Da (Mother) 122

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-11-3

Da (Mother) 122

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

***

With money now in hand, I decided I’d better get a proper overcoat for myself. I went to a men’s tailor on Imam Hoseyn Square and ordered two overcoats: one in my size and a smaller, looser one for Leila. Leaving the tailor’s I realized I didn’t have a chance to have a chador made, so I returned to the shop and told him to make my overcoat loose-fitting.

A few days later I picked up the overcoats. He had done a fine job: two dark blue overcoats costing all together 400 tumans. I finally took off the overcoat someone had given me and kept it as a souvenir.

A few days later, it was time for my medical exam. I went to Mostafa Khomeini Hospital where the specialist examined the shrapnel near my spine. It was decided to bring up my case at the physicians’ meeting. They said an operation was out of the question. With that I decided to go back to Sar Bandar. As I was saying goodbye to the hospital staff, they gave me Ali’s effects: a suitcase I had packed for him with his personal items, his clothes, a Walkman, and a camera. There were a number of photographs of important figures who had visited Ali and the others in the hospital: Ayatollah Beheshti, Dr. Chamran, and Commander Abu Sharif. There were also a number of photos of other wounded men with Ali at Friday prayer.

One of the brothers working at the hospital, also a soldier, asked me for the Walkman and a tape of Ali giving the call to prayer as a keepsake.

While in Tehran, I had asked Mr. Mohammadi to get me an appointment to see Imam Khomeini at Jamaran, but it turned out to be impossible. During the last few days, I went to the Behesht-e Zahra Cemetery to visit the graves of the martyrs. The Freedom Tower on Freedom Square was quite a sight. I took many pictures of what I saw in Tehran with Ali’s camera. Mr. Karroubi insisted I visit the Martyrs Foundation again. He was intent on keeping me in Tehran and bringing my family to the city, but I wasn’t keen on the idea. Being in Tehran meant being far from Khorramshahr. Staying in Tehran for only a short time put me on edge, as it seemed nobody in the city had even heard of the war. They were so immersed in the pleasures of daily life that they complained about not having certain favorite things. Having gone to Revolution Square several times to buy books the children wanted, I saw it for myself. This convinced me I didn’t want to stay in Tehran.

People argued otherwise: “There’s more opportunity here. Your brother and sisters have to continue their educations. There’s no telling when schools will be open again there.” Since the outset of the war, refugee children had been left on their own. All the schools in Khuzestan had been blown to pieces. Planes regularly bombarded the southern town of Ahvaz, Dezful, Andishmak, and Sar Bandar.

A letter arrived for me from the Martyrs Foundation saying they had reserved a room for me at the Kushk Building[1]. I decided not to tell mother about the offer and, out of fear of her finding out about Ali, stored his things at Mr. Mohammadi’s. I said goodbye to his family and took a bus to Ahvaz. From there I went to Sar Bandar by minibus. The only thing of Ali’s I had was his camera.

Upon entering camp I saw mother was cooking fish over a wood fire. As was usual when she was alone with her thoughts, she was weeping and whimpering to herself in Kurdish. Zeynab was standing nearby. I readied the camera and said, “Mother!”

As soon as she saw me her expression changed, and she started to smile. The picture I took was of her smiling and crying at the same time. We talked about my trip to Tehran for a time, and then she brought the conversation around to Ali. She insisted on seeing him and had gotten ready to go out the next morning to find him.

I objected, “Ali’s at the front, on a mission. He can’t come.” She refused to listen. In the end she sat and cried her eyes out. I didn’t know what to do. Finally to calm her I had no choice but to fake a letter from Ali myself. I had heard from some soldiers that they were sending a number of the boys to Bushehr for scuba training, so I wrote, “I’m in Bushehr and cannot come.”

Mother was so overjoyed to get the letter she went out and bought congratulatory candy for all her neighbors at the camp. She told them she had received a letter from her son. The letter worked for a while, but she was soon asking repeatedly, “What’s happened to Ali?” Uncle Salim and Seyyed Abbas, the husband of Aunt Salimeh, would stop by from time to time with Uncle Nad Ali. Uncle Hoseyni also visited often. I don’t know how he got hold of the letter from Mr. Karroubi, but he told us, “Get packing. We’re going to Tehran.”

Leila and I opposed moving to Tehran, and we had kept the offer a secret. One night Ms. Azam Taleqani, who at that time was a representative in parliament, visited the camp. She brought some medical supplies and books. In answer to her questions I told her briefly about conditions at the camp and added my belief that the refugees didn’t need books to occupy their time. What they needed most were food and clothing. Instead of books, I said, she should have brought more medicine. Then I told her about Mr. Karroubi’s letter. She asked, “Why do you want to go to Tehran? It’s so noisy and crowded—no place for you. Staying here and guarding this land would be the best thing.”

“You don’t have a clue about what’s going on here, do you?” I said. “If you had to put up with what people here endure, I doubt you’d last a day. Don’t get me wrong. We’re not dying to go to Tehran, either. I just wanted to hear what you thought!”

She clearly didn’t like what I had said, but I couldn’t help speaking my mind. That night after giving the supplies and books to the head of the infirmary, Ms. Taleqani left the camp.

The subject of moving to Tehran came up again. Leila, the kids, and I were not happy about leaving. We were afraid of being far from Khorramshahr and Abadan. I was waiting for a time when I could go back to Abadan and aid the wounded at the hospitals. But Uncle Hoseyni insisted we go, and, since we owed him so much and he was our elder, we had no choice. But my heart wasn’t in it. When he saw how upset I was, he said, “You can be of help to the front from Tehran, also.”

In addition to my work at the clinic, I also canvassed the needs of the refugees. The directors had me go around and identify families needing financial help. During my conversations with them, I gathered information about their circumstances and was able to prioritize the relief efforts. Many faced truly serious problems. Some even lacked bread for the night. A number of refugees had relatives in Mahshahr and Sar Bandar and with their help managed to get through this period. Others, who worked for the state, were transferred to other cities and received their monthly wages. The government was now allocating funds for the movement of refugees.

The paramilitary corps, the Red Crescent, and the army ran the camp. Sentries were stationed in various parts. They also established a library and a mosque. The clergy visited regularly and conducted Congregational prayers and delivered sermons.

A refugee camp, of course, had other problems, some of which stemmed from impropriety and bad behavior. The resident population was large, and not everyone was mindful of basic health and sanitation. The baths were communal, and skin, eye, scalp, and yeast infections were common. The flea infestations were so bad we feared an outbreak of typhus. As a result, we went to people’s homes and sprayed them with disinfectant. We shaved children’s heads and applied anti-flea powder to their scalps. Some families objected to having their children’s heads shaved—especially their daughters—and refused to give permission. We went ahead anyway.

Even with all these problems, Uncle Hoseyni still forced us to go to Tehran. We didn’t argue with him and got ready to move, still hoping he would change his mind.

End of Chapter Thirty

To be continued …