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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.

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With money now in hand, I decided I’d better get a proper overcoat for myself. I went to a men’s tailor on Imam Hoseyn Square and ordered two overcoats: one in my size and a smaller, looser one for Leila. Leaving the tailor’s I realized I didn’t have a chance to have a chador made, so I returned to the shop and told him to make my overcoat loose-fitting.

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The guard asked what we were doing there and how we’d gotten a weapon. I showed him the gun permit Mr. Mohammadi had given me. He read it, and I explained why we were there. After a moment, he wished us Godspeed and left. My first thought was to go to the hospital they had mentioned at the camp. Unaware the name had been changed, I asked where the Misaqiyeh Hospital was and how to get there.

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First, we suggested the man’s mother, who was standing by the ambulance, but she seemed incapable. Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I volunteered. I would never have forgiven myself if the woman had died giving birth. Once inside the ambulance, I noticed the woman was very distressed to have a man see her naked.

Da (Mother) 119

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The clinic was nearly at the end of the main road of the camp. It was actually a shipping container, ten by five meters—perhaps more—with a bluish tile roof. The walls were painted white inside and out. The container was divided into two rooms. The larger of the two was also divided in two; on one side was an examination room and on the other a room with two beds used temporarily for patients.

Da (Mother) 118

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Leaving the helicopter, we saw water on one side of us, and a desert flat with a road running down the middle on the other. Launches were moored by the shore where many people were waiting to board them. They were carrying as many of their household belongings as they could. Most were from families that had already been evacuated but had returned to rescue their possessions from the fires and falling debris.

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We were about to start out on the road to camp when a jeep showed up with the same commandos, thirsting for our blood. They were just as stunned to see us as we were to see them. They pulled up, blocking our way and, asking nobody in particular, “How come they’re out?” One of them asked, “What are you doing here? Didn’t we hand you over last night?”

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“That’s no excuse. Isn’t the Imam the leader of the country and all the Muslims of the world? Where do these gentlemen get off insulting him and disparaging our sacred beliefs? Why can’t they accept a reality as plain as day to everybody else!?” The officer said, “This is dangerous talk, especially in a place as isolated as this.” “We heard them defy the Imam and insult him,” the girls said.

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They ordered everyone off the jetty and told us to return before daybreak when the craft was rescheduled to leave for Abadan. Soldiers got into their vehicles and left the jetty. We were at a loss as what to do. When we saw the commandos and Yaddi, we asked them, “What should we do? They won’t let us stay here. We have no way to getting back, and even if we did, we couldn’t get back here soon enough.”

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There was a lot of arguing back and forth, but we finally returned to the camp. After a meal and a nap, we went back to the jetty in the late afternoon with the sun’s fury gone. Five of the commandos in Yaddi’s group had already flown off on the noon helicopter. Two of the commandos told me Yaddi and another man stayed behind trying to get passes for the rest.