Seyyed of Quarters 15 (37)

Memories of Iranian Released POW, Seyyed Jamal Setarehdan

2017-7-12

Seyyed of Quarters 15

Memories of Iranian Released POW, Seyyed Jamal Setarehdan

Edited and Compiled by: Sassan Nateq

Tehran, Sooreh Mehr Publications Company

‎2016 (Persian Version)‎

Translated by: Zahra Hosseinian

The same day we entered Iranian territory through Khosravi border. Fifty or sixty tents had been set up for prisoners to be settled and quarantined. We stayed there for three days. Shamkhani also came by helicopter to visit POWs. In these three days, some of POWs wanted to punish those who had spied for Iraqis. During their captivity, some of POWs had to endure great hardships by spy’s information, and therefore they wanted to punish them. They kicked up a row. Along with a few of my friends, I tried to stop their fighting, but we heard a number of them have come to blows with some spies and informant.

All POWs filled a form in which asked about their personal information and duration of their captivity as well as other requested information. One of officers who was in charge of registration, gave me another form and asked me to fill it out. This form was for those who somehow monitored other POWs’ actions during captivity, or helped them in ideological matters and was so-called outstanding. A few of POWs had said that Seyyed had done so and so during captivity and written my name in their form. I heard a number of MKO forces also were identified and pulled out among POWs. During exchanging prisoners, Iraqis had scattered them among the prisoners of camps, so that to be unknown; but they were known by acuteness of POWs.

On 10^th September, we got on bus and moved on. Several people ran after the bus. They jumped up and down to be able to see inside the bus through glasses. They were looking for their missing. Suddenly, I saw a man grabbed the edge of moving bus window, entered his torso, and began looking inside. I knew him. He was Ali Ashraf Nazarabadi, commander of branch-3 company-2, whom I had given him my shirt to hand over my parents if I captured or killed. An old man with the white beard had held his legs in his arms not to fall. "Sergeant major, sergeant major." I shouted.

I hugged him and greeted. "Let’s leave it alone. I have a question for you a few years, what happened that night?" Nazarabadi said.

"It’s a long story." I said.

I explained for him. The old man let go his legs and Nazarabadi pulled his torso out of bus. We had not gained distanced, when a man got on.

• Has anybody seen Akbar Karami?

I beckoned him. He said he is Akbar Karami's brother. I told him the story of sending him to the camp of commanders and he got off.

We were taken to Kermanshah and kept there for three days to be examined in terms of health and disease. During captivity, our stomach had been accustomed to a little food. Some did not pay attention and got into trouble and transferred to the emergency, with the slightest gluttony.

The POWs of each province separated and me and some POWs went Tabriz by plane. Radio reporters came and talked with the POWs in airport lounge. I was interviewed too. I told them my personal information. I was asked about my feeling. Those moments I did not understand what I said. As soon as they arrived, everybody embraced us and kissed our head and face. People’s happiness was indescribable. Comfit and candies were distributed and flowers were thrown over the POWs’ head. Their laugh and cry had been mixed. That day, all the Iranian were parents and brother and sister of POWs. We got on bus in Tabriz. We passed Nir County, where a Peykan sounded horn for bus driver. The driver stopped the bus. Two people got out Peykan and got on the bus. They were my paternal aunt’s husband and son. They shed tears of joy. They put their arms around my neck and asked to drive me. I wanted them to get off the bus and told that I would see them in Ardabil.

A number of people followed right behind the bus by car and motorcycle. They turned on their car headlights and sounded horn, as if they accompany a wedding car. A big crowd were cheering at the margins of roads. In the afternoon, we reached in front of prayer grounds. A man jumped up and down beside the bus and screamed, "Jamal ... Jamal."

I did not recognize him. I said to my neighbor, "it seems he called you."

"He calls you." He looked at him and said.

When I looked at him carefully, knew him. He was my cousin, Shapur. Ayatollah Moravej, the leader of Friday prayers of Ardebil, also had come to welcome us. I got off the bus. I saw my parents and brother. We embraced each other. My brother said: "When Radio Tabriz interviewed with you, we heard."

It was very crowded and everyone tried to draw the POWs on their own side. On that to-and-fro struggle, one shoe of my canvas shoes was put off. Along with my father, mother, brother and cousin got into a car and went home.

My little brother, Javid, along with my nephews and nieces ran toward me. I didn’t see Hamed, the son of my brother Jaber, among them. Hamed was three years old when I was captured. I intuited something has happened. When I hugged my little brother, asked him calmly: "where is Hamed? Where does he sleep?"

"There… inside a grave!" He suddenly replied.

I got upset. When I asked about it, they explained that he fell into a big pot in which rice and water was boiling and has died because of serious burnings. I didn’t see my grandparents too. As I guessed, both of them had been passed away with little distance in 1989. I had made a vow to kiss my parents’ foot when I got home. "Forgive me to get up." I fell over my mother’s foot and said.

As I said this, all the people who were there burst into tears. My mother had the same vow, but I did not allow her to bend and kissed her hands. All acquaintances and strangers were happy. One of my folks sacrificed a sheep in front of me. One of neighbors’ wife scattered a lot of chocolate over people’s head and the young whistled and clapped.

There was not enough room for everyone to sit down. All people who had stood or sat down, congratulated each other. When I looked at everyone’s face, I saw all were laughing and rejoicing. It was not clear who is host and who is guest. That day, it was like all people were brother, sister or parents of each other. Davood Jalaee[1], one of our family acquaintances, gave me a gift-wrapped thing and said: "there you are! This gift is for you."

Opening it, I saw it is my missing canvas shoe. "This is the best gift for me, because it’s a memento of captivity years." I said.

The next day, Dr. Jalaee came to visit me. "Try to eat less a few days, so that your stomach and intestines get into habit of new conditions." He advised me.

When lunching, I ate a little in front of doctor. "It’s fine." the doctor said.

While I had ate, but felt hungry. After doctor left, I went to the kitchen and had some other morsel of food, but my stomach gave me a sharp pain. An old woman came to our house. "This is my son." She showed me a photo and asked, "We don’t hear anything about him and he’s missed. Haven’t you seen him?"

I looked at the photo carefully, but had not seen him during my captivity. The woman got up. "You’re like my son." She kissed my shoulder and said.

Two or three days we always had guests. The thing got me upset was that I could not do anything for those who looked for their husband, son or brother. They came and sadly went to ask other POWs, hoping to hear about their missing.

To be continued…