Seyyed of Quarters 15 (31)

Memories of Iranian Released POW, Seyyed Jamal Setarehdan

2017-5-27

Seyyed of Quarters 15

Memories of Iranian Released POW, Seyyed Jamal Setarehdan

Edited and Compiled by: Sassan Nateq

Tehran, Sooreh Mehr Publications Company

‎2016 (Persian Version)‎

Translated by: Zahra Hosseinian

One day, when I was a teenager, came back home from school, ate my lunch, and did my homework. I had been bored. I rode my bike and went to my father’s shop. Entering the shop, I saw my father and three or four other shopkeepers have gathered and were speaking of revolution and the police and gendarmerie’s encounter. Sometimes, shopkeepers and businessmen gathered in my father's shop. My father poured tea from a porcelain teapot which was over the samovar, in glasses which tapered in the middle. The steam of cinnamon and viper’s bugloss tea twisted in the air and they chatted together.

A few minutes later, one entered the shop. He put a newspaper on the table and showed them something. He was panting and excited and perhaps had ran, like a person who was chased after. I peeped to see the picture better. All were looking at the small picture of a Seyyed clergyman on the top of the paper. One of the shopkeepers said, "So, this is Khomeini who’s said he’s clergyman!"

Up to that day, I had just heard his name, but that day I could see his picture for a moment, however it was small. After seeing that picture, my father and his friends’ chatting changed. They said his ancestor helps him and he’ll stand in front of the Pahlavi regime all by himself.

A few days later, my older brother went to Tehran. Returning home, he pulled out a tape from his pocket and put it into tape recorder. The sound of "Khomeini, O Imam; Khomeini, O Imam" filled the home. My father asked: "Where did you get this?"

• I took it from some guys in Tehran and recorded it in the uncle’s house.

My mother, who was afraid the sound was heard out of house, said: "My son, they hear!"

"Uncle’s wife was afraid too and said they come and arrest us." My brother said.

That night my brother took the tape to duplicate it with his friends. He had a small radio through which he listened to the Abdul Basit’s recitation of the Quran. My grandfather was upset when my brother listened to the radio. "Grandpa, I don’t do bad thing." one day my brother said to him, "I'm listening the Quran."

"The Quran which is recited in this radio has no use." My grandfather shook his head and said, "The radio which plays songs after recitation of Quran should be thrown away."

It was December of 1978 and the first days of Muharram. I went to the mosque with my father and both sat down and listened to the clergyman’s preaching. After speeches, the ceremony of beating the chest and self-flagellation began. Streets became crowded. The groups, which drummed and played trumpet, passed and vendors sold milk and cooked potatoes with bread. One night, poet Monzavi[1] read a poem and then Ayatollah Moravej climbed up the pulpit and spoke about tyranny of Pahlavi regime and people’s rallies.

Three or four days after Ashura, my father had gone to the Mirsaleh mosque. He came back an hour later limping and with wounded head and face. My mother hit her face and said, "Oh my God, what’s happened?"

"Security forces attacked people," My father said quietly, "and beat me up too. Don’t tell my folk. If they asked, tell them my back has been sprained."

My grandmother brought tea for my father, sat down beside and fondled him and said: "Why don’t you take care of yourself? You must lifted a heavy thing."

A few days after this incident, my older brother asked me, "Go to Barat’s home. I have a thing on consignment with him. Take it and bring for me."

Barat Ahadnejad was my brother’s friend. Ahadnejad’s house was in the Ghassemieh neighborhood. It was not too far. I knocked the door, he himself opened it. Without asking anything, he said, "Come in."

As if he was waiting for me. I entered the courtyard. Barat fetched a rolled paper. He unrolled it and showed me a photo which was fifty to seventy, and said, "This is the picture of Mr. Khomeini. Be careful nobody sees."

With a clenched fist, Imam looked forward in the picture. Barat rolled the photo again and gave it to me. I put it under my shirt and went home. My brother unrolled it on the floor in the house and a few minutes all of us looked at a Seyyed who was defeating the Shah. "Lest they rush into our house and see the picture?" my mother asked worryingly.

"Don’t worry, Mama. God helps us." My brother replied.

We hid the picture and whenever our relatives, friends, and acquaintance came to visit us, my brother showed it to them. But every time we ourselves were more inclined to see it, as if it was our first time seeing the photo of a Seyyed who has clenched his fist and stood in front of the Shah and his servants.

***

After breakfast, I had taken my tea and bread to give one of prisoners, when I saw pale bored Farzallh Vahabzadeh has sat down in the ground of quarters-14. I was concerned for him. Regardless to the boundaries between quarters-14 and 15, I crossed the cement line. I poured my tea into his glass and asked, "What’s happened?"

Suddenly, one of guardians saw and rushed to me screaming. I retuned swiftly toward the ground of quarters-15, but it was too late. The guardian began beating me with his cable as soon as reached. He swore me and went. Vahabzadeh came to me.  He stood next to the boundary line and said: "Why do you go to a lot of trouble for the sake of me?"

- No problem. Tell me what’s happened for you?

- I got dysentery. The other day, Seyyed Aabed beat me badly with his cable, when I was coming out of the bathroom.

Seyyed Aabed was one of Iraqi guardians who punished prisoners least of all. In front of other guardians he slashed his cable to the floor and wall and pretended beating prisoners. We walked along the boundary line. "I asked Seyyed Aabed why he beat me." Vahabzadeh said, "Rather than answer, he swore me and went. When we went quarters, five soldiers came in and sent other prisoners out. One of them told me, ‘I’m Shiite too. If you have insulted Saddam and us, confess; then I don’t let them to beat you. I swore not to let them to hurt you.’ I just realized that a false report was given to the Iraqis that I’ve sworn Saddam and guardians. I told them I'm not in a good state, let alone that I want to swear them; but they ordered the interpreter of quarters, who was from Khuzestan, to hold my feet up. The interpreter did it and they hit my soles with a piece of hose. Yesterday, they came again and punished me. They said I’ve told prisoners that Iraqis are dog. I couldn’t put my foot on the ground. So, I had sat down there."

Having problem to be on his feet, Vahabzadeh said: "You know, Seyyed, I’m upset because found out that one of those whom taught him the Quran, betrayed me for getting a few cigarettes."

Giving my bread to him I said, "You should strengthen yourself."

Turning back the bread he said, "I have no appetite. I can’t eat."

I gave him half of the bread and said, "You should have it to get your energy back."

"Yesterday, the camp officer of political brief was appeared, when they were punishing me." Vahabzadeh explained, "The guardian threw aside the hose as soon as saw him. The officer asked the quarter’s interpreter, who had hold my feet up, ‘they were hitting him?’ The interpreter said no for fear of the guardians. The Officer repeated his question three more times, but when got no answer from the interpreter, questioned the guardian, ‘so what do you want from him?’ the guardian lied and told him that I’ve committed an offence and they were warning me. The officer asked me to go out. I showed my soles and said I can’t walk. He thought I’m pretending. So, he hit my side and ordered the interpreter to help me to go out of the quarters. The officer came behind the window at night and asked the interpreter, ‘why did they hit him?’ The interpreter replied that no one hit him."

The next day on I kept my tea and when we went out for walking and taking in fresh air, I poured it into his glass. It was the only thing I could do. Maybe the heat and sweetness of Iraqis’ tea would help getting his energy back. After a few days, he had been a little better.

To be continued…