Da (Mother) 107

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-7-21

Da (Mother) 107

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 shouldn’t have said that. It was obvious she was at the end of her rope, and it depressed her. She still wore her shawl fastened at the back with the hem over her forehead as a sign of mourning.

The only thing keeping her alive, I felt, was the hope of seeing Ali. If it weren’t for that, her grief about father would have finished her off. Proud woman that she was, she didn’t show how much she loved her husband. I even remember father joking to her, “I’m still in the dark about your love for me.”

Now I realized how much she actually did love him.

As I spoke, Zeynab, who had gotten used to me again, began to lean on me. Mother said, “Not so close! Your sister’s been shot.”

She looked at me in surprise and asked, “You were shot?”

“There was this blind mortar shell. It didn’t see me and landed nearby. A piece of shrapnel hit me.” Then, to divert her, I asked, “Have you made any friends at the camp?”

“I play with the kids, but I’m not friends with any of them.”

After a few hours, mother rose to go. She was very upset by the thought I was such a bother to Mr. Bahramzadeh’s family. This was why she didn’t visit as much. After she told Zeynab to get ready to go, the child said to me, “You come, too.” Mother said, “She can’t move.”

Zeynab burst into tears and wouldn’t let go of me. Mother forced her to her feet. Zeynab rubbed her eyes and said, “Let me stay, mother.”

After they left, I started to cry. I felt more homesick. Seeing Zeynab made not having a father even more painful. To keep people from seeing how upset I was I put my head under the blanket and pretended to sleep, all the while sobbing my eyes out. Mother didn’t bring Zeynab to see me after that.

I got more irritable as time went on. Mr. Bahramzadeh for his part tried to keep anything from getting on my nerves. The doctors told him and uncle to keep me from hearing about the war. When I asked, “What’s the latest?” They would say, “Nothing special. We’re also in the dark.”

At times I would hear the sounds of the “guests”; the number would vary as they found houses to rent in Mahshahr or left the city altogether. Everybody was talking about Khorramshahr. Although I kept my ears peeled, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I pestered visitors for news, but in my heart I knew it wasn’t good. This was why I had so desperately wanted to stay in the city. I was certain it would be the last time I saw it. The idea of the Iraqis advancing as far as the cemetery and destroying the graves of father and Ali was driving me out of mind. The hours lying around with nothing to do gave me ample time to think about the places I had been during the days of the war, about the people, the times, and the scenes I had witnessed. I even missed Genoa, the hysteric whose behavior was so repulsive I did everything I could to avoid her. I found myself praying to God to get me back to Khorramshahr and let me work again. After twenty days of frantically running this way and that, I was now lying motionless in a corner with no news of the war.

The agony weighed heavily on my heart. I felt I hadn’t done any good while I was in the city. I had to return and try to do more. Now nothing satisfied me, but I couldn’t speak openly to anyone.

One night while I was lying in bed, Leila asked, “Sis, do you remember Sa’bari?”

“Yeah. You mean Esma’il, right? We took his body to Mahshahr.”

She said, “His older brother, Ebrahim. Do you remember him?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Has something happened?”

“The day you were wounded at Sentab, the Iraqis advanced as far as the base. The forces there retreated. As I was walking around Jannatabad, I happened to see Ebrahim lying by the gate. I went to him and saw shrapnel had shattered his jaw. He was barely breathing. Blood and foam were coming from his mouth. I guess he died.”

“May God have mercy on his mother,” I said. “What pains she took raising the two boys.”

Leila continued, “When I got to him, Ebrahim was dying. Even so, he managed to mutter the two oaths to God and His Prophet. I was at a loss until I saw a jeep full of soldiers driving on the Ring Road from the direction of the base. I started shouting and waving at them to stop, but they sped past me. I was enraged and screamed, ‘Cowards, can’t you see there’s a wounded man here! And you’re running away?’ But I hadn’t finished ranting when I saw some soldiers coming from the direction the jeep had gone. I waved my arms again, and suddenly the jeep came speeding back toward me. I wondered what had made them turn around. Then two of them jumped out of the jeep and, with Ebrahim in their arms, said anxiously, ‘Hop on fast! The Iraqis are right on our tails!’ ”

The story petrified me. I felt sick and, horrified, I just stared at Leila. Just the thought of her being taken prisoner was enough to drive me mad. I managed to ask her, “What happened next?”

“Nothing. I really didn’t believe the Iraqis had come that far, but jumped in the jeep anyway. After we got going, an Iraqi military car showed up. Had I stayed in Jannatabad, I definitely would have been taken prisoner. I have no idea what happened to the folks who did stay. Zeynab was not there at the time, thank God.”[1]

On the verge of tears, I asked, “What would I have done if you were taken prisoner?”

“Nothing. I’m just like everybody else. What do you think they did? Don’t you think the Iraqis broke into other people’s houses and took them prisoner?”

“Enough! Not another word!” I said.

I took her hand and squeezed it. The more I thought about it, the less I could stand the horror of the thought; it broadened and became more agonizing in my mind. I blamed myself for abandoning Leila, and there would have been no way to atone for it if she had been taken prisoner. What would I have told mother? Father had made me promise to take care of my siblings. What would have happened if I failed his trust? I looked at Leila, and even as I blamed myself, I thanked God, comforting myself with the thought she was here now, safe and sound. Then again, I thought, I would never have forgiven myself if she had been harmed.

Seeing the state I was in, Leila laughed and said, “Nothing happened. Why make yourself sick about it?”

But I couldn’t stop fretting. Without her noticing, I clutched at her clothing to regain a sense of security from her presence. I would also glance at her when she was sleeping and weep. The thought she could have been captured stayed in my mind for a number of days. I would tell myself, “Never be that careless again. Never make father regret he put his trust in you. Don’t ever let Leila leave your side for a minute.” This was how I passed the time while we were at Mr. Bahramzadeh’s.

Gradually I got better. The swelling went down considerably, and I regained some feeling in the toes on my left foot. With help I was able to stand on my feet, but I couldn’t feel the ground. When Mr. Bahramzadeh’s home became too crowded for comfort again, I asked uncle to take me away.

Mr. Bahramzadeh was against it but finally agreed. After a week’s stay, uncle came with a car at around 9:00 a.m. to take me to the refugee camp. Camp B had been the preserve of the Japanese, Chinese, and Korean workers at the petrochemical plant. With the outbreak of war, they were evacuated. The camp was about twenty minutes drive from Sar Bandar.

Uncle brought a folding bed to the camp for me. It felt good being in the open air, but it was embarrassing to sleep that way in public. Mother and the kids appeared a few minutes after our arrival. Zeynab ran to me, but, being shy, the boys stayed back, merely staring at me. “Come here,” I urged them.

I remember mother saying they were always playing and wouldn’t listen. I said, “I heard you’ve become little devils.”

They laughed. Several families from uncle’s side resided in Nad Ali’s lane, which was almost at the far end of the camp. They came to visit and gathered around me. The poor things didn’t know Persian. It had only been a year since Saddam had kicked them out of Iraq, and they wound up in Khorramshahr.

Around noon Mr. Bahramzadeh came to look in on me saying, “The hospital called to say a helicopter had come.”

“I’m not going,” I said.

Both uncle and Mr. Bahramzadeh were not pleased and asked, “Why not?”

“I can go by car,” I said.

Having seen so many people in far worse shape than I, people severely wounded, in comas, and amputees, I decided I had no right to take up space in a helicopter. Why should they have to stay behind, while I get to go to another city?

“Being jostled in a car could cause you problems,” said uncle.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I assured him.

No matter how much they tried to change my mind, I wouldn’t listen. Uncle got very upset with me. Mr. Bahramzadeh left.

That night the pain returned. My wounds itched, which was a sign of infection. The next day uncle called the camp ambulance. We managed to convince poor mother not to come. The doctor at Mahshahr Hospital quickly wrote an evacuation order. There was an ambulance on its way to Shiraz, and they forced members of the family of one of the wounded to give up their spaces to take Leila and me. Leila sat on the hump, while I stretched out along the side. After a doctor and a nurse got in, we sped off. It wasn’t comfortable squeezed in between the door and the hump. The ambulance had no side windows, but wind blew in through a broken pane in the door, at times blowing cold, at times hot.

The driver stopped once to have the motor checked. The nurse pulled up my blanket and the doctor, whose name was Mostafavi, bought a little food and shared it with us. While we were stopped, the doctor said to the people who had gathered around the ambulance and were peeking in, “Come and see what has happened to the people of Khoramshahr. Here they are: those who resisted the enemy.”

To be continued …