Da (Mother) 116

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-9-23

Da (Mother) 116

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

***

“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. “But the only reason we mention treason is because we are from Khorramshahr, and, with Banisadr in command, we have lost everything: our city, our young people, our homes, and our lives.”

After a full round of questions and answers, one of them asked, “How old are you?”

Fed up, I said, “Why is that any of your business? If you want to put us in front of a firing squad, go ahead!”

They laughed and said, “What firing squad? Who said anything about an execution?”

“So what are you going to do?” I asked. “We’re dead tired, and we need to know now what’s going to happen to us. In the last three days we’ve been running around like crazy trying to get to Abadan.”

“We don’t execute people. Your fate will be decided elsewhere,” they said.

Then one of the officers stood up from the table and called out to someone. He gave him a number and said, “Make contact and let them know we’re sending over several suspicious characters.”

After a few minutes they piled us into a white Wagoneer and began to lecture us: “You don’t have a clue about politics and government. It’s still far too soon to understand the roots of this thing.”

The Wagoneer drove away escorted by a van full of armed men. We were so exhausted we kept yawning, and all we wanted was to crawl into a corner and sleep. It was well past midnight when we pulled up in front of the large door of a building that seemed familiar somehow. I looked at the plaque over the door: Army of the Guards of the Islamic Revolution of Mahshahr. Seeing it gave me a sense of security, and I relaxed. I said to myself: Thank God. Somebody’s got to know me here. They’d remember the day we brought the bodies of the martyrs. The guards at the door took custody of us and, perplexed, showed us into the building. They led us to a room and said, “Wait here.” Soon another guard entered and politely asked us our names. “Where were you this time of night? What made them arrest you?” he asked.

“No one arrested us,” I explained. “We went with them of our own free will.”

They asked us questions about our families, which we all answered. Finally I said, “The girls are with me.” Then another person entered and asked more questions. From what he said, I gathered they wanted to take us to their commander. After he left, we couldn’t help slumping in the chairs and falling asleep. A bit later the commander entered. He said hello and immediately went through the door of an adjoining room. I was the first person they called into the room. I rose and went in. “Sit down,” he said.

I sat in the chair opposite him. Another guard began to question me. “What’s your name? When did you leave Khorramshahr? What were your activities there? Who do you know from the army in Khorramshahr?” Then he said, “Put whatever you’re carrying on the table.” I took the two bloodstained IDs belonging to Ali from my pocket and put them on the table. The interrogator picked them up and asked, “Where did you get these?”

“They’re my brother’s.”

“What does you brother do?” he asked.

“It’s on the card. Can’t you see?”

Another man said, “Just answer the questions.”

“I am answering the questions,” I said.

“What does your brother do?” he asked again.

“My brother was a soldier.”

“Was? You mean he’s no longer in the army?”

“He was martyred,” I said, my voice cracking.

I felt persecuted and alone, because Ali, had he been there, would never have allowed them to behave like that to me. It was all I could do to keep from crying. One of the guards showed the cards to the commander. It seemed he was pointing out the difference in the dates of birth on the cards, as if he were trying to catch me in a lie. As the guard looked at the cards, he said, “I know the guards in Khorramshahr, but I never saw him.”

I got more agitated and said to the guard, “Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t in the army. The reason why the dates of birth are different is because they had underestimated his age. Later on he corrected it, and they gave him a new ID. Our Ali was nineteen.”

After saying this, I could no longer hold back my tears. The commander, a man of about thirty, started speaking, “Why are you upset now? Why are you crying?”

“This man is trying to make me out a liar. That’s why,” I said.

My nerves were in a horrible state. I couldn’t control myself. I said, “They’ve been giving us hell for two days now. This bunch of antirevolutionaries have been harassing us, threatening us with a court-martial, saying they’d set up a kangaroo court and have us executed. Why aren’t you asking why these sell-outs are insulting the Imam?

Are we the antirevolutionaries, the traitors, or are these men who have nothing good to say about the Revolution while, at the same time, they’re defending the real traitor?”

“Why do you go around telling everybody Banisadr is a traitor?” asked the commander.

“If it weren’t for his treachery, people wouldn’t have been driven from their homes and forced to wander in the desert.”

“How do you know he’s a traitor?” he asked. “My father said so,” I said. “He saw it with his own eyes. He said, ‘Banisadr’s the reason why the enemy got up the nerve to invade our country.’ ”

“What does your father do?” he asked.

“My father was a city worker, but when the war started he couldn’t sit by and watch the enemy occupy our land.”

“Where’s your father now?”

 “He’s a martyr, too,” I said tearfully.

The commander turned pale suddenly. His eyes filled with tears, and he bowed his head. He remained silent for a few minutes. My sobs were the only sounds in the room, but I couldn’t stop them. The commander raised his head and started to console me, “Let me congratulate you on having such a father and brother, on their martyrdom, and let me express my sorrow for your losses. Why didn’t you say you were from a martyr family in the first place?”

“Suppose I had. What would have been the point? You would have brought us here anyway,” I said.

“No, sister. You’re mistaken. We wouldn’t have treated you like a suspect. They sent you here, and it was our duty to interrogate you and find out the truth.”

Then he said, “Tell the other sisters to come in, please.”

When they entered, I looked up at them. All of them had been crying their eyes out. I realized they had overheard what we were saying, and they went to pieces. They sat down, and the man began to question them but not harshly. After learning Sabah’s brother was army and now a POW, and her father had been wounded, and Leila was my sister, his manner improved. There was talk of my activities in Khorramshahr, and the commander all of a sudden declared, “You must be the same sister who brought the bodies of the martyrs to Mahshahr?”

“That’s me!” I said.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? There would have been no misunderstanding then, and could have avoided a lot of trouble. We know Banisadr is a traitor, but we can’t say it publicly on account of the crisis the country faces. We have to show unity now more than ever.

Discord only helps the enemy.”

Then he said, “It’s an honor to have you sisters as our guests. If you wish, we’ll take you all back to the camp or you can spend the night here, and go where you like in the morning.”

Given how worn and weary we were, we decided to spend the few remaining hours until morning there. Seeing our faces at that point, so tired and grim, would have been the last straw for mother.

They led us to a room with carpeting on the floor, and brought some army blankets and cushions. We locked the door and spread the blankets. Though delirious from lack of sleep, we started talking. Sabah said, “That went well, thank God.” Zohreh and Ashraf asked, “Zahra, didn’t we agree we would not say anything till we got what we wanted?”

“I can’t keep my mouth shut when someone bullies me. Didn’t you hear the rubbish they were spouting?”

Again they started pleading with me, “For God’s sake, whatever happens tomorrow—even if they beat us—nobody say anything! At least not till we get to Abadan.” Sabah said, “Let’s get there first and then we can tell the guys we know all about these traitors. They’ll give ’em what for. And we’ll get ’em to screw up!”

I don’t know what else was said. Even though I was dead tired, I had the same nightmare all over again: they were insulting the Imam, and I was stewing. It wasn’t long before the men woke us for prayer. We forced ourselves to get up and did our ablutions. After prayers, around 7:30 or 8:00, they knocked on the door with breakfast: flatbread, white cheese, butter, preserves, a kettle of hot water, and a teapot with tea. After twenty straight hours of ranting and raging on empty stomachs, we were finally having a proper meal. But, though I was famished, I had no appetite. I blamed myself for making things so hard on the girls. “If I had only kept my mouth shut,” I told myself, “the girls wouldn’t have had to endure what they did.” Leila and I were in places mother would never have approved. I felt guilty because she trusted me to take care of my sister and now, unbeknownst to her, we were in God knows where. I felt so guilty I couldn’t swallow a thing.

As they ate, the girls discussed whether we should go back to the jetty or somewhere else where we could get a pass. I didn’t say anything. We finally decided we would go back home. We handed in the breakfast things and thanked the soldiers. We turned down their offer of a ride. Instead, we got on a minibus heading for Sar Bandar. Once there we started to look for the home of Sabah’s aunt. No one was able to help us. My legs and back ached so much from all the running around I could no longer stand or walk. More often than not I sat and rested. In the end I told Sabah, “It makes no sense trying to find the house without the address. I couldn’t do it the last time I looked for mother and the kids.”

To be continued …