Da (Mother) 123

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-11-10

Da (Mother) 123

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

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Thirty-One: Move to Tehran

Early one morning in December 1980, Uncle Hoseyni came by to bring Leila and me to Sar Bandar to buy chador material. He returned us to camp while he went to Mahshahr, where Mr. Bahramzadeh’s wife was to tailor chadors for us. During the last months we didn’t have the wherewithal to buy chadors. That night uncle returned with them and said, “Gather your things. We’re leaving first thing tomorrow. Before we go to Tehran, we’ll go to the Molavi Camp to see your grandparents.” Aware of how upset we were to leave the region, uncle said to us, “You have to consider your sister and brothers. Camp life makes no sense for them. What crime did they commit to have to grow up in such a place?”

He was right. I was very worried about the children myself. Father had entrusted them to me, and, to keep an eye on them, I would bring them to the clinic while I worked. Mansur was an adolescent, and the chances of him going astray in that environment were great. I stuck Sa’id, Hasan, and Zeynab in a corner while I worked. My colleagues and I kept them busy with little chores. Hasan was very mischievous. I had to watch him like an eagle in case he did something that would get him thrown out of the clinic.

Unable to go against uncle’s wishes, but scowling in protest just the same, we left for the city. Leila and I were despondent, sitting next to each other on the bus. We got underway late in the afternoon. Our first stop was the Molavi Camp. Located between Pol-e Dokhtar and Khorramabad, it was a broad explanse along the river, which had been leveled by bulldozers. Refugees were housed in two facing rows of tents. Everybody was gathered there waiting when we arrived: Uncle Nad Ali, grandfather, Aunt Salimeh, my father’s cousins, and the family of uncle’s wife. We were overjoyed to see one another. The day was devoted to eating and talk—mostly about what was happening in Khorramshahr and how father was martyred. We stayed up all night discussing these things.

Uncle Hoseyni had heard about Ali’s death from Uncle Nad Ali and that same night told grandfather about it. Grandfather cried in his tent until morning. Besides Uncles Salim and Nad Ali, no one else knew about Ali; the others thought Uncle Hoseyni was mourning the death of father. Mother stayed the night in Uncle Hoseyni’s tent, while I spent the night with Uncle Nad Ali, his wife, and Aunt Salimeh. The camp assigned each family a tent with enough room for four to six people. Uncle Hoseyni’s tent was near the entrance to the camp. Four tents down the line was Nad Ali’s tent, and next to that was the one assigned to grandfather. Because the refugees arrived with nothing to their names, the camp supplied them with basic things like blankets, utensils, and a kerosene lantern and stove.

Early the next morning around 5:00 a.m. grandfather’s mournful voice sounded the call to prayer. The way he said “I affirm there is no God but Allah” you’d think he was complaining to the Almighty. Grandfather’s grief-stricken voice during the wee hours of the morning brought all of us from our tents. Uncle Hoseyni’s wife said, “I think my husband told grandfather about Ali.” That was when I realized grandfather had known about Ali but kept it to himself the whole night mother was with him. Having finished his strained call to prayer, grandfather gave a full-throated recitation of how the Prophet’s grandson Hoseyn was martyred at noon on the tenth of Moharram. Grandfather’s voice, normally calm yet firm, rose with the mention of every calamity. He recounted the names of each of Hoseyn’s companions and how they were martyred on the battlefield. He also described what Hoseyn’s sister Zeynab did. We stood outside the tents crying. We didn’t know how grandfather was going to tell mother about Ali’s death. Mother thought he was giving the recital in honor of father’s martyrdom. When he got to part describing the martyrdom of Ali Akbar, Hoseyn’s older son, he recited beautifully, “When Ali Akbar was martyred, Imam Hoseyn’s back bowed.” Immediately after that he said, “The revered Imam Ali, Hoseyn’s father, was martyred like Ali Akbar.” Mother realized what he meant and she immediately broke into an anguished wail, bringing all the neighbors from their tents. Suddenly a crowd gathered around grandfather’s tent. I went inside the tent. As soon as she saw me, mother turned white. She shrieked and then fainted. When she opened her eyes, she asked me, “Why didn’t you tell me? The whole time why didn’t you say something?”

She glared at me and raved and ranted so furiously I couldn’t take it and left. The moment I had been dreading had finally come. I went off to say my morning prayers. Grandfather stood in prayer, while the rest of the relatives and the neighbors moaned and wept. Uncle Hoseyni urged them to get up and say their prayers.

With this the crowd went to pray. After prayers, uncle’s wife prepared breakfast, but no one could stop crying long enough to eat. For my part, it was as though I was hearing the news afresh; the searing wound caused by Ali’s death had not healed after all this time. Each day I woke knowing father and Ali were gone, there would be the same old grief and anguish.

Now two things tormenting mother: the death of Ali and my having kept her in the dark about it. She kept saying, “Ali had been dead for four months, and I didn’t know it! Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie?”

She stared at me, fuming. All of a sudden she yanked a hefty limb from a tree that had fallen nearby and began to beat herself over the head with it. This opened a gaping wound on her scalp, which bled and bled. One of the nurses from Khorramabad, who helped at the clinic, came to grandfather’s tent, but no matter how hard she tried to stitch the gash she couldn’t get it to stop bleeding. Wracked with grief, mother wouldn’t lie still. Her hair became blood-soaked. I saw it was no use, but we couldn’t just leave her on her own—she might have bled to death. I knew I had to do something. I got down and sat on her shoulders, pinning her arms with my legs. Then I quickly shaved the hair around the gash and, without an anesthetic, I started to sew it up. Mother tried to buck free, leaving me with no choice but to work even faster on the wound. I poured disinfectant over it. My hands were shaking but there was nothing I could do about that. I was very worried about her. Zeynab stood by watching in terror and sobbing. Sa’id and Hasan were in shock. In the end I managed to put five stitches in her scalp. I covered them with a large piece of gauze and tied a scarf around her head. During those frantic moments, I wasn’t aware of what I was doing; it all happened so fast. Mother was unconscious from the loss of blood, but uncle’s wife forced sugar water into her mouth, while I gave her a fortifying shot of vitamin B12.

Uncle Hoseyni had previously told others in our families living in Darreh Shahr and Zarrinabad about Ali and invited them to the Molavi Camp for the bereavement. They arrived around noon and began the special ceremonies the Kurds use to mourn the dead. They all sat around keening, reciting elegies, and crying. Some mourners raised their voices in piercing, solo laments, which the others repeated. Women were beside themselves, clawing at their faces. The residents of the camp joined us in mourning Ali.

Uncle Hoseyni went to a roadside restaurant near Pol-e Dokhtar to arrange lunch. Two cooks from the place brought the fixings for kabob, and the women provided the greens. The relatives from Darreh Shahr and Zarrinabad went back to their homes that afternoon.

During the week we spent at the camp, groups of family members, having learned about Ali, kept coming and going,. Camp people also visited us regularly to mourn. Officials helped with conducting the ceremonies. Despite the many expressions of sympathy and the mourning rites, grandfather remained inconsolable. He dearly loved Ali and was stricken by his passing. Ali was his favorite. During the mourning period, he kept repeating: “I swear there is no God” and “God is great.” Time and time again we heard him ask why he head lived long enough to see both Seyyed Ali and Seyyed Hoseyn dead.

Then he would take me in his arms and kiss my head, saying, “You were so brave, my girl, to take on such a heavy burden! You’re an honest to God lioness! You honored our family,” which was his way of comforting me. Grandmother was upset beyond words. Both she and mother lost the will to go on. Mother was now totally broken, visibly older. With this going on, Zeynab—no more than five at the time—was passed from woman to woman, who caressed and kissed her. Sa’id, however, came and sat by me in a quiet, pitiful state. When I got up he would follow me. Adding to our anxieties, Uncle Salim was called up to fight at the Allah Akbar hills.[1] With the week of mourning over uncle told us to get ready to go to Tehran. Saying goodbye was not easy, given the critical state of the country. It wasn’t likely we would see one another again.

Tearfully we left grandfather, grandmother, and the others and went to Khorramabad. From there we got a bus to Tehran. In those days some bus drivers were overcharging for trips to Tehran, forcing people to haggle with them over the fare.

We arrived in Tehran in the late afternoon. Leila had been in the city before and had been given a letter from the Martyrs Foundation with the address of where we had to go. She had lost it, however, and couldn’t remember exactly where it was. All she recalled was “it faced a square”!

Thank God she remembered the name of the avenue. After asking several people, we found the place. With our bundles in tow we walked from Artillery Square to Ferdowsi, and then we backtracked to Manuchehri Avenue. We asked passersby where Kushk Avenue was, but no one knew.

Though it was dark by then, we managed to find the place. Having seen the building once before, Leila recognized it. There was a guard stationed at the entrance. Uncle explained to him why we were there, and the guard contacted the Martyrs Foundation, after which he let us in. He led us to a series of connecting rooms at the end of a hallway and, pointing to one, said, “This is yours.”

The seven-story Kushk Building previously housed the Bureau of Budget and Planning and had many interconnecting rooms. The building from top to bottom was filthy with smoke and grime. The rooms were carpeted. The heaters—except for the one in our room—worked, and there was hot water. We wanted to clean the room but lacked supplies. We didn’t bring any of the things they had given us at the camp—only the necessities. Uncle borrowed a broom and dustpan from the room opposite ours and got to work himself. Knowing Leila and I still resented having to come to Tehran, he did everything he could to make us happy. Eventually we joined in and cleaned the walls. The room was freezing, so cold our teeth chattered. “What are we going to do without blankets and floor cushions?” we asked uncle.

“Nothing’s open now,” he said. “Let’s go get some supper and see what happens.” Uncle and Mohsen went to get flatbread and kabobs. It was the first time I had the flatbread called “barbari.” We were tired and hungry and ate a lot, but there was still the brutal chill. The wall facing the street was all glass, which allowed the cold to penetrate the room. Uncle went to the neighbors across the hall asking if they any spare blankets to keep the children from freezing.

A woman named Khorrami, who lived in the building with her husband, gave us a thick covering used for the low heated tables people sat around during winter months, two blankets, and some cushions. We spread one of the blankets on the floor, and everybody but uncle slept on that. Then we crawled under the thick covering. Uncle made do with the other blanket. Even though the covering was large enough for everybody, we pulled and tugged at it all night. The children slept between us; because we were afraid they get uncovered and catch cold. In the morning we joked it was a good thing our struggles with the blanket hadn’t ruined it. Uncle said he and Mohsen would go back to Sar Bandar to fetch our belongings. Leila and I kept on badgering him about being shanghaied to Tehran. What we were supposed to do, we asked, if the children got sick?

To be continued …