Da (Mother) 39
The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra HoseyniSeyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman
2023-04-03
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
***
I put my arm around her waist and we walked away together, but her tears wouldn’t let up. I realized she was putting on a touching show of modesty for the onlookers, but if they hadn’t been there, her hysterics would have been much worse.
Nearing the children, we could see that Hoseyn was dragging a stick along the ground, and Hasan, holding Zeynab’s hand, seemed pale, even sickly. It was clear from Mansur’s expression he couldn’t speak, but his pride kept him from crying. Mohsen was standing in a corner and sobbing. I looked around for Leila, who was being comforted by the woman Zeynab. As I looked at them in their grief, I thought about how quickly they had become orphans. Zeynab, Sa’id, and Hasan ran toward us, and to that point I thought they hadn’t fully understood the gravity of what had happened. They looked stunned as they crowded around mother and me, but then they began to sob, softy but pitifully. Seeing them around her, mother raised her voice and asked father in Kurdish, “Abu Ali, who will take care of these children? Why did you abandon us?”
This made the children cry even more. I sat down and hugged them one by one and kissed and caressed them, trying to soothe them. Although on the inside I was in a frenzy, I said to them, “Don’t cry; father’s gone on the same path as Imam Hoseyn, toward God. You remember the children of Imam Hoseyn. The enemy martyred their father and burned their tents.” I don’t know whether they understood, but since this was how I kept myself calm, I thought it might help them.
The children did calm down, so I went over to mother and brought her to the mosque and sat her down on the ledge by the entrance. Then the woman Zeynab and the other body washers came. They kissed me and offered their condolences. Although I was choked up, I managed to answer them. I sat down next to mother. Several of the soldiers came up and offered their condolences. Some were crying, some were smoking, and others were pacing around. One said, “May God give you strength and may He bless your father—he was a saintly man. He was afraid of nothing and gave us all the will to fight, telling us, ‘Don’t fear the enemy with all their weapons; we have God.’ ”
My eyes filled with tears, but I kept them from running down my cheeks. Those were difficult moments. I couldn’t decide whether to concentrate on my own grief or mother’s or the children’s. Ali wasn’t there to console us or, at least, to calm mother, who was in agony, striking herself. Whenever she grabbed her collar to tear at it, I held her hands and said, “Don’t act like that in front of the soldiers. They’re far from home and it’ll make them feel worse; they won’t be able to stand up to the enemy.”
But she wouldn’t listen and went on keening until it got so bad I had to scream at her, “Mother, if you go on like this I won’t let you be there when they bury him!”
She shouted at me in Kurdish, “Little tramp, you’ve got everybody looking at you. How would you know what I’m going through?”
“What do you mean?” I shouted back in Kurdish. “I wouldn’t know what you’re going through? Was father dearer than Imam Hoseyn? Are we better than the blessed Zeynab?” Then I embraced her and reminded her of the miseries Zeynab had to endure.
She cried and said, “I’d die for her!”
Then the woman Zeynab came forward and took mother in her arms, trying to calm her. She kissed her and whispered, “For the children’s sake, you have to compose yourself.”
In Arabic mother said, “I’ve lost my protector. How can I get him back?” During the interval, I looked around. Everyone there—my father’s coworkers, the soldiers, the other body washers—were grief-stricken as they watched us. One of the older men was sitting by a wall and sobbing. Hoseyn was also sitting by himself and crying, clearly moved by father’s death. Not wanting to see him that way, I went over to him and said, “It’s not the end of the world. What’s with you?”
He looked up and I could see the pain in his expression. I laughed, wanting him to think that I could take the pain of father’s death. When one of the soldiers saw me laughing like that, he came over and scolded me saying, “My friend has just been martyred, and you’re laughing? What’s so funny about martyrdom?”
I didn’t know what to say. Obviously he had just arrived and hadn’t seen me with mother and the children. In a serious yet consoling tone, I said to him, “No, there’s nothing funny about martyrdom. It’s a good thing, in fact. But I wasn’t laughing about your friend’s death. It was about something else.” Hoseyn, silent to that point, finally spoke, “What’s wrong with you, man? This friend of yours was the lady’s father.”
The poor soldier was stunned. He looked down and asked me to forgive him. I said, “Don’t give it a second thought. How did you know my father? When did you first meet him?”
He said, “For a few days we were on the same gun, a 106, holding off the Iraqis. But they got our coordinates and started shelling. We didn’t have a chance to shift our position.” He burst into tears. Then he continued, his voice quivering, “The first shell landed behind us, but the second one hit in front of our position, riddling the Seyyed’s body with shrapnel. These Baathists are real bastards.” Again the tears came, making it hard for him to continue, but he managed to say, “Although we were together for only a few days, the Seyyed put me under his spell. All the boys know that he was my spiritual guide. He was immune to despair. When the Iraqis attacked, we wanted to flee, but the Seyyed steadied us. His fighting spirit made us think that we were all heroes like Rostam. He never sat still and was always reminding us if we were careless, even for a moment, the enemy would find the nerve to mount an attack. Nothing kept the Seyyed from his prayers, not mortar shells, not tank fire. Everything he did left me speechless. I envy you having lived with such a man.” Then he handed me father’s velvet prayer mat, a box of Quran tapes, and his tape recorder. I opened the recorder and the soldier said, “The Seyyed’s Quran tape was always playing these past days.”
I didn’t have the strength to stand. Mother seemed to be wailing but I could make out the words: “Wherever you went, you touched people’s hearts. You were a spiritual guide to all those who met you. If only you weren’t such a saint.” Then she repeated in Arabic, “You’ve set my heart ablaze, Abu Ali. Ablaze.”
With this, she pushed me over the edge. I wanted to cry but I couldn’t, which only added to the pressure I felt on my soul. I had to quiet her again somehow, so I shouted at her. This calmed her a bit, but it didn’t last long; her keening and moaning started up and she began to hit herself. Mohsen had gone over to her several times telling her not to stop crying and reminding her we were no different from anyone else.
As the time passed, I ached to see father again. When the soldier who gave me father’s prayer mat and the tape recorder said, “The Seyyed’s Quran tape was always playing these past days,” I couldn’t stand it. The only thing I wanted was to see father once more. I turned to the people standing there and asked, “Where’s my father?”
“We washed and shrouded his body,” they said, “and he’s in the mosque.”
I knew that there was no water; we’d been dry washing the bodies at that point. So I turned to father’s coworkers and angrily said, “Did you use pull to get water for him? The other bodies weren’t so privileged.”
“That’s right,” they said. “There was a shortage, but the Seyyed was one of us; we had to give him a proper washing.”
I said, “I want to be alone with him; I’m begging you: keep people out of the mosque.”
No one said a word, but as I started to walk, mother got up and followed me. I turned to her and, choked up, said, “Mother, give me a few minutes alone with him, will you?”
I went to the mosque and stopped before the wooden door, not daring to open it. I wasn’t even able to look inside through the lattice window. After waiting a few seconds I raised my head and looked into the mosque. There was a shrouded body on the floor in the center of the building with the head facing the direction of prayer. Although it was just as dark inside the mosque as outside, I sensed a faint halo of light around my father’s body. I was in agony as I opened the door and went inside. I was trembling, and I felt as if my legs didn’t have the strength to on. Then I stopped and fell to my knees. I pulled myself forward with my arms, which were shaking terribly. I dragged myself forward, saying, “Father, father,” desperately hoping dearly he’d answer as he always did: “My darling.”
My face was covered in tears. I was in the grip of a strange terror, not knowing where I’d get the nerve to look at him. But in between all my “father-fathers,” I slipped in the name of Imam Hoseyn—after all he was my only source of strength and tranquility.
Although I sorely wanted to see father’s face, when I got to where his body was, my hands started to shake more and I found it hard to breathe. All at once I felt everything around me had plunged into absolute darkness. I couldn’t see a thing. There was something horrible pressing down on my chest. It was like I was flailing about in a whirlpool. I was about to choke and cried out with all my heart, “Rescue me, O Hoseyn!” Though I had no strength in my arms, I managed to lift father’s head and caress it. I began to kiss him through the shroud. I called out to him, “Father, my sweet father, talk to me. Why aren’t you answering? Get up and see what mother’s doing. Get up and see the children.” But this only made me feel worse. I laid his head down gently and, using the last ounce of control in my trembling hands, opened the shroud. I blinked through the film of tears in my eyes and focused on him. How the light shone from his face! He was a handsome man, my father, with his chestnut hair, his eyebrows that joined over the bridge of his nose, and his honey-colored eyes. He looked fit with his lanky and trim body—and now in this pearly light he seemed even more attractive. I bent down, examining him more carefully. Shrapnel had opened a wound in his left cheek, exposing the bone. He had also lost an eye and part of his forehead. It was sheared off, but, thank God, his brains remained in his skull. There was no blood in the wound or on the shroud. I looked at his face again. The right side was intact and the eye with its beautiful color was intact.
I looked him up and down, searching for other wounds. There were tiny bits of shrapnel in the rest of his body; the large piece in his head had finished him off. I put my lips to his eye and kissed it. I remembered it was only yesterday when I had said goodbye to him. I tried to close the eye, but his, unlike the others I had seen, stayed open, which surprised me. “What does that mean?” I asked him. “Are you trying to say that you died with your eyes open?” Then I placed my face on his cheek. I wanted to scream and rip the heart out of my chest. I shook him and pressed his head to my breast and said twice, “Daddy, say something for God’s sake!”
To be continued …
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