Da (Mother) 49

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2023-6-11

Da (Mother)

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

***

Ten: Yearning to Go to the Front

Early the next morning I saw Mr. Najjar washing his hands with a white liquid after each time he bandaged someone. He would also wash the blood from the floor and apply the same white liquid to the spill. Curious, I asked him about it. “This is Dettol, a powerful disinfectant,” he said. Then he went on to tell the girls and me about drugs, their effects and uses in medicine. He also told us about his experiences working in the hospital. I felt I needed to learn all I could from him so I could go to the front and tend to the wounded, and I hung on his every word.

When he had finished, I asked, “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to do something about this place, make it like a real infirmary? Shouldn’t we isolate it from the rest of the mosque? It disgusts people to see all the wounded and the blood.”

Of course, I had something else in mind when I said this. There was a lot of traffic in the mosque, and being in the public eye made me uncomfortable. Then, again, it was dispiriting to see the wounded.

Mr. Najjar said, “I’ve had thoughts along those lines. I wanted to go and get some screens, but with all the foot traffic it didn’t seem like a good idea; they wouldn’t stay in one place. Something more permanent would have to be done.”

“Do you want me to go back and get some tents so we can sew them together and make one big curtain?” I asked.

“That’s a good idea, so long as the material matches. Otherwise it won’t look right,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Since there were no wounded, I went into the yard. I just couldn’t stay idle and was looking around to see if there was something to do when I caught sight of the man who had warned me about spending the night at Jannatabad.

I asked Maryam Amjadi what his name was. “Mahmud Farrokhi,” she said. “Why?”

“He’s the one who told me not to stay at the graveyard at night.

What kind of a person is he?”

“He’s a good man. Very solid.”

I walked away and decided to ask about the forces that had been promised. Farrokhi was standing by the stairs that led to the second floor. He was busy shifting weapons and ammunition.

“Excuse me, those armed men that you spoke about. Were you able to arrange anything?”

Sheepishly he said, “No, I couldn’t. No one wanted to go there. The boys said it was more important to fight the Baathists. Of course, some of them didn’t have the stomach to do morgue work at Jannatabad.”

“So now you’ll admit I was right,” I said. “See why I stayed there, now?”

“Yeah, I heard about what it was like myself. They said there was no water or shrouds. But I didn’t see it for myself.”

He went back to what he was doing, and, taking advantage of his embarrassment, I said, “So now that you’re not sending any troops our way, at least give us some weapons.”

“What for?”

“You said yourself that we aren’t safe there. We’re tired of fighting off the dogs with stones. With one shot we can make them go away.”

He stopped and picked up a rifle from the meager supply he had and gave it to me. I noticed there were grenades in the pile and said, “Give me some of those, too.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

“I want to throw them at the pack of dogs. Or, I don’t know, at the Iraqis, the Hypocrites, anybody who attacks us. We want to defend ourselves. I even want to go to the front now.”

He picked up a grenade and held it out to me. I begged him for another one and he gave it to me. Happy, I thanked God the problem was solved. Now, I had to find a way of getting to the front.

When Maryam saw me with the weapons, she said, “You must have pull. They don’t give weapons to just anybody.” I laughed and went into the yard. I leaned against the sack of clothing they had collected. I put the grenades in my pockets and looked at the rifles. They had been in storage so long they looked like they might not be of any use; but they were more than what most people had. At that moment a young cleric entered the mosque from the Fakhr-e Razi entrance. He seemed very strange to me. His cloak was gathered around his waist, and he held the hem in his hands. The lenses of his glasses were so dark in the sun at first I thought he was blind. He was standing and speaking to some people who had entered before him. Now that he was in the shade, I got a better look at him.

His piercing look made him seem like an eagle. He had the sunburned skin of a farm laborer. I sensed a certain amount of pain in his expression, the suffering of a man with his hands full. The people with him were obviously not from Khorramshahr. They were all wearing the kind of woven tunics they wore up north. I didn’t sense any defeatism in the little I heard from their conversations about the front. They all had arms, either Brnos or M1s. The cleric, whom they called Sheikh Sharif, had a G3.

I looked at him, wondering what kind of man he was, what he was capable of, whether he would come through if I asked him for something.

When he had separated from his companions and was walking toward Maryam and Zohreh, I followed him. He said hello to them and asked, “Will one of you keep my cloak for me for a while?”

“Sir, there’s no telling how long we’ll be here,” said Maryam. Then she nodded in the direction of the stairway and said, “I’ll put it over there beside the weapons. Just tell Farrokhi when you come, and he’ll retrieve it for you.”

I didn’t hesitate, “Do you intend to go to the front, sir?”

He looked at me questioningly and said, “God willing.”

“I want to go there myself. Would you take me along?”

“There’s no need for you people to go to the front. We’re there and, whenever it’s necessary, we’ll bring you out there. They need you here more because, from what I’ve seen, what you sisters are doing is no less than what we’re doing at the front. Probably more. Saving someone’s life is no less valuable than fighting—often it’s worth more. We’re going there to save lives—you’re also in a struggle to keep people alive. So there’s no difference. You’re acting exactly like Zeynab.”

“But sir,” I objected, “I don’t find the work fulfilling. I want to confront the enemy myself.”

Even though I told her not to blab about my father, how he was sacrificed, Maryam said, “Sir, she lost her father recently and buried him herself.”

This was so embarrassing to me I couldn’t say anything. His tone a mixture of tenderness and sympathy, the Sheikh said, “That’s exactly why I feel the sisters should stay behind. No one can praise you sisters enough for fighting like lions. You’re the reason why we can hold up our heads with pride. You give us the spirit to fight harder at the front.” With that he handed several boxes of dried bread and some canned preserves to his people and rushed from the mosque. I sensed how different this man was from other men, how much he supported the idea of women staying behind the lines.

Still in the thrall of the sound of Sheikh Sharif’s voice, I suddenly became aware that Soleymani, one of the city elders who had been active lately at the mosque, was having it out with Mash Mammad, the caretaker. Soleymani was holding some dark blue cloth that had served as a curtain between the men and women’s prayer sections. They had gathered up the cloth and some carpet pieces the day people had come to the mosque for sanctuary. Soleymani now wanted to give the cloth to Mr. Najjar, so they could use it to section off the infirmary.

This annoyed Mash Mammad, who snorted, “The cloth belongs to the mosque. You can’t let it get bloody. I want to use it as a curtain again.”

Soleymani tried to restore peace, “Why get so upset, my friend? If it gets dirty, it gets dirty. They’re not going to hold public prayers here any time soon. There’s no telling when the shelling will stop. You should be praying it’s over soon. When that happens I’ll buy you some

new fabric and deliver it myself.”

Mash Mammad stared at them as they put up the curtain.

I felt sorry for him. He was around fifty, and the crowds in the mosque had put a strain on his back. The mosque trustees and city elders like Mesbahi, Soleymani, and Farrokhi’s father tried to make things easier, but still there was always extra pressure on Mash Mammad. The constant flow of people, military and civilian, and especially the large number of asylum seekers meant that the mosque had to be constantly swept and mopped. It took several men to keep the tank on the roof filled with water from the Shatt. The other girls and I would sweep out the yard and the alleys around the mosque as best we could. The large crowd overwhelmed the meager services we had, and the infirmary had to be sanitized constantly. Adding to the drudgery was a blocked drain in the bathroom that caused the floor to be covered with waste, something that should never happen in a mosque. I was forced to step through the muck to unclog the drain.

Mesbahi and Nuri struggled even harder than I to keep the shellshocked five under control. It was not easy. Still, I wasn’t satisfied and had to keep a watchful eye on them so that they didn’t wander into the street. The effort of keeping Genoa in the mosque was driving me crazy. I was fed up and short of breath. They would occasionally go on the attack and scratch and bite. One time the blind girl bit me so hard that I nearly fainted. I couldn’t free my hand, but after a lot of coaxing the girl let go. I didn’t want to have anything to do with them, but fearing they would get lost or be the cause of some immorality left me with no choice but to keep an eye on them. I said to the men, “If you don’t get them out of here, I’ll go mad.”

To be continued …