Iranian professor in America narrates story of war

This is the story of Mohammad J. one of my best friends who was killed in Iran-Iraq war. Beside that thin man (me) in the photo, Mohammad is seen.
In Iran, last week was the anniversary of the beginning of war between Iran and Iraq (1980-1988). State media call it “Holy Defense” and cover the event.
In Iran, state narrations about the war are filled with myth-making about what happened those years. These narrations overseas are filled with geopolitics, military and academic discussions. Both do not reveal the realities of the war according to what happened to the soldiers and their families. Although we believe that a hero can be holy, myth-making distances us from real stories regarding epic and self-sacrifice.
The story of the Iranian army soldiers whose main component which forms history is struggle and Iranian contemporary history has not been retold from the viewpoint of those soldiers. I was one of them, one of those soldiers. Many of my friends did not survive to narrate their stories. In this short narration, I want to pay homage to their memory, their self-sacrifice and families.
This is a short narration, a personal one about one of friends who lost his life in a bloody war.
When I went to school, I became familiar with Mohammad. Both of us were members of a football team. It was there where I saw him. He was very strong, had black belt in judo and was very good at football. He was very humorist and humble. We spent most of the times with each other. I had met his families and knew his mother, sister, one of his aunts and his younger brother. We went to restaurants a lot. He loved eating and a clean table.
I and Mohammad were dispatched to army for conscription but we served in different units and fronts. Each one and almost half a month, we went on leave for eight to ten days. Clean shower and orderly bed and being far from dust and insects (apart from mortars and grenades) were valuable things. Moreover, during the days far from the war front, Thursdays was sad days for us, because on this day, the funeral of those who were killed in the war was held.
During my leave, I went to Mohammad’s house to see whether he has come back from front. When I wanted to ring the doorbell of his house, I always waited for a minute because a damned feeling told me that he would be killed one day. I always had this feeling. Whenever I returned to the war front, the first question I asked from my comrades was who was killed when I was on leave? But whenever I rang the doorbell of his house, his mother usually opened the door, and informed me of his place and bravery.
Several months passed. We were still healthy physically and had high morale. We were fully aware of the injury we had inflicted on our parents. Whenever we bid farewell with them to return to the war fronts, we saw sadness on their faces.
But finally the horrible day came. I rang the doorbell, waiting for a few minutes and did again. His mother opened the door. As soon as she saw me, she started weeping, and asked me, “Mehdi, where is my Mohammad? Wasn’t he your closest friend? Why didn’t you take him home? It is not important how resistant you are. But no army in the world can prepare yourself with such events. It breaks you and harms your spirit.
I couldn’t do anything and talk to her even a word. I should go. I left there without saying goodbye. I finished my military service. I had survived. Unlike many of my comrades, I had a good spirit. I left Iran for the United States. When I was at war front, I studied English, preparing myself to study in an American university. In fact it was a way to decrease my sadness. Whenever I came to Iran, I couldn’t go to Mohammad’s house and visit his family. I think I didn’t have enough strength to face with his mother.
In May, I became curious to find out whether any of Mohammad’s family is in Facebook. In found one of his relatives. He connected me to Mohammad’s younger brother who is now a capable lawyer. I sent an e-mail to him, saying that I would come to Iran late May. During my stay in Iran, one night, he came to my parent’s house and went out for dinner together. It was hard for me not because I was facing with a past whose burden was felt on my shoulders, but I was seeing what had happened to their life after these years.
I saw Mohammad in the eyes, smiles and laughing of his brother. For a moment I became happy and for another moment, sad and upset. I did my best not to weep. I asked about his mother. She had passed away as well as his father, aunt and sister. As far as I knew the death of Mohammad was beyond his mother’s tolerance.
Some of my friends had told me that after the death of Mohammad, his mother had written songs for him. One day, I will become brave enough to ask about the poems -the poem of a mother for his very dear son who was killed in the war with many stories.
One of these days, I prepare for the poems, even if it hurts my spirit again.
We can mourn for a death or celebrate a life which is very lovely. My closest friend wants the latter. I celebrate his life.

Translated By: Mohammad Bagher Khoshnevisan