Da (Mother) 112

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-8-26

Da (Mother) 112

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 argument got so heated it made those passing by ask, “Why are you all standing around here? What’s the racket all about? This no place to fight, is it?

A couple of commando friends of the ones confronting us emerged from a room and tried to get their buddies to leave us alone. I heard them say, “What’re they to you? Let’em go.”

But they wouldn’t listen, and the girls for their part kept shouting, “We’re not coming with you!”

An officer emerged from a room and asked irritably, “What’s going on? Why are you standing here shouting like that? Is this the place for that kind of thing?”

One of the commandos said, “We caught a bunch of Hypocrites.”

I said, “You’re the Hypocrites, you lying cowards!”

Another man poked his head out of a door and said, “That’s enough, mister! What’s all the shouting about?”

I rushed forward and said, “Sir, we’ve come here to get a pass for the war zone. We’re medical workers from Khorramshahr. We were there before it fell. All we want is a pass, but these men have been calling us every name in the book.”

The man, his face sober and lined with experience, turned to the commandos and asked, “What’s this all about? What did you say to them?” One of the commandos said, “Sir, they insulted the commander in chief.”

The man, whom I regarded with a mixture of fear and respect, looked at me sideways and asked, “Is that true?”

I didn’t know what to say. I thought: If that’s what the commandos are like, God save us from the commander! What was I thinking bringing the girls here? I wish I hadn’t. Then I had my answer: How long were they going to cover up Banisadr’s treachery. Sooner or later the people will have to find out why Khorramshahr fell. Why must we have to hear from every quarter that we failed? I had heard people in Shiraz blame the refugees for running away. They asked the poor people why they had surrendered their own city to the enemy and then come to their town, causing headaches for everyone. They blamed the refugees were for the disruptions, the long lines. I was fed up with that type of insulting talk. Whatever happens, happens, I told myself. Now if we were to go before a military court, at least I’d have my say, and people would know they executed me for revealing Banisadr as the traitor he was. This was what was going through my mind at that point. After a brief pause and although my heart wasn’t in it, I asked bluntly, “Sir, isn’t Banisadr a traitor?”

That caused an uproar. Every enlisted man and officer surrounded me. My head began to ache horribly, my heart pounded, my lips dried shut, and there was a burning deep in my throat. I worried about what would happen to the other girls. They had backed up what I was saying, and now things were out of hand. They looked terrified. I said to assure myself: These men can’t execute us. They don’t have the authority for that. Besides, we were only saying what we truly believed, so God won’t abandon us. The only thing remaining to be decided was how long the confrontation would last and what the men would do. But what if it kept us from going to the war zone?

While the men continued to rant at us, I caught sight of a man whose calm demeanor marked him from the rest. I got the sense he understood what I had said. He seemed familiar and seeing him calmed me. The next thing I knew, the commander was addressing me. “You mustn’t confuse the issues. What you say is not in the interests of the country.”

“So,” I said, “it’s in the interests of the country for Khorramshahr to fall, but not to say Banisadr is a traitor?”

The words burst the lump in my throat, and tears began to flow. I couldn’t take all the pressure on me. Seeing the state I was in, Ashraf said, “You have no right to treat us like this. You call us traitors when we did everything in our powers to resist. This woman you are attacking buried her father and brother with her own two hands. She was wounded badly and is just out of the hospital.”

The commander changed his tone after hearing that and said gently, “God have mercy on all the martyrs. We know what happened in Khorramshahr, but we still have to maintain unity. We can’t say things the enemy will misuse.”

“Why don’t you tell your own soldiers this?” I said through my tears. “When they stand here and insult Imam Khomeini and the authorities, doesn’t that undermine unity? I’m just saying what Jahan Ara has said. He wanted to let people know how Khorramshahr and its youth were victimized. Wherever he goes, he tells the same story. You’re the commander of these men, but my commander is Jahan Ara; I follow his orders.”

With that Ashraf, Zohreh, Sabah, and Leila burst into tears. This apparently cooled the situation, and the men stopped yelling.

The calm face in the crowd belonged to a man in khaki with a spark in his eyes that shone through his glasses. He came forward and asked with a smile, “How long were you in Khorramshahr, sisters?”

“Almost to the end,” we said.

“Were you with them?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Then when did you leave?” he asked.

“Around the beginning of November.”

“Were you wounded?”

“Yes, on the day of the battle at the customs building.”

There was a odd look in his eyes, a mixture of pride and exultation. He said, “Bravo! You have done the Imam proud, but for now you should be with your families. The war’s going better; it would be best for you not to be in the zone.”

The girls said, “We’d rather be back in our own city helping in any way we can to win the war. Our families know all about what we’re doing.”

He said, “May God reward you. You’ve shown true devotion. Your fighting spirit will strengthen our resolve. You’re needed here; there’s a lot of work to be done, work that is often more important than what’s being done at the front.”

Then he turned to the rest and said, “These women are our dear sisters. Let them return to their homes.”

The man’s magnetic gaze and the serenity in his voice left a deep impression on me. I believe the other girls felt the same way. His works caused the commandos, who had been silenced, to look to their chief. They were waiting to see how he would react. Finally he said, “Men, you’re dismissed.”

Then he addressed us. “Both the men and I are fully aware what’s happened, but in order to keep the enemy from taking advantage of any show of disunity, we can’t say anything.”

Fed up with this passive attitude, I turned to the girls and, without raising my voice, I grumbled, “We’ll do what Jahan Ara says and won’t bother with what these men think. Let’s go.”

The commander, who realized our silence meant we disagreed with him, said goodbye and left. The men dispersed, talking among themselves. I thanked the man with the friendly face, who was still watching us protectively and asked him about a pass. He said, “It’s not possible now. Besides, we have more than enough medical help. The hospitals are active, and there aren’t that many wounded. The enemy has taken up positions on the other side of the water, while we have stationed men along the lines. As long as there are no serious plans for operations, things will stay quiet. The enemy attack has stalled. We’ve got them stymied.”

We said goodbye and walked past the commandos with our heads held high. The way they stood seemed to say: See, we made you cry after all. We stormed out of the building and were very put out, leaving empty-handed. Catching our breath, our nerves kept us from speaking, but we soon all broke into laughter. As we laughed, I looked at the red and swollen eyes of the girls. Zohreh said, “God knows what would have happened if they had taken us away! They’re real heathens!”

“We shouldn’t have cried,” Sabah said. “It let them think they could bully us.” Despite the pessimism, we felt good we hadn’t backed down and had said what needed saying. Then one of the girls shouted, “Thank God for Chamran!”

“That was actually Chamran?” I asked in astonishment.

“Yeah,” she said. “Where were you? Didn’t you hear them calling him Dr. Chamran several times?”

“No. I didn’t notice. I don’t know why.”

I knew Dr. Chamran was the Imam’s representative on the Supreme Defense Council. Whenever I heard his name or saw his face on TV, it caught my attention. It was good to have actually seen him in person. I felt he understood everything I had said.

After walking a bit, we decided to go to the jetty at Mahshahr. We had heard there were launches taking people to Abadan there. There were also helicopters ferrying fresh forces to the front and the wounded back from it. We caught a ride part way with a pickup heading for the refinery. Now it was around 5:00 p.m. and we were hungry, so we decided to take a short cut.

We left the road and soon got lost. There was nothing to mark the path but the occasional oil pump or pipeline. We were so tired and hungry continuing seemed impossible, but the worse thing was the heat. Sweat poured down our faces. The scorching ground made it even hotter. Water from the seasonal rains had gathered in places but quickly evaporated into salt flats under the brutal sun. We were soon knee-deep in the swampy terrain. We laughed our heads off as we tried to pull one another from the mud and slime. Towering over the rest of us, Sabah should have been more help, but she was laughing so hard she was useless. The girls complained, “Here we are going through hell trying to get back to the front on our own while the army has to use force to get boys to go.”

The jetty gradually came into view. When we saw the tall masts of boats docked there, we gladly spent what we had left running to them. There was a large open area along the jetty strewn with crates filled with bundles of clothing and other goods. Blue barrels sealed with wire were stacked neatly in another part. A collection of stackers and lifts were moving the crates and barrels. Several ships and launches were moored by the jetty. To get inside the area we passed through a number of checkpoints. When we said we wanted to go to Abadan, no one barred our way.

Two air force helicopters stood in another part of the area. One of them took off as we entered, raising clouds of dust and debris. Not knowing where to go or whom to ask about a pass, we stood by like little children gaping as people and machines went back and forth.

It wasn’t long before a pickup appeared carrying commandos we knew from the Congregational Mosque and the clinic. Among them was Yaddi, the son-in-law of Maryam, my coworker at Jannatabad. I walked up to them and said hello. The way they reacted showed that the sight of some girls standing by the jetty had wounded their manly pride. “What are you doing here all by yourselves?” they asked.

“We’ve come to see if somebody would take us to Abadan.”

“Don’t you think you’ve done your bit? Why don’t you go home and let the rest of us get on with our jobs?”

“We still want to do more at the front, help the defenders, aid the wounded. We don’t feel right staying behind,” I said.

“They won’t let you go to Abadan without a pass, you know,” they said.

“What should we do? We’ve tried to get one at the War Room, but it almost landed us in jail.”

“You’re determined to go, then? You won’t change your minds?”

“No.”

After a pause, Yaddi, who was doing most of the talking, said, “Tomorrow we’re going to try to get to Abadan ourselves. If we can arrange a pass for you, we’ll let you know. Go back to the camp and wait.”

Missing Zeynab terribly, I asked Yaddi, “Any news of Zeynab?”

“No,” he said.

I asked him about Maryam, his mother-in-law. He said, “We got her out. She’s with us.”

To be continued …