Da (Mother) 99

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-5-26

Da (Mother) 99

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

***

The three of us prayed, sheltering behind the materiel stacked in the corner. The others also prayed and began to eat bread and tinned fish. They offered some of the tins to us as we sat by the boxes of medical supplies. We politely declined.

The commander said, “Eat. You’ll need your strength because you’re coming with us to the front.”

We opened a tin and began to eat. Our already filthy hands became covered in grease. We dipped chunks of dried bread in the tinned food. The bread had been dried to keep it from molding. Back at the Congregational Mosque I would always soak the bread before giving it out.

After we finished eating, Dr. Sa’adat, ever concerned about us, walked over and said, “Sisters, if you’re still hungry, let me get some more food for you. Don’t be shy.” We said, “No, we’re fine.”

He left and returned with half a watermelon. Not having a knife to cut it, they had slammed it on the ground. Some of the soldiers used empty tins as spoons to scoop out the fruit.

While we were eating it, Sabah said, “I’m not going back there again. I want to leave.”

Before, when we had been pinned down by the wall, she had told me, “What we’re doing is insane. If I get out of this alive, I’m not coming back.” I thought at the time she was kidding. But now she was repeating what she had said. “Why?” I asked. “We went through hell to get them to bring us to the front, and now that we’re here you want to go back?”

She said, “It’s just a mess. We don’t even know where the enemy is or who we’re fighting. They’re just firing at us, and we can’t see them. We shoot back to kill them, but it’s just as likely we’ll be taken prisoner. I don’t want that. You should come back with me.”

“No,” I said. “I came here to be at the front, and I’m staying until it is resolved.”

I didn’t try to change her mind. She had to decide for herself. Several commandos standing nearby were speaking with raised voices. I didn’t know what they were arguing about, but, motioning with the machine guns in their hands, they announced, “We’ll give one of these automatics to anyone who can work it.”

Sabah, who had longed for a weapon when they were in short supply, said, “I can.”

I asked the soldiers about the differences between an ordinary G3 and the fully automatic one. I also wanted to know about the effective ranges of the two and how to cock them. They told me everything I needed to know. If I’m not mistaken Maryam Amjadi, who was also interested in this, made extensive notes. I said to Sabah, “Don’t even think about it. They’re just pulling your leg. Why are you taking them seriously? Those G3s are heavy and have a powerful kick. You’ve definitely got to fire them using a stand.”

Sabah didn’t listen to me. She put the machine gun on single-fire and pointed the barrel at the sky. I said, “You’re going to fall down and embarrass us all.”

“No, I can do it,” she said.

As soon as she fired, she fell to the ground. I quickly reached for her hand and took the weapon. I was livid, but Sabah couldn’t stop laughing.

Suddenly they ordered to us to move. Addressing the troops, the commander said, “Whoever wants to can go back from here, but those who are coming will have to observe the silence and maintain order. If you think you won’t be able to keep your cool when you see the Iraqis, you’d better not come.”

Several people, including Sabah, decided to return to the city. But a new group joined our band, making twenty-two altogether. As we got underway I jokingly said to Sabah, “If I don’t make it, you should definitely get Leila out of Khorramshahr at the first opportunity. Keep an eye on my mother for me also.”

I knew that if I hadn’t made a joke of it, it would have been impossible to keep from crying. Mother’s grief-stricken features would appear before me and I’d lose it. As we headed out, I thought about what Sabah had said. The situation seemed critical to me at that point; the front lines were in dire need of forces and medical supplies. This was why it was necessary for us women to be there. Under ordinary circumstances, with enough men fighting at the front, there would have been no need. I put my trust in God, the G3 on my shoulder, the grenades in my pocket, and the Colt one of commandos had given me in a belt under my chador. The Colt was in case the Iraqis took me prisoner, but whenever I had to jump or bend over, I was worried the thing might go off accidently and put me out of action.

We followed the old path until we reached the railway, but after crossing the tracks we took a different route. The column walked on steadily without a sound, communicating only with hand signals. A couple of people would leave the formation regularly to keep order at both ends of the column. We crossed the open alleys one by one.

Finally, passing by the narrow lanes where the port housing was, we reached the cement wall of the jetty and kept moving forward until arriving at the entrance to Sentab. Afraid our forces would get into the port, the Iraqis were firing blindly. They themselves didn’t dare leave the safety of their positions in the port during the day. The Iraqis had taken possession of all the territory within range of their tanks, armored personnel carriers, and helicopters. Our people explained it this way: “First the helicopters soften up our positions, and then the tanks move in with infantry behind them.”

When we got to the front of the building the two giant doors were ajar, apparently yanked from their frames by force. A cement pillar one meter wide divided the two doors. Entering through one side of the huge doorway was a rail track; the other side was a paved roadway for heavy machinery, trailers, and articulated trucks. This gateway, which was known as Sentab, was one of three main entrances to the port. The other two were Filiyeh and Dowrband.

Our forces had fortified their position behind the pillar with sandbags. Around the area they scattered their munitions, everything from grenades, rifles, pistols, and small arms ammunition to rockets for the RPGs. There were no more than five or six soldiers around the cement column. They were overjoyed to see us. Their faces were lined with fatigue; clearly they hadn’t slept for days and had to force their eyes to stay open.

The commander of our group divided up the personnel, assigning each person a task. He stationed a number some distance from the entrance and told a few others to stand on the cement jetty of the port. A couple of those who met us at the building were so tired and hungry they didn’t have the strength to stand. With our arrival they returned to the back lines. They said small and scattered bands of our boys had managed to penetrate the customs area and repel the Iraqis’ advance.

he commander stationed me and the other woman next to the jetty, ordering us to feed RPG rounds to the boys on the wall. The troops very smartly scampered up the three or four meter jetty. The thick branches of the trees lining the wall provided cover for them from the Iraqis. They would either sleep on the jetty or run along the top, changing their positions regularly to make it harder for the Iraqis to draw a bead on them.

 From where we were sitting we could see the road and railway and, farther away, the scattered huts of the inhabitants. One of the soldiers who had arrived the day before told us ambulances had been stationed behind the huts to be ready to speed the wounded away.

The other woman and I rapidly fixed charges to the RPG rounds and put magazines into the G3s, handing them to the two or three soldiers standing on the jetty near us. When they ran out of ammunition, the soldiers had no trouble throwing the empties to us on the ground. But it was difficult for us to hand ammunition back up to them. It was too far to reach the top, and were the tip of an RPG round to hit the ground or were a trigger to jerk forward an inch, we’d be finished.

To speed up the process I concentrated solely on loading magazines and bullets. One of the boys frantically replaced the empty magazines with full ones. They would also run into the Sentab gate to retrieve more magazines and bullets, which they had put on the ground. Dr. Sa’adat, no longer showing his customary grace and good humor, now had a weapon in his hand and was firing furiously. From time to time he would declare, “Fighting is such hard work!”

I was dying to know what was happening at the port. I could hear the Iraqis’ shouts and cries plainly, but when I peeked around the wall, I saw nothing. The Iraqis were firing on us from behind pieces of equipment and containers in the customs area. The commander and others warned us not to be in front of the door. At times when the shooting intensified, the other girl and I would fire from along the wall to provide cover for troops entering the port or going to the other side of the door. As time went on the firing in this section increased. Some of the boys took shrapnel, and Dr. Sa’adat bandaged superficial wounds.

With the shortage of troops, they asked us to join the group firing on the enemy. Soon my ammunition ran out. I asked the soldier near me, “I’m out of RPG ammunition. What should I do?”

“There’s more over there,” he said, indicating the sandbagged position between the double doors of the building.

I got up to go to that position. The shooting was so intense he said, “Not you. Cover me and I’ll go.”

It bothered me that the men were still trying to keep us out of the fighting. Their lives were just as precious as ours. I said, “No, let me go myself. I’ve gotten this far. What difference is there between us? There’s no ‘me’ or ‘you’ when it comes to taking fire. You cover me. Your RPG is still loaded, so use it.”

Then I strapped the G3 around my waist, put it on automatic, and ran the three or four meters to the sandbagged position, firing all the way. The weapon jerked, and I lost control of it. I thought this was the moment I’d get my head blown off. A few seconds later, I reached the cement pillar. Grabbing the sandbags, I vaulted into the bunker. In the confusion I could make out the blurry image of the soldier, whom I had seen before, standing above me. The pillar shielded his body from the enemy, but he was holding his RPG out with his arms where the enemy could see them—as if he wasn’t aware of doing it. He asked me irritably, “What were you thinking?”

To be continued …