Thirsty Sands (Part 3)

2019-7-23

Thirsty Sands (Part 3)

Jafar Rabiei

Design: Ali Vaziri

First published in 1991

Publishing House, Islamic Propagation Organization

Printed at the Aryan

Only artillery shell thudded and exploded around me every once in a while, but I had no feelings of anxiety or fright of these, explosions little by little the sun was passing over my head and moving westward. Moments passed unsparingly and incessantly. At times I opened my eyes and looked around seeing dark spots creeping on the ground slowly. Now the sun light had given place to darkness. My pain still coursed through my whole body. My right foot was burning terribly. I has had lost consciousness. Darkness had overtaken everywhere, and only Iraqi flares sometimes lit up the area. Rapt in my own thoughts and imaginations, suddenly a gentle voice brought me back to consciousness. The voices reproduced the sounds of dialogue e between two men. They were talking about the situation of the region. I listened attentively and realized they were familiar forces. One of them was injured and the other was holding him up. They were passing across the area very carefully alert for mines in the area. Weak with exhaustion I could call them, “Brother!” They were disturbed; their eyes turned towards me and restlessly looked at me. They thought I might be an Iraqi. I said, “Brother, I am Iranian; do not be afraid.” They came forward warily and cautiously. I showed myself to them completely. They seeing I was injured they became calm.

“I got scared” one of them said softly.

“I know, that is why I said I am Iranian”, I replied.

“Why are you lying down the?” he asked.

“I cannot move”, I said.

“Why didn't the others help you?” he asked.

“The conditions were such that there was no such possibility”, I said.

While concern was vivid in their eyes he said, “Do you have food and water?” I said, “Yes I have, but I cannot eat”. One of the two, who was healthy, immediately opened a can of tinned fruit and made me eat it. They gave half of the compote to his injured friend. I showed them the path of the minefields and passed on other in formation, they said goodbye, boosting me morale, and left with promise of further help and continued on their way.

Now for the second time I was again left alone beside a number of martyrs and injured lying scattered at the corner of bushes and sandy hills. It appeared that the desert had no end.

Severity of the pain from wounds grew more agonizing every moment. In addition, a chill cold seemed to course through my body making me shiver. The cold wind blowing across the desert expanse hit my body like a whip. My clothes, which my friends had torn to make bandages for my wounds, no longer served to resist the cold. The second night came. I spent a dreadful and dreary night like the first night when I constantly passed out and came around again and again. The morning twilight approached slowly and patiently from the far rim of the earth; and I decided as if drawn by a need to perform the Morning Prayer in my condition. As soon as I began to recite in the name of God, the Compassionate the Merciful, I came to myself and saw the sun in the midst of the sky. Once again I passed out, but came round again. I felt extreme thirst, the whole of my body longed for a drop of water. I could do nothing. In my world of dream I saw my co-fighters and asked them for water. They would tell me, “hold on, we will bring you water.”

Of course at such moments I was not aware of the fact that my desire -- water -- was only u hallucination, and I imagined that my pleas for water and their promises were all in the real world. The hours of the day passed very slowly and painfully. I passed the second day in any way. On this day two factors disturbed the peace and silence surrounding me: the sounds of explosions and shells of our own forces and the painful cries and wails arising from one of the combatants, ringing in my ears from a relatively long distance away from behind a hill.

This thirsty voice constantly asked for water. After calling out several times he apparently despaired and with loud and tired voice cried out: “Death to Saddam”. From the afternoon of the second day own arose no longer did any sound come from him, and I never knew what ever had happened to him. But from the pathetic weakness of his last cries I thought perhaps that he might have reached the eternal shores. In all those moments the man’s cries were heard by me I wished by my life that I could have got myself to him so that perhaps seeing me might serve to overcome his loneliness and heal his wounds of innocence. But I could not catch his attention to my presence by calling out to him, nor was I able to reach him.

The third night, with all its dread and bitter cold awaited us. The darkness of the night spread and covered everything over. About midnight the sounds of voices engaged in talk between two people disturbed the silence of night and my peace. As I came to myself, I realized that two people one foot from me were sitting on the ground behind the same bush engaged in a talk. I could not breathe. Fear took over my entire being. What should I have done? In those moments I was more close to a dead person that one injured. They were speaking in Arabic. I realized they were Iraqis. I hardly breathed. I thought for a moment of asking them for help. Bu t this thought left me in a flash lightning. With the atrocities I had seen of the enemy when they occupied the cities of our country I never could so much as dare to hope for anything from them. Secondly, dying a thousand deaths under these conditions was better than asking for help from them.

To be continued ...