Da (Mother) 111

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-8-18

Da (Mother) 111

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

***

One day around noon I emerged from the aid tent to see several women in chadors coming toward me and waving. They seemed familiar. As they got closer, I saw they were the girls from the Sheybani clinic. I was so happy to see them I nearly jumped for joy. I shuffled rapidly toward them, as Zohreh, Saffah, and Ashraf ran toward me. I hugged and kissed the three of them. Everybody was crying. As usual Ashraf Farhadi, who was the most tenderhearted, shed the most tears.

I also saw Abed Mohammadi and Dr. Mostafavi a little farther way. They had all come together. We went home, and mother was overjoyed to see the girls. Her first question, of course, was about Ali, “I don’t know why everybody but Ali visits; there’s no a word from him. He’s never come by.”

After pouring tea, she went to prepare some food. The men left the trailer to walk the grounds, giving us the chance to gossip in earnest.

“What happened after I left?” I kept asking. “What about so-and-so…?”

“Wait, will you. One at a time,” they said. “On the sixteenth the Iraqis reached the Forty-Meter Road, driving all of us out of the city.”

“So, where did you go?” I asked.

“We went to our homes. We’ve come back here now to be able to go to Abadan.”

They spoke of how hard it would be to go to other cities without any money. We talked our heads off until mother brought the food. We also joked around and kidded one another. It made me very happy they had come. It put me in a better position to carry out my decision to go to Abadan. Dr. Mostafavi and Abed left after lunch. The girls and I stayed and continued to talk and discuss the different ways to reach Abadan.

We all had ideas. The most important thing would be arranging some kind of permit or pass to go through the war zone. Because of Fifth Column elements in the region, getting such a permit involved a lot of questions.

None of us had any hope of helping the Khorramshahr boys now trapped at an export-import company in Sar Bandar. The girls said, “The enemy is advancing, and there’s no telling what’ll happen to them.”

I said, “There’s a number of military men living in a part of the camp. Some are acquaintances. We saw them around the mosque in Khorramshahr. Maybe they can help with the permit.”

“It would be better to start at the municipality,” they said.

Mother, who had been listening, said, “I’m coming, too.”

Eyes wide in surprise, I asked, “Where, mother?”

“With you—I want to find Ali.”

“What about the children, mother? What will they do?” I asked.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she left the room.

That night Zeynab, who had been listening and learned I intended to leave, stretched out beside me and, as usual, asked, “Where’s father?”

“He’s with God,” I said. “Because God liked him, He brought father to live with him. God brings everybody He likes to the next world so they’ll suffer less. Father was one of those very good people who had a very hard life in this world.”

“So, doesn’t he miss us?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Zahra,” she asked, “will God let father come back to see us?”

“No. Father is not coming back, but he is always with us. When we do something good, he’s watching us from above, and it makes him happy.”

“So,” she asked, “why doesn’t God bring us to Him? Are we bad people, then?”

“No, but we aren’t as good as father yet.”

“What do we have to do to be that good?” she asked.

“We have to do good things, help people who are doing good things, and don’t do things God doesn’t like. We have to be so good we’ll be martyred and be with God.”

She asked, “So only martyrs can be with God?”

“No. Any good person, even if he’s not a martyr, can be with God,”

I said.

“So, who is God anyway? Why do we have to listen to Him?”

I spoke and spoke until she seemed satisfied, but there was no end to the questions—so many I got fed up and said finally, “Wait till you’re gown up and you go to school, then you’ll understand.”

It was very difficult for me to hear her speak about these things. I got emotional and irritated by her impatience to know. Many times she didn’t ask directly about father, but I knew very well her questions were just an excuse to hear about him. She missed him very much. I had to hide my feelings and soothe her by being calm.

The next morning as I was about to close the door, I said to mother, “It’s not clear when we’ll be back. We may go to Abadan today.” I asked her to keep the children from running wild in the camp. As I said this, I looked at the children, who, awakened by the sound of our talking, were peeking from beneath their blankets. I told them, “It might be a long time before I’m back. Try not to annoy mother. Don’t go about with just anyone, only with people you trust.”

Zeynab, who as usual was full of questions, jumped up and ran toward me. She put her arms around my neck and asked, “Why are you going? Don’t go! I’ll miss you. Father’s gone. Ali’s gone. If you go, Leila will also leave.”

I was trembling all over, beginning to have doubts. Wouldn’t it be better to stay and mind the children to keep them from going astray? But I knew if I stayed I’d get so fed up that the camp would become intolerable again, and I would end up destroying their morale as well as my own. I said to Zeynab, “Look, darling, I have to go to keep the wounded from becoming martyrs and keeping their children from becoming orphans.”

With that I took her arms from around my neck and kissed her. Mother’s face was wet with tears. I kissed her and said, “Don’t just sit there crying; you’ll break the kids’ hearts. You’re their mother and father now. Living under these conditions is depressing enough. You don’t have to make it worse. I know how hard it is for you, but the least you can do is not to show your sorrow to the kids. Crying saps their will to go on. Father and the other martyrs have gone to their rightful places. That’s nothing to cry about.”

“He left and dumped me in this misery,” she sobbed.

“Don’t blaspheme,” I said. “Father chose the path he always loved. He made us proud by going the way of his grandfather. Do you think crying will bring him back?”

She said, “No. I know he’s not coming back. But maybe it makes my heart ache less.” Then she sighed and added, “I know one day it’ll be all over for me, but the pain will go on.”

I kissed her head once more and said goodbye.

We left the camp, hoping to get a pass. We called on everybody: the Red Crescent, military command, the army, the municipality, the navy, and the Force for War Victims.

We told them we wanted to go to the war zone.

“Impossible,” they said. “Do you think this a game?”

“Well,” we said, “we’re nurses and we were there before. Besides, the games our boys played kept the enemy from taking Khorramshahr right away.”

Finally, after exhausting every avenue, I said, “Guys, I went to the War Room once. They must remember me. Let’s go there to see if something can be done.”

After repeatedly asking directions, we found the War Room, which was located in one of the military encampments. We were stopped at the door and grilled about what we wanted. “The men in the War Room know me,” I said. “I’ve come to get a pass for the war zone.”

Hearing that, they said, “You’re dreaming. They don’t give out passes to anybody. Go about your business.”

But we were persistent and managed to get in the building. We saw some commandos whom we had run into at the Congregational Mosque inside. They knew me well, especially the two stocky men I had quarreled with at the clinic. Mahmud Farrokhi and Mr. Mesbah had told us not to admit to the clinic anybody without business there. Once when I asked the two men to leave, they started to argue. Afterwards, whenever they saw me and the other girls, we could tell from the way they acted, we weren’t their favorite people. They were part of a squad trained abroad and, very taken by their own military skill, didn’t expect to have run-ins with the likes of us. Unlike the other commandos who went to the front and fought alongside regular soldiers, they stayed behind and went around constantly carping about the war. They declared, “This is an asymmetric conflict and doesn’t conform to any military equation….”

As soon as they saw us, one of them asked, “What are you doing here? Who said you could come in?”

I said, “The men in the War Room know me. I want to get a pass from them.” They chuckled and made cracks. Knowing I was about to ignite, Zohreh Farhadi grabbed my arm and gestured for me not to react. We walked away from the commandos and waited to speak to someone else.

But unlike us, the men wouldn’t let up. Knowing exactly what buttons to press, they began to insult the Imam. They started to mimic the authorities, saying idiotic things to us. The quieter we got the louder and more insulting they became. Pride made it impossible for me to ignore these taunts, especially when it came to Imam Khomeini. They had the nerve to say he had sent the youth of the nation into harm’s way while staying safe in Tehran. I broke the vow I had made to myself not to get into fights with such people and yelled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! Nobody sent us; we took on the enemy’s guns ourselves. What happened is the fault of somebody else.”

The largest and bulkiest of them asked, “What does a bunch of brats like you know about war?”

“These same brats kept the enemy at bay in Khorramshahr for thirty five days,” I said.

“So it did your heart good to last it out, did it? But what’ll you do from now on?”

I said, “If the traitors let them, the boys who’ve made it this far will, with God’s help, stand and fight.”

“What do you mean by ‘if the traitors let them’?” he bellowed.

Provoked now, I said, “It doesn’t take a genius to realize the key to Saddam’s victory over us and the fall of Khorramshahr was our own treachery. Many people from the very top to the lower echelons committed treason.”

Although I tried not to mention any names, he seemed to know whom I had in mind, because he asked angrily, “What are you afraid of? You don’t have the nerve to say what you mean!”

“You’re the chickens, you and your buddies who left when the going got tough. Each one of you found a safe spot where you could hide. I’m not afraid of anything. The biggest traitor to this country is Banisadr.”

“Shut the hell up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You shut the hell up. How dare you insult Imam Khomeini?

Whatever he may be, he’s no traitor. He’s the one who made men of you; otherwise you’d now be just provincial cops doing the bidding of the Americans!”

One of the others shouted, “You’re the traitors! You’re the Hypocrites who are trying to bring down the Revolution. We’re going to hand you over to the desert court. They’ll try and execute the lot of you.”

Shaking with rage, I said, “Don’t waste your breath threatening us with kangaroo courts. What have we done? We’re not the ones who should go on trial!”

They suddenly cocked their Uzis and pointed them at us. It was a strange scene. Seven or eight towering soldiers, well-muscled and imposing, dressed in dark camouflage pants and boots, their caps cocked, and their shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows with colts, bayonets, and canteens hanging from their belts, confronting a handful of young women.

After they barked at us to move, I asked, “Where to? We’re not going with you. We don’t trust you.”

I said this because when they came to the clinic, they would try to get friendly. At that time we behaved in a way that would make them understand we were not interested, nor was the clinic the place for such things.

“If you don’t move, we’ll shoot you right here!” they snarled.

To be continued …