, because the Iranian artillery might notice it and easily target us. For that reason, I asked the engineering unit to cover the bunker entrance with soil. We waited until five in the afternoon. Then we opened the bunker again. The fire was still blazing. First Lieutenant Adel went inside with a fire extinguisher normally kept in the ambulance, and he managed to bring the fire under control.

Here is a clear and natural English translation:

The next morning, another ambulance driver was sent to us to replace Sergeant Ali. This driver was a young man, seemingly unfamiliar with the front lines. After welcoming him, I reminded him of the matters he needed to observe. Nevertheless, I requested the unit to send a non-commissioned officer as an ambulance driver instead of him, as driving an ambulance was a very important matter.

The following day at 10 AM, our brigade headquarters came under heavy fire from Iranian tanks. They were positioned opposite the village of Dab Hardan. The engineering unit took the first hit, and two of its soldiers, Abd-al Karim and Abd-al Hussein, who had helped me extinguish the fire in the medical aid bunker the previous day, fell in their positions. No one dared to retrieve them. Ten minutes later, they were brought to us, having already passed away. I called for the young driver, but received no answer. He didn’t dare to leave the medical aid bunker. I had no choice but to go to him and saw he was trembling with fear. I told him, "Come with me. We have two martyrs!" He said, "Doctor, I can't... the fire is too intense."

After my encouragement and insistence, he came out with trembling steps and pulled the ambulance out of its shelter. While transferring the bodies into the ambulance, three mortar shells landed a few steps away from us. We quickly threw ourselves to the ground. We were not harmed, but three shrapnel pieces ripped through the ambulance's body. The driver got up and sat behind the wheel, but he didn't have the strength to start the ambulance. Due to extreme fear, he shifted the gears in such a way that instead of moving forward, he drove it backward. I shifted the gear for him and ordered him to move. He sped off at a mad pace. It was as if he couldn't believe he would survive the incident. As I had predicted earlier, he never returned. I waited for a new driver to be assigned.

On February 19, 1981, our brigade headquarters moved to the location of the 48th Armored Brigade's headquarters, situated west of the Ahvaz-Khorramshahr road. It's worth mentioning that the 48th Brigade had already left its deployment area and was dispatched to the Abadan operational zone before our arrival. Our new headquarters had sturdy and clean bunkers located adjacent to each other. We were surrounded by small, scattered, and uninhabited villages. The closest of these villages had eight mud houses. This region was lush, possessing a unique beauty and vibrancy. Wildflowers lent a special freshness to it. Spring in Khuzestan usually arrives early, and it rains abundantly. The flight of butterflies and birds brought a unique vitality to our monotonous life. The starlings, with their noise, seemed to want to bring a new color to our lives, weary from witnessing tragic scenes and deaths. Fortunately, the spring conditions and the cessation of shelling had somewhat altered our situation. Sometimes, we would see a newly bloomed flower assert itself amidst thousands of rough and harsh thorns. In reality, the value of love and beauty is recognized when one faces ugliness, hatred, and enmity.

At the request of the medical assistant and the driver, I chose the farthest bunker to the south of the headquarters to distance myself from the officers and commanders who found fault with everything, big or small. My area of activity did not extend beyond the mobile medical unit, the special command headquarters, and the operations officers' bunker. In the mobile medical unit, I mostly occupied myself with reading, listening to radio programs, and occasionally hunting starlings. I had to go to the command headquarters three times a day to eat with the operations officers. There, I met Lieutenant Colonel Staff "Abd-al Karim Hamoud," originally from Diyala. He was married to a female doctor and had a special respect for physicians. Going to the command headquarters during the day was a simple task, but returning to my bunker at night was distressing for me because I would lose my way. However, after learning about a telephone cable that extended close to my bunker, I overcame this problem.

To be continued …