Memories of Monireh Armaghan; Wife of Martyr Mehdi Zainuddin

Adjusted by Fariba Almasi
Translated by Ruhollah Golmoradi

2024-11-27

He said, “We are not in the south anymore, we are going to the west. There is not safe. I can't take you with me. You have to go back to Qom.” We didn't have a house in Qom, I went to my father's house. Later, he called and said, “I’m on the way. Go to my father's house, I will come too.” I remember that night well. His mother had made Fesenjan; Mehdi's favorite food. His father had also bought pomegranates. Among the fruits, Mehdi liked pomegranate very much. After dinner, we gathered together. I was deseeding the pomegranates in the bowl. There was a cold silence. No one was talking. Hajj Khanom (lady) broke the heavy atmosphere of the house. He asked many questions and Mehdi answered them. He spoke in a specific tone. He was not in the usual freshness. He repeated the same words that I had heard before. This time, he said with the lump in his throat, “it’s the time to being died a as martyr.” I answered laughingly, “it’s not mandatory, maybe God doesn't want it.” “No, it is mandatory,” he said more firmly than before. God must want that I become a martyr.” We thought maybe he is upset with something or somebody; none of us took his word seriously. How should we know that he really wants to leave us? How did we know that what he asked from God will be realized?

Early in the morning, before adhan, we went to the shrine. We went on a pilgrimage and after the prayer, we visited the tomb of Martyr Madani. We also went to Sheikhan Rose Garden of Martyrs. I remembered the memories of our engagement day. When we returned home, Mehdi said goodbye and left. Nothing came to my mind; it might be the last time I see him.

We had been living with wives of martyr Hemmat[1] and martyr Bakeri[2] for several weeks; In a house with three rooms that was behind the building of Qom IRGC’s building. In the afternoon of that day, they ordered that, “You must make a delicious Qomi meal for us. We like to know how your cooking is?” In the evening, I was cooking in the kitchen when someone knocked the door and it was Mrs. Torabian[3]. He whispered in Mrs. Bakeri’s ear and left. When the dinner was ready, I laid the table. To my delight, they ate a few bites. They stopped eating and said, “We have no appetite.” We used to watch the news every night, but that night, they unplugged TV. Their behavior was unusual, but since we were not yet very close, I did not ask anything. In the morning, Mrs. Bakeri immediately pulled curtain of her room aside and closed the door. The window of the room overlooked IRGC’s yard. I was slowly suspecting that something had happened. When they saw my suspicious look, they spoke up and said, “Don't panic, they say that Majid, the brother of Mr. Mehdi, has been martyred.” Suddenly, I was transfixed. Majid was the desirable son of the Zeinoddin’s family; Quiet, witty and kind. Just a few weeks ago, he had helped me move the furniture. When they found out my mood changed, they said, “No, we said wrongly, they say he has been injured.” Meanwhile, my sister came. Her eyes were red and her face paled. I realized that the whole story is not what Mrs. Hemmat and Mrs. Bakeri said. He said, “Put on your clothes, we have to go.” I didn't ask why and where for fear of giving me bad news. We went by car to my father's house. At the intersection of Bazar, I saw a big black placard from the car window that congratulated and condoled martyrdom of Mehdi and Majid. I was transfixed. I thought I was dreaming. Declaration of their martyrdom was posted behind the window of my father's shop. Staringly, I looked at photo of Mehdi. I consoled myself that no, Mehdi has not been martyred. In the house, no one shed a single tear. No one said anything. I became speechless. I looked around astoundingly; to my mother, to my father and to Leila. On the way to reach Hajj Agha Zeinoddin's house, I made a thousand dreams; I ended them in a way that Mehdi was alive, while he was breathing, hoping to see him again. Before reaching the house, placards of the photos of Mehdi and Majid were posted next to each other. There, I believed that everything was over. He slept peacefully in the coffin. Just like the young man I saw in my dream before the proposal. I took the Quran out of my purse and put it on his chest. I looked at his face; it shines like the moon. When I asked about the bruises on his face, they said, “It’s a trace of pebbles, he had fallen with his face to the ground.” Mehdi had left Leila and me with all his kindness, laughter and longing; alone, under the rain.[4]