Da (Mother) 142

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2025-3-22

Da (Mother) 142

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

***

After various other incidents and things I can’t speak about for lack of space, the war finally ended in August 1988. Nevertheless, Habib, because of his specialty, had to stay on in the region. The children were growing up, and their problems were multiplying. They had reached school age. All responsibilities for raising them fell on my shoulders. In those years people needed coupons to buy kerosene. Without coupons it was so expensive that buying it on the black market didn’t pay. The kerosene truck would come to our door and people lined up, making sure to use their coupons before they expired. It was always torture for me to carry the kerosene cans or gas canisters up the stairs. The higher one lived in the building, the more difficult life was. This was what made living on the lower floors so desirable.

While we were at the Kushk Building, grandfather, who had left Khorramabad and was living in Darreh Shahr, visited several times. He was always dressed the same way: the dishdasha with the dark sash around his waist, the cloak on his shoulders, and the turban on his head. The turban came off only when he worked, but he never removed his skullcap. He believed that Seyyeds had to preserve the dignity associated with being related to the Prophet Mohammad. He would always remind us to pay the proper respect to other Seyyeds. The first time he visited us in the building Abdollah was three. He came early in the morning and immediately went to mother’s room. Abdollah usually woke early and tried to find his grandfather. As soon as he saw grandfather, he ran back, opened our door and, said in his childish voice, “Mom, come quick! Imam Khomeini’s in our house!” Startled, I ran to mother’s room and saw grandfather there.

When grandfather came to Tehran, he would spend some time with us and some with Uncle Hoseyni. At that point Uncle Hoseyni’s son-in-law, who had never met grandfather, was staying with him. His son-in-law was under the impression from the way the kids called him “Papa” that he was an enlightened man of sorts, educated in Europe, and would appear in a suit, holding a Samsonite briefcase. He asked the children where grandfather came from. When they said “Darreh Shahr,” he asked, “Where is that?”

They said, “In Elam Province.”

Then the children shouted, “Grandfather’s here! He’s here!”

“Where?” asked the son-in-law.

After they pointed to him, he said, “Huh? Him? He looks like a cleric. I thought he’d be something else.”

They explained to him that “Papa” was not a European word, that it meant “grandfather.” Grandfather’s briefcase was a saddlebag brought from Iraq holding the scissors he used to trim his beard, a nail clipper, a toothbrush, and his radio. His morning routine was to give the call to prayer, pray, and then listen to the news of the war on the radio.

About two months before he passed away, grandfather came to our house. By that time mother had moved away, and this was the first time I welcomed him in my own home. I tried to be the perfect hostess. I bought a plastic ewer for him so he could do his ablutions without having to trek to the bathroom. Often, when he saw me, grandfather would exclaim, “Lioness!” or something like that, and then say a benediction for me. I had heard he saw Habib from time to time, and would say to him, “I hope you appreciate what a woman you’ve married.”

Grandfather went to mother’s place a few days later. I got the kids and joined him there for the few days he would be in town. The kids really love their grandfather. Grandfather was not well during what would be his last visit to the city. Uncle Hoseyni brought him to the doctor for a checkup. His heart, lungs, kidneys, and the rest of his body were fine. It was just that old age had caught up with him, and he needed my help to do certain things like wash his clothes and fetch water for his ablutions. He would always thank me, saying, “I hope I can make it up to you some day.” “Grandpa, the little I do you for you doesn’t begin to cover the thousands of things you have done for us.”

Because there was this feeling we might be seeing grandfather for the last time, those days were very special to us, never to be repeated. He insisted on returning to Darreh Shahr, where Mimi and Uncle Nad Ali and his family had gone after the Iraqis fired missiles at Abadan. Uncle Salim and Aunt Salimeh joined them there later on. Darreh Shahr had been a sleepy little village before the refugees came, but with the influx of people the city grew and a mosque and a hospital were built.[1]

In the beginning they housed the refugees in half-built homes that had been constructed for foreigners. Some of these structures didn’t even have roofs, only brick walls rising from dirt lots. Families from Dehliran, Mehran, Elam, Khorramshahr, and Abadan found refuge there. Prior to my family moving there, I had never heard of the place.[2]

After the refugees settled there, the enemy turned their sights on Darreh Shahr. A popular slogan after the bombardments was: “Darreh Shahr has been lost, but it’s still on the map.”

Grandfather spent a pleasant month in Tehran. Uncle Hoseyni, who was a kind of adopted child for him, saw to his every need, and grandfather would say in appreciation, “Thank God, there’s still honor among families these days.” He remained generous and gallant to his dying day. His sons tried to make sure he was well dressed, buying him new coats, pants, and shoes, but he preferred his old clothing and would give away the new things to the needy. Uncle Hoseyni would ask him, “What makes you hand over the clothes we buy you to others?

Say the word, and we’ll buy things just for them.”

“No, they have their pride,” he would say, “and don’t want to lose face.”

As a child in Basra, I saw him do the same thing. He returned home one winter night, having given his clothing away. Mimi got upset and scolded him, “You’re going to get sick, old fool! You could have kept wearing a stitch or two until you got home!”

Grandfather passed away in August 1982, two months after his last visit. He was buried according to his wishes in the Imamzadeh Ebrahim cemetery located in the lush hills of Dehliran. He never returned to Khorramabad after the liberation. I think he couldn’t bear to visit the graves of father and Ali. He could never accept that they were actually gone. Whenever we invited him, he declined but would recite this poem in Luri instead:

A dark cloud has blackened the sky

Who has lived to see a son and father die?

End of Chapter Thirty-Nine

To be continued …

[1] The husband of Aunt Salimeh, whom we called Uncle Abbas, became the caretaker of the mosque.

[2] Darreh Shahr, known to the ancients as Madakto, was an important city and capital during the Elamite Period (3^rd millennium BC). Recent excavations attest to the presence of a highly developed civilization. The present city is 110 kilometers from Andimeshk, near Pol-e Dokhtar. It is situated in a beautiful valley bounded by the Kabir Kuh foothills and the Saymareh River.