Da (Mother) 127

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-12-8

Da (Mother) 127

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

***

Thirty-Three: Audience with Ayatollah Khomeini

Although I never found Tehran a very agreeable place, for the longest time I was gripped by the idea of visiting Imam Khomeini, who lived in Jamaran in the northern part of the city. Leila, the Vatankhah sisters (Sabah, Saleheh, and Fowzieh), and I would set out at 6:00 a.m. every Monday and Thursday when the Imam held public audiences, which generally took place at 8:00 and 10:00 in the morning. It was bedlam at Jamaran on those days. No matter how early we arrived, we always found others waiting to be admitted ahead of us. It was easy to get swept up in the crowded streets leading to his residence.

The Imam would appear, wave, and leave. Sometimes we would sit with visitors waiting for his next appearance, but the women guards would remove us. We’d beg them to let us stay for one more look at him.

We saw the Imam several times this way, but that never satisfied our longing for a private audience. No matter how much we insisted they just wouldn’t let it happen.

The Vatankhah sisters and I had long ago decided to return to Abadan. The sisters and several other Khorramshahris worked at the Taleqani Hospital there. One day at noon, with time before our departure growing short, we found ourselves in front of the Hoseyniyeh Hall at Jamaran and noticed Mr. Karroubi there. We stepped up to him and said, “Please, Mr. Karroubi, is there anything you can do to get us a personal audience with the Imam?”

“I have to force my way in myself. What makes you think I can get you in?” he said.

“You can,” I insisted. “We’re about to return to the front. It would be cruel to make us go back without seeing him.”

“You’re the same sister Mr. Mohammadi brought to parliament, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll write a letter, but no promises. Understand?”

Then, right there in the street, he rummaged through his bag for a piece of paper. Not finding one, he wrote on the back of an envelope, “These sisters are Khorramshahris and will be returning to the front soon. Please allow them to meet with the Imam personally.”

The security detail around the residence saw Mr. Karroubi give us the envelope. We got our hopes up but still were not sure we’d be allowed to see him. A guard came forward and asked, “Why are you here?”

We explained. “You’re really from Khorramshahr?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Come tomorrow morning and I’ll arrange it personally.”

“Can we bring others?” we asked.

“Yes, but not a crowd,” he said. We agreed.

We were so excited we didn’t notice Saleheh Vatankhah had gotten lost in the crowd. Only after two bus trips and reaching the building, did we notice she was gone.

We were exhausted. We thought of going all the way back to the residence to find her, but realized it would be useless. The poor girl didn’t have a ticket or money. After a long walk in the heat of the afternoon sun, she came back on her own dead tired. She began to give us the what for: “I didn’t know how to go, and just walked down Vali Asr Avenue from Tarjrish. When I got to the square, I made a turn toward Ferdowsi.”

“So why didn’t you borrow some money?” we asked.

“I was too ashamed.”

Early the next morning, excited beyond words, we went to Jamaran so they could arrange a time for the audience. It was Thursday and we got mother and the kids ready. I invited Mohsen, at that time eighteen, and the Vatankhah family to join us.

We set out at 6:00 a.m. When we arrived at Jamaran, the place was deserted. We waited. Moments later I saw one of the people at the Foundation with whom I had previously had words. At that time I said, “I’m going to complain about you to the Imam.”

“Since when do they let the likes of you see the Imam?” he asked. The man had come with his fiancée so the Imam could read them their vows. I had to laugh when I saw him. I said, “See, we’re going to get to see the Imam after all! So what should I do? Should I make my complaint?”

He chuckled and said nothing. We waited in line for our turn to enter the small yard of a house by the Hoseyniyeh Hall. The Imam was seated on a balcony overlooking the yard. He was dressed in white and on his head was a skullcap. His legs and hands were covered by a blanket. The men took their turns first, followed by the women. All of them kissed the covering over his hands. My eyes were fixed on him, and I had a lump in my throat. The moment I put my hands on his, I thought of father and Ali—Ali especially, because it had been one of his dreams to see the Imam.

I also remembered the first picture I had seen of him when I was five years old. Father had nailed it to the wall in our house in Basra. The last thing I wanted was to let go of his hand. Feeling his hands through the blanket, I sensed I was in touch with the holiest thing in the world. I cried. I kissed his hand and raised my head. I was giddy, as if I had left this world and was sailing through the clouds.

I remained lost in thought until Mr. Eshraqi, the Imam’s son-inlaw, said, “Don’t trouble him so.” I stepped away and stood before the Imam, unable to utter a word. The brothers introduced us to the Imam as the family of martyrs.

He looked at us, smiled, and said a prayer. I couldn’t hold back my tears, and I wasn’t the only one who lost control. Mother was also weeping as she kissed his hand. The Imam consoled her by muttering a prayer. Then we went into Hoseyniyeh Hall to see him once more. This lifted mother’s spirits. Although she didn’t speak to him, I got the impression she had finally resigned herself to Ali’s death.

As far as I was concerned, that was the best day of my life. Ever since the start of the war and subsequently having to leave Khorramshahr and move to Tehran, there had been this odd feeling of disquiet in me. Nothing would cheer me up. I tried to put on a happy face, but there was always this gnawing sorrow in my heart. That day I felt the pain had been removed from my chest and I could breathe easily again.

Shahnaz Vatankhah had a friend named Nasrin who lived on Jamaran Alley. Seeing us all together at Hoseynieyeh Hall, she invited us to her home. We ate lunch at her house regularly on Mondays and Thursdays. Nasrin and her family took it upon themselves to host people visiting the Imam. I admired the simplicity of what they offered visitors: bread, cheese, greens, butter and jam, pickled vegetables, and rice. What impressed me most was that they prepared all the food themselves.  The greens were from their garden; the jams and the cooked food were all homemade. Their doors were always open to visitors, who would come to pray, rest, and have a bite to eat.

After a time, the Imam’s health worsened, and his doctors stopped the public visits.

End of Chapter Thirty-three

To be continued …