Da (Mother) 11
The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra HoseyniSeyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman
2022-09-06
Da (Mother)
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
***
Whenever father had to go somewhere else to work, he’d let Ali take his place, knowing that his son was disciplined enough to carry out any task he gave him. And the older he got, the more difficult were the jobs he took on. Working beside father, Ali gradually learned construction, plumbing, and welding. His eyes became bloodshot from the welding, and the pain would keep him awake all night. But, by the time he was eighteen, he was a master welder and mason. In those days most buildings were one-story; anything higher was a rarity. Ali did the welding for the two-story Mehr hospital and the three-story Behbehanian Clinic near the bazaar. On our trips to the market, mother and I often saw him working on the scaffolding. We couldn’t miss him because of the bright bandana he ordinarily wore on his head. The heat and the blinding light of the welding torch hurt his eyes. By sundown they would be all red and swollen, and he would moan constantly. He relieved the pain by putting raw potato slices over his eyes. The next morning, though, he’d be back at work again. Ali wasn’t the only one who worked like a dog; Mohsen also did. Before he fell off the roof he was a clever student, but after the fall he said studying no longer interested him. Father forced him to continue, but after he failed several subjects in high school, he quit and went to manual labor, at which he was as successful as Ali. Mohsen liked construction work, while Ali loved to weld. The two of them showed so much work ethic and interest in what they did they were treated like professionals.
Although Ali earned money at a great personal cost to himself, he turned his whole salary over to father. I often saw father’s eyes tear up when he took the money from him. Father would kiss him and say, “Honey, take this money and spend it on yourself. I know that you are working to lighten the burden on me and I’m grateful, but it’s yours, spend it on yourself.” But Ali refused, saying that he wasn’t working for himself but for the family. In addition to working, Ali also went to karate and military exercise classes. He was a black belt and sometimes he would teach me some moves at home. He was also always practicing his penmanship and, without a teacher, was able to write like a master calligrapher. Most boys in Khorramshahr could swim, thanks to having the Shatt al-Arab nearby, but Ali’s swimming skills reached the professional level because he worked out at the Red Crescent (formally Lion and Sun) Youth Club pool. Whatever it was—reciting the Quran, sports, calligraphy—Ali was always getting awards, which made mother so happy she declared he had a knack for everything.
The complex of houses for city workers was finally finished a year later. We moved our belongings into a place at the end of the complex that had been allotted to us. There was a vast salt marsh in a sunken area behind the homes. Whenever it rained the marsh turned into an artificial lake. They made the homes in the British style, without courtyards and high walls; the only thing separating one home from the next was a chain-linked fence usually hedged with evergreens. Many of the residents, including father, were sensitive about the lack of privacy. The first day we were there, father brought one of his builder friends along so he, working with Ali and Mohsen, could build walls around the compound and keep the prying eyes of neighbors from looking in. They also tiled the yard and put up a porch.
Ali mortared the walls, while Mohsen and father did the welding. Leila and I also helped; I prepared the mortar and we poured it into a carrier, which Leila brought to father. We changed places from time to time so we wouldn’t get tired. At 10:00 a.m. that day father lit the primus stove and made omelets for us. He’d froth up the eggs and then pour them into a greased skillet and add onions. When they were done, he’d plate them with a grilled tomato. Eating the eggs with onions and drinking glasses of tea in the compound hit the spot.
With everyone helping, the house was soon finished. What a relief it was to have our own home, where we would no longer have to put up with depraved landlords, where we could enjoy comfort and security. It was during that year that the first rumblings of the revolution began to reach our ears. Ali was the first to get involved in the movement. He put his studies aside. Ordinarily father would have insisted on Ali and Mohsen stay in school; but because of his own background in politics, he not only fully backed Ali’s decision, he also joined the movement. They would sit at home at night and discuss what was going on. I was very curious and tried to understand what they were saying, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Late at night they would go out and distribute leaflets and audiotapes made by Imam Khomeini that Ali brought home. The situation caused Ali’s political awareness to blossom. It also affected him physically. Owing to his influence I also matured and became interested in reading the books he read. Father was always watching out for us during this period. One time Ali brought home a poster of Che Guevera, who symbolized the struggle against imperialism for some. When father saw the poster hanging on the wall, he got upset and took it down, stashing it in Ali’s closet. Father was always very wise and careful about images; despite all the love he had for the Twelve Holy Imams, he had no use for the pictures that were painted of them. He explained that a number of miscreant Jews had made these imaginary portraits to lead people astray from the true faith.
When the underground revolutionary movements became more public, taking the shape of street demonstrations, Ali bought a camera and a small tape recorder, which he used to document the people’s protests. Father did not leave Ali’s side and brought Mohsen along with him. Father arranged with his friends to provide water to the demonstrators in the streets. They bought large chunks of ice, put them in water barrels, and lugged them around in a pickup truck. Father wouldn’t let Leila and me participate in the demonstrations. He reminded us we were girls, and he didn’t want us to fall into the clutches of SAVAK.
It had been two years since I left school. Although I did well, the mixing of boys and girls in one building caused father to take me out of school despite my tantrums and tears. Before I left, I had a teacher by the name of Mrs. Najjar, a woman who wore the veil. In that period, because she was religious, no matter what school she went to, after a certain amount of time they would fire her. Mrs. Najjar’s sister had been a classmate of mine who brought various books for me from their home. Among them was a series of books I found interesting with the title “Why the Youth?” whose author I believe was Ahmad Beheshti. When she saw my interest in reading, she supplied me with more books. Reading them opened my mind. In addition, the more I saw of Ali and father’s activities, the more I wanted to take part in the demonstrations. Leila was no less excited about taking part than I was, and sometimes we would get to the demonstrations secretly, although it might have been when they were almost over. Nevertheless, this seemed to satisfy us. We would stand around so long as we were certain father would not return during that time, but all the while my heart was in my mouth, afraid that I wouldn’t get home in time.
Those were strange days; it was as if all the people were in the streets. The army positioned tanks in most of the main arteries, especially Forty Meter Road, Ferdowsi, the avenues around the Congregational Mosque—places they knew there would be trouble. The soldiers thought they could make the people disperse that way. The leaders of these demonstrations were the young people of the city and the clergy, people like Hajj Aqa Mohammadi and Hajj Aqa Nuri, who made things happen. The people started to attack and set fire to the liquor stores, most of which were along the Shatt waterway. They also pulled down the statue of the Shah at the Farmandari Circle. SAVAK arrested many of these young people, and we expected that Ali would fall into one of their traps any minute. He would always say a person had to be on his toes, stay sharp to escape with his life.
During the demonstrations I got acquainted with women who were active in a Quran school. Through them I began to take part in Quran interpretations classes that were held at the Hashtrudi High School. My ties to the school gradually developed. The person responsible for the school was a woman called Khadijeh Abedi, the wife of Mehdi Albooghabeesh, whom I knew for his revolutionary activities. Along with a number of others, he planned and led the street demonstrations. The school also ran programs for conducting the Komeyl and Nodbeh prayers. The lecture series by professors invited from Qom was especially popular.
During one of the days when the demonstrations were especially wild, we got word that father fell on his way back from the mosque and was in bad shape. We rushed to see him. He told us that he was returning from prayer when he came face to face with a demonstration. Police were firing on the crowd and using tear gas. By chance one of the gas canisters landed at his feet, and he found himself caught in the stampede. He fell and was trampled, and as a result had trouble breathing. Finally some people came to his aid and carried him from the scene. God was merciful that day.
In the end, the people’s struggle bore fruit. One evening I was returning from a demonstration when I stopped to look at the headlines at a newspaper stand. One read:
Imam Returns Tomorrow
I couldn’t contain the joy and excitement. Victory, it seemed, was certain. In those days news of Imam Khomeini’s return was everywhere. Father surprised us by buying a television. He had a special respect for the audiotapes of the late Ahmad Kafi and the Quran of Abd al-Baset, which he would play for us. But we were always nagging him to get a television, so he played one of the Kafi’s tapes in which he says, “O you who have a television in your homes, beware. Those who broadcast the programs on television want to make depravity an everyday thing.” At the moment in history when Imam Khomeini entered Iran, father put the television on the table. All of us sat around, and when we saw the Imam reach the airport over the opposition of remnants of the Pahlavi regime, we sent up prayers, clapped our hands, and jumped with joy. During the celebration, I looked at father and saw tears rolling down his cheeks; it was clear he was also overjoyed. This reminded me of the days when he would send me into the avenue to find out for him whether such-and-such person, whose address he had given me, was around. He made it a point to tell me to come and go naturally. No matter how many times I tried to find out who these people were, he’d say, “Don’t ask.” Later I found out they were local security or SAVAK agents monitoring father.
The era of our moving from house to house and all the misery of that nomadic life had come to an end. Father was no longer under suspicion. Gone was the nightmare of having SAVAK—like the Iraqi secret service before it—after him. I often wondered what he had done to deserve that much surveillance. I tried to look more closely into his affairs, but he kept to himself, not wanting others to know too much about them. In this respect he was very different from other men in the family. But even under those harsh conditions, whenever members of mother’s family visited Khorramshahr and stayed with us, he was a generous host. But I could tell that no one understood father; he remained a stranger to the family. On the other hand, I knew that despite the mystery surrounding his activities, he was on good terms with a series of people that he kept from us. Often he would greet certain people in the street unemotionally and go on his way. From their looks or the ways they interacted I could tell that they knew one another well, but behaved impersonally in public.
To be continued …
Number of Visits: 1810
http://oral-history.ir/?page=post&id=10738