Da (Mother) 36

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2023-2-28


Da (Mother)

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

 

***

 

I was no less afraid than the others, but my fear was of a different kind. From the bottom of my heart I prayed to God not to let these damned things stop the dead in the van from reaching their final resting places. I prayed that He would bring the jets down before they could drop their bombs on us.

It didn’t take but a few seconds for the jets to veer off toward Taleqani Hospital and drop their bombs between the hospital and a rural area southeast of the city. There were several explosions that sent smoke and dust into the air, followed immediately by the sound of breaking glass. The quaking of the earth was so terrible it felt like a whole had opened up and we were being swallowed by it. There was so much dust in the air I couldn’t open my eyes to see whether the hospital had been flattened. But I could hear the jets coming back for a second round, firing their missiles at the bridge; fortunately they went astray and exploded in the Shatt, raising the water level nearly twenty meters. The sound this time was muffled, and the earth didn’t quake as much as before. From our vantage point on the van we had a better view of what had happened than most and could see there was an unexploded rocket on the banks of the Shatt.

The planes had gone, but I was still trembling, afraid that they wouldn’t take pity on the poor souls in the back of the truck. People remained motionless for a time, fearing the jets would be back. Some had taken shelter in unfinished houses. Some were lying in the sewer ditches lining the road or in the irrigation channels in the date grove across the way. Some hadn’t gotten far and were lying in the avenue, their hands clawing at the pavement. Even more ridiculous were two men who had jumped into empty barrels beside the road. Everyone thought that the jets would return, so Majed and the other guards shouted, “Everybody, get your cars out of the road. The planes have dropped their load and won’t be returning.” But no one believed them. After things had quieted down somewhat, I heard people saying, “Let’s go to the next gas station. Let’s go to Abadan; it makes no sense to stay here.”

I also saw several women crying, refusing to budge from where they were. In all the commotion an argument between a woman and her husband happened to catch my attention. They were walking by the road with their four-year-old daughter, trying to hail a passing car. The man, who had dark skin, frizzy hair, and a thick mustache, was holding a sack in one hand and his daughter in the other. The woman, who, unlike her husband was squat and relatively plump, had a bundle in her hand. They were both around thirty. Occasionally the man walked ahead of the woman, dragging the child behind him. The woman followed saying, “Where are we going? Our home is here. Why should we leave? For the love of God, let’s go back!”

In a southern accent the man answered, “Stay here and do what? We’ll be killed!”

The woman started to cry. She took the girl by the hand and pulled her. The man said, “Look, woman! Everybody’s leaving.”

“So, this is everybody in the city?” the woman asked tearfully.

“If we stay, we’ll die!” the man shouted.

The woman said, “We’re just like everybody else. We’ll stay and whatever happens, happens. We’ll die just like everybody else.”

The little girl remained suspended between the parents, each pulling her in a different direction. Whenever her mother raised her voice and tore up, the child also cried. My heart went out to the woman; she had the right to dig in her heels. Her husband wouldn’t budge. No match for him, she finally went along but in tears. After the Nissan driver filled up, the attendant refused to take his money, and we were quickly on our way. Despite its heavy load of bodies and the five or six of us non-dead, the van moved at a rapid pace. Along the route we saw the signs of fifty-caliber bursts. There were also the occasional mortars that landed in the road or in fields, sending shrapnel in all directions. Ignoring everything, the driver kept his foot on the gas and raced along. As we passed Taleqani Hospital we saw throngs of people waiting outside, a token of the bedlam inside the building. On the outskirts of Abadan, the crowds were very unruly. Many people had sought refuge at the Seyyed Abbas Shrine, hoping the blessed saint would protect them from the shelling.

When we got to the area around the bridge over the Bahman Shir River, I could see crowds forming around any vehicle that went by. When they saw only four of us in the back of the Nissan, they thought there was room for more and they stormed the vehicle. We told them that there was no room, but they accused us of holding out. Hoseyn said, “Come and see what’s in the back, and if you find space, hop on.” When they got closer and saw the dead, they sheepishly retreated. Some sent up prayers and recited verses from the Quran.

Once over the bridge we got on the Abadan-Mahshahr Road. The crowds got thicker, and, naturally, the van had to slow down. The driver kept honking to open a path through the throngs. My heart went out to these refugees from the fighting; all of them looked pale and exhausted. Many were barefoot and could barely drag along the bundles and boxes they had with them. Some gave into the fatigue and were stretched out on the sloping ground beside the road. We kept encountering people begging for a ride, and Hoseyn and Abdollah became fed up with trading words with them. Abdollah started to be brutal, “I’m telling you there’s no room. Okay, come and sit on my head. You want me to get down so you can ride?”

The most pitiful ones were those that got to the van and, seeing our cargo, turned away in disgust. In despair they abandoned the vehicle and kept on walking.

Then, in all the chaos, the planes returned, flying so low and fast that people lost the will to go on. Stricken with fear and exhausted, they ran from the road and scattered in the desert. The jets flew so low their shadows fell on the van. Some people yelled, “Fire at them; you have weapons. SHOOT! SHOOT!” When Hoseyn did take aim and fired, other people shouted, “Don’t shoot. They’ll bomb this place and massacre all of us!”

The crowds thinned out and the driver took advantage of the open road to speed up. It was getting toward noon, and the heat from the metal bars I was leaning against began to scorch my back. Drenched in sweat, I fanned myself with my chador but it offered no relief. I couldn’t take much more heat; my lips were parched and my throat was on fire. I craved a glass of cold water. I had been dying of thirst since we were at the gas station where I had shouted at the guard. Now I had no strength to go on. The state of the bodies was also more troubling than ever. Blood and other liquids began to slosh about in the back of the van; my palm was red with blood.

I ignored the crowds and the noise and turned my attention to the dead—particularly to Esma’il Sa’bri, whom they called Eidi at home. His mother loved him passionately. His stepfather hadn’t been in good health and was bedridden for a time. As a child I was especially friendly with his sister Raqiyeh, and that way I got to know about their circumstances. Both Esma’il and Ebrahim had to work to help out with their mother’s expenses. The mother also did her damnedest to see to it her children didn’t suffer. After their father had died, the weight of supporting the family fell on the boys’ shoulders. And this was how Esma’il was rewarded for his efforts!

There was also an Iraqi among the dead our boys had delivered. The body washers told us that he was in the process of surrendering when he was hit from behind. We had buried a number of Iraqis before, and all I recorded in the register was a number and the fact that they were Iraqi.

I could see the Iraqi’s face clearly. A bullet had entered the back of his head and exited from his forehead, making his face a bloody mess. He seemed to be around twenty-seven or eight. His skin was very dark, and he was on the hefty side. On his shroud they had written: Iraqi soldier. I wondered: What will they tell his family? Though he had been killed by his own forces, they would probably offer the boldfaced lie he had been taken prisoner or was missing. Now we were bringing his corpse to Mahshahr, while his loved ones waited in vain for him to return. I could also imagine them telling his family their son was a traitor and then harassing the poor souls.

 

To be continued …

 



 
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