An Excerpt from the Narratives of Andimeshk Women on Washing Clothes During the Sacred Defense

The Last Day of Summer, 1980

Narrator: Tajmah Asadi Boneh
Selected by Faezeh Sasanikhah
Translated by Kianoush Borzouei

2024-9-24

We had livestock. We would move between summer and winter pastures. I was alone in managing everything: tending to the herd and overseeing my children’s education. I purchased a house in the city for the children and hired a shepherd to watch over the animals, bringing them near the Karkheh River. Alongside other herders, we pitched tents. I had six sons and four daughters. Whenever they weren’t busy with their studies, the children helped tend to the animals. I traveled between the city and Karkheh two or three times a week. We would walk for about half an hour to reach the Dezful-Andimeshk highway and then take a vehicle into the city. My children worked alongside me, and thank God, we had seventy or eighty sheep, a few cows, and some donkeys and mules. Our life was simple but peaceful. On the last day of summer in 1980, Saddam shattered that peace; a rocket struck directly in the middle of our house. Two rooms collapsed. Praise be to God, the children were unharmed. We gathered what we could from the wreckage and went to join the livestock.

We lived under a tent, without electricity or running water. I fetched water from the Karkheh River in jerry cans. The war grew fiercer by the day, and the ground shook at night from the sound of tanks and artillery, as if it were an earthquake. The younger children screamed at the sound of shellfire, running to throw themselves into the arms of the older ones. Our black tent was near the Dezful-Andimeshk highway, right along the soldiers' route. Whenever I saw them, I invited them into the tent and cooked for them. After a few days, the fields next to ours became a place for the troops to settle, where they pitched their tents. They repeatedly told us, “This place isn’t safe. You should leave.” Only the turbulent Karkheh River separated us from the Iraqis.

Finally, after the soldiers insisted enough, we packed up and moved to the village of Khalkhali. Once again, we pitched our tents and set up pens for the livestock, a few kilometers further from Karkheh. That too became a shelter for the soldiers. They came in groups, staying under the tents, leaving at night for the front lines. I would bake thin flatbread and bring it to them with yogurt and butter. One morning, as usual, I finished my chores early. I prepared the fire and pan, baking thin, paper-like soft bread. I stacked seventy or eighty loaves into a sack. The buttermilk was cool and refreshing, and the scent of fiale, a mountain herb that the children would gather while grazing the flock, filled the air with vitality. I always flavored the buttermilk with fiale to enhance its taste. I poured the buttermilk into a jug, slung the sack over my shoulder, and grabbed the jug. After years of hard, manly labor, neither the sack nor the jug felt heavy to me.

There was more commotion around the tents than usual. Two of the young men who knew me approached from afar, saying, “Mother, you’re going through all this trouble again!”
I smiled and replied, “May it nourish you.” They took the items from my hands, and I turned to head back. On my way, I saw teenagers sitting in the sun by the water channel, with a pile of dirty clothes beside them. My heart ached for them. I went home, grabbed two packets of detergent and soap, and returned to them. I said, “Just because your mother isn’t here doesn’t mean I’m dead, so why are you washing your own clothes?”

I sat down, grabbed one of the clothes, and started washing it. Embarrassed, they hung their heads low. They protested, saying, “No, Mother, these are sweaty and dusty. We’ll wash them ourselves.” I replied, “Son, you came here to fight, not to wash clothes. By the time you finish your meal, I’ll have washed them all.” I took the clothes from them and sent them away. The channel was about a meter deep, with water flowing from the Dez Dam in Andimeshk—crystal clear and swift. It sustained many of the villages and farms, and during the war, it was vital to the soldiers. The clothes were dusty and green. One by one, I soaked them, applied detergent, and washed them. An hour later, they returned with smiles, their heads still low. They thanked me and took the clean clothes. I felt as though I was soaring. It was a small act of kindness to ensure the soldiers didn’t feel like strangers and didn’t miss their families too much. They were mere youths, and I stood in as a mother to them.

We remained in the village through winter. One stormy night, I feared that the lightning would strike the tent and set it ablaze. The dogs’ barking made me anxious about wolves attacking the flock. My eldest son and I stayed outside the tent in the rain, scanning the surroundings with a flashlight. The rain had subsided, but the lightning persisted. Suddenly, someone called out, “Is the owner of the house here?”
I replied, “Yes.”
He asked, “Who is the head of this place?” I pointed the flashlight toward him, scanning him from head to toe. His green uniform caught my eye, and I realized he was a soldier. I sensed he was unfamiliar with the area and didn’t realize he had reached near the soldiers’ camp. I thought to myself, I won’t let him go anywhere in this storm. I quickly said, “You’re in the right place.”
As I looked more closely, I saw that he wasn’t alone. There were sixty or seventy of them. I wasn’t worried about space, as I always pitched large tents side by side. I couldn’t stand cramped spaces. One of them, likely the commander, asked, “Where is your husband?” For a moment, I considered telling him the truth—that my husband had passed away—thinking that if I did, he wouldn’t feel right taking our food and would lead the soldiers elsewhere. Instead, I said, “He’s feeling unwell and is resting.”

I wanted to slaughter a sheep for them, but it was impossible in the darkness and rain. I filled a large pot with water and set it on the stove. When it boiled, I added a bowl of tea leaves and served it with cups and some sugar. The neighboring tents were nearby, so I sent my son to gather bread from them. We prepared two large pots of yogurt and flatbread. Since I didn’t have many dishes, two or three men shared each bowl. They slept under the tent afterward. In the morning, I told them, “My husband passed away, but I didn’t tell you last night so that you would stay here.” They offered many prayers for me and my children. One of them tied a white cloth to the corner of the tent. They told me they were from Tabriz before they left.

I didn’t know why they had tied the cloth to the tent, but for months I kept my eyes on it, praying for their safety. I didn’t know whether they were alive or had been martyred. One day, a pickup truck pulled up in front of the tent. The soldier’s voice was familiar. I went to greet him. He said, “Mother, we brought some supplies for you.”
I replied, “Son, I’ve been thinking about you all. Where are your friends? You’re most welcome.”
He answered, “We were engaged in operations. The boys sent these supplies for you.” There was sugar, tea, rice, and more. I said, “First, tell me where this came from. Second, we would give our lives for the soldiers, so take these supplies back to the frontlines.”
He insisted, saying, “Mother, these are gifts from the boys to you. We’d be upset if you didn’t accept them.”

Seeing no other option, I accepted. I called the women of the village and distributed the supplies among them, taking the least for myself. But I was overjoyed, for my home had been blessed by the soldiers' gifts.

Every morning, after finishing my chores, I would grab soap and detergent and head to the water channel. With great insistence, I would take the soldiers' blankets and clothes, washing them until Khorramshahr was liberated, and gradually, the soldiers moved further forward. I missed them dearly. My sons, Abdolreza and Hojjatollah, had gone to the front lines for two or three months. I asked an acquaintance with a pickup truck, “Would you take us to Khorramshahr with some supplies?”
He agreed. The villagers helped fill the truck with bread and food. Under the pretense of delivering supplies, I hoped to see my own sons.

Upon reaching the outskirts of the city, I distributed the goods among the soldiers but didn’t see my boys and returned home.

I arranged Abdolreza’s marriage, but he stayed with me. At the end of winter in 1985, he wanted to return to the front. I wished he would stay with me for the New Year, but I didn’t express it aloud. Before he left, I told him, “Invite your friends over for dinner.” Many of his friends were fellow soldiers. I slaughtered two lambs and made kebabs for them, inviting the neighbors as well.

The next day, Abdolreza left for the front. Just two days later, he was martyred in the Badr Operation. His martyrdom made me more deeply aware of the soldiers' sacrifices, and I sent more provisions to them, saying, “Not all my children have been martyred. The remaining soldiers are like my own children.” My other son, Mohammadreza, also became a victim of chemical warfare shortly thereafter.[1]

I withheld bread from my own children, giving it instead to the soldiers. They were like my own children. Five years after the war, I was still deeply involved. On the 10th of March, 1994, my sons Hojjatollah and Gholamreza were martyred when they stepped on a mine while taking the herd to graze in the mountains near Karkheh. Losing my children was incredibly painful, but whenever I felt overwhelmed with grief, I remembered the young men who washed their clothes by the river, far from their mothers, smiling as they prepared to return to the front lines, never to come back.[2]