Destiny Had It So
Memoirs of Seyyed Nouraddin Afi
Selected by Fariba Almasi
Translated by Kianoush Borzouei
2024-10-7
It was early October 1982, just two or three days before the commencement of the operation. A few of the lads, including Karim and Mahmoud Sattari—the two brothers—as well as my own brother Seyyed Sadegh, came over and said, "Come on, let's head towards the water."[1] It was the first days of autumn, and the air was beginning to cool, but I didn’t decline their invitation and set off with them. During those few days, the boys would go there in the scorching midday heat to bathe and swim. By the time we arrived, the sun's warmth had intensified. We sat by the water and prepared for a dip when Sadegh called out, "Look over there! One of the boys is drowning!"
"No way!"
"Take a look! That boy is drowning!"
He was right. Someone was struggling in the water, bobbing up and down, but none of those around him had noticed. Without hesitation, I plunged into the water and quickly reached him. I dived below, pushed his legs upward to keep his head above water, and brought him to the surface. But as soon as he reached the surface, the poor fellow grabbed my hair and pulled me underwater, standing on my neck. I began gulping down water, and despite my efforts, I couldn’t break free from his grasp. At that point, it was I who was on the verge of drowning, leaving me with no choice but to deliver a few punches to his stomach to make him let go. Eventually, I managed to pull him out of the water, but I was utterly out of breath and had swallowed more water than he had. With difficulty, we expelled the water we had ingested. That’s when I recognized him; he was the younger brother of Mohammad Reza Chamidfar.[2]
After that incident, we decided to forgo swimming altogether. We dressed and began climbing up from that pithole.
The battalion’s location gradually came into view. We proceeded along a dirt road, mostly used by vehicles, hoping that a truck might come by and give us a ride. However, all around, we could see the boys walking toward the hill. Moments later, a cloud of dust appeared on the road, and we saw a battalion supply truck carrying large pots of food for the troops. The driver, who was from Maragheh, stopped the truck a little ahead of us so that we could hop on. By the time we reached the truck, the boys had scrambled up, and each one was clinging from some part of it. Sadegh managed to get on the back, leaving me as the only one left behind! The driver called out, "Agha Seyyed! Come aboard!"
"Where am I supposed to sit? There's no room left!"
The driver intended to have the boys sitting in the front move to the back, but I didn't want to trouble them. "You all go ahead; I'll walk," I told him. As soon as my brother noticed that I hadn’t boarded, he jumped off the truck. Karim Sattari also disembarked, and the truck moved on. Besides the heavy pots filled with food, a dozen or so people were hanging off the truck, and it struggled to climb the hill. Moments later, we heard the roar of Iraqi aircraft. We had reached the top of the hill, less than 800 meters from the battalion’s location. The truck hadn’t yet reached the battalion. It was moving on level ground, making it an easy target for the aircraft. We watched as one of the planes swooped down towards the truck. A cry escaped me, "It's going to hit the truck!"
We ran as fast as we could, but in just a few seconds, a missile released by the plane struck the truck, sending it flying, with everything before our eyes shattered to pieces—the boys, the food pots, the wheels...
When we arrived, we saw the torn bodies of our comrades. We were all overwhelmed with grief. That day’s meal was soup, and the sight before us was heart-wrenching. Among them, only the logistics officer, who had lost both legs and had a torn abdomen, survived, but he was taken to the rear for treatment. We gathered whatever remains of the bodies we could. An hour later, a bulldozer from the battalion arrived to cover the remnants of the truck and everything else with soil, to spare the boys from seeing the scene and losing morale. That very day, we learned that even the sole survivor had succumbed to his wounds en route to the emergency unit.[3]
[1] In that area, the Jihad forces had constructed a small dam across the Somar River, creating a body of water that the boys referred to as "the lake.“
[2] Mohammad Reza Chamidfar was one of the veteran soldiers from Azerbaijan who had participated in the battles of Susangerd and Bostan and was among the few survivors of that great epic.
[3] I believe that the truck belonged to the Martyr Sadooghi Battalion, whose logistics officer, Martyr Ghorban Ali Bejani’s brother, was also martyred.
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