The Two Half-Days

Morteza Sarhangi
Translated by: Abbas Hajihashemi

2015-9-27

Half-Day I

The summer heat had already tired out, and its stroke was overwhelmed by the autumn gale in the morning. That day, I had to pass through the crowds swarming Toopkhaneh Square along Ferdowsi Avenue to get to work at the newspaper office.

It was just another day for me. As a literary journalist, I had in mind to pen something about the first days of fall; my writing could have been something about autumnal rain, falling leaves, closing-in days of summer or exhaustingly protracted autumn nights; or maybe the pieces could have focused on the school rings which I had not heard of for years not even from afar. I was thinking that writing about such things would keep me busy for the day.

That morning, I kept myself busy scrawling about the arrival of fall but never imagined that what was about to come, would one day engulf the whole country shortly after its happening.

The only thing I heard was the bombing of Tehran airport which I could guess was done by Iraqi fighters. For me, it was just a shivering of the newspaper office which would grab the headlines the following day. This is the best I could understand of the war that day.

But, the reality happened to be of much deeper nature; the incoming news stories and the radio news at 2 p.m. said so. Only then I thought, "Oops". Everyone had gathered around the little radio at the daily's news desk to learn more about the dimensions of the war.

I had never thought that the day could turn me into a war writer for whom the war never ended, even after Iran endorsed the 598 UNSC Resolution. I might still lack war savvy, but yearn to learn and write about it.

At night, the office of the Islamic Republic (Jomhoori Eslami) Daily looked more like a religious spot as people lit their desks with candles and prepared tomorrow's content under its flickering light. The stories would be printed at the Keyhan Daily printing house. You know, our newspaper office was situated along Ferdowsi Avenue between Toopkhaneh Square and the office of Keyhan Daily; therefore, we had our content printed at Keyhan printing house.

Everywhere was pitch dark. The day's hodge-podge on Ferdowsi Avenue turned into such inaction and darkness that made it look like a massive fallen chimney with soot all over it. It was like the street had turned 100 years back at night; no lights were on and no passers-by would be seen in the whole neighborhood. A line of light and the sound of an anti-aircraft would break the silence from time to time.

In the newspaper office, however, many things were on the go. Our newspaper was one of the youngest, most passionate ones across the globe in those days. Everyone was eager to draw some part of the picture of the war from the incoming pieces that hit the office nonstop. The newspaper had become a war coverage outlet with all its desk being focused on the war fronts. No one knew what would come next. It was the very same night that Yousef Ali Mir-Shakak became more of a poet. (His poems were printed on the front page, and his epic pieces would be printed for months with lingering effect on the society); it was at that night that Gholamhussein Afshordi (better known as Hassan Bagheri) left the newsroom to become one of the leading commanders of the Iranian forces. I always remember him with pride. Alas, he left too soon. Some believed that had he never been killed so soon, the war's fate would have been much different. At the same night, I abandoned the art and literature desk to write about the war. The newspaper had turned into a war daily.

That night brought this lanky pen of mine to the battle ground. Today, war is all it writes about and earns from, even after the end of the war.

Half-Day II

The end of Tir (4^th month in Iranian calendar from June 22 to July 22. It is the first month of summer) heat. A colorless afternoon with a seducing stupor in the newspaper office with a not-much-of-a-compassionate working place for one to sneak a nap. Newspapers' main job is done at afternoon hours. Many stories or headlines happen to be left aside. There is no guarantee for a story to hit the paper even until the last moment before printing. There are always more important stories that arrive at the last moment.

That afternoon started like all the previous afternoons in the office. Listening to the “2 p.m. News” had become a habit for the staff and some relished listening to it as an after-lunch dessert.  

My desk was inundated by papers and stuff which sunk the radio, but it could still be heard.

It was the same radio that told us about Iran endorsing the 598 UNSC Resolution.

I felt like the office shuddered under my feet, but no explosions; at least, nothing that I could have heard of. The office looked more like an anthropology museum when the news war read on the radio: motionless examples of all human species could be seen in the office for some moments as everyone was stunned at the news. The radio could be heard much louder than ever.

I went to the war and front desk of the newspaper to do some stuff and talk to the guys, but no one was there. All the desk was cramped with news minutes and pictures of the war waiting to be printed. For a moment, everything turned brown and shabby in my eyes. All the pictures looks tattered like they belonged to some 80 years ago. The room looked like a haunted room which had not been occupied by anyone for decades. So where were the guys? Their laughter had bothered others the same morning. They might have gone for a funeral or something but no one knew where. Saeeid Allamian, Saeid Sadeghi, Hedayatollah Behboudi and even young, newly-hired Hussein Mirpour,… everyone was gone.

I had heard the news about the war outbreak in the first half-day and listened to its end on the second. I don’t know maybe history pages are created to remain open for people to come and leave their footprints on them. But, the footprints which I saw were much bigger than history pages. Maybe one should think out a solution to the small size of history pages.   

The interval between the first and second half-days took some 20 years. I don’t know if the “2 p.m. News” is still listened to as the lunch dessert in the newspaper office or not. 12 years have passed since the second half-day and I have not listened to any news broadcasts over the years. Pardon me for that!

Kaman Biweekly, 5^th year

Issue 103, pages 2-3