Da (Mother) 41
The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra HoseyniSeyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman
2023-04-18
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
***
Father’s friends, who I didn’t know very well, approached and, by way of greeting, nodded to me, saying, “Good for the Seyyed!” Then they asked me, “What can we do?”
Greeting them one by one would delay things for no reason, I thought, so I said it would be better to get the grave ready.
“We already dug one,” they said, “but it filled with water, so we’re digging another.”
“What difference does it make? He’ll have to be buried somewhere,” I said.
“Yes, by that time the water will empty out,” they said.
“There are still several graves that he dug himself,” I said.
“They’re also filled with water,” they responded.
Then they brought a stretcher and put father on it. Salarvand, Parvizpur, the body washers, three of father’s coworkers at the mayor’s office, a few soldiers and local militia all accompanied the body. It was a strange sight taking him to the grave. Usually when somebody was lost, the deceased’s entire family was on hand for the burial, but today not one of father’s many relatives was there. Not even grandfather, which really upset me. It made me think of the funeral of Hoseyn, the Prince of Martyrs. How his body just lay on the ground with no one to accompany him to the grave and, adding insult to injury, the mutilation of his pure flesh and the imprisonment of his family. Father’s bizarre funeral was nothing compared to the wicked and inhumane way they buried the blessed martyr.
It was odd, but I remembered the blessed Zeynab and called on her again and again to help me keep my composure, to help me go on. These thoughts and appeals all combined to make me stronger, to withstand the agony without losing control. The private weeping in the mosque had raised my spirits. Naturally I had gone there to see father, but the tears, which came automatically, were a relief.
The sounds of people crying “There is no God but Allah” and mother’s moaning and keening echoed in the enclosure. Mother tried to walk in the procession but kept stumbling, only to get to her feet again. She was in a very bad way, bent over with her arms tightly wrapped around her waist, willing herself to move forward. At times I kept pace with the body, other times I went ahead or trailed behind. The tragedy was an unbearable weight, but I felt God had granted me enough strength to get through it.
I looked at the graves of the unknown as we passed by and wondered how many of them had been buried in the last few days. I was ashamed of my grief; at least there were several people to accompany father to the grave, but what about those poor souls? We didn’t even know what names to put on some of the graves.
When we reached the gravesite, they put father’s body down. As soon as mother saw the site, it was as if she had lost all hope or, as she put it, her house had been destroyed. She fell to the ground beside the grave and poured dirt over her head. In Kurdish she wailed, “My heart won’t bear it, Abu Ali, what am to do with these orphans?”
Then she dragged herself close to father’s feet and, as she wailed, I could make out her cursing father, “Get up, lying there, go and see what’s happened to Zeynab, your little favorite. On your feet, you answer her. You comfort her, keep her from crying!”
Then she threw herself on his corpse. Leila was also hugging it, as Mohsen, Mansur, Hasan, and Sa’id sat around watching. Mohsen and Mansur tried to hug and comfort her. The woman Zeynab also kissed her and whispered consoling words. Maryam told her, “Don’t let your grief out like this. Think of the children.”
Father’s coworkers took the children aside and comforted them. It was strange to see that even the soldiers were sobbing. Some left to have a smoke. Others sat down saying, “God is great,” then got up. For a moment I thought it would be best to put father in the grave myself. Although my voice was shaking, I managed to control my emotions and I announced, “I’m going into the grave myself.”
The cries of father’s coworkers became louder. All of them and the body washers protested, “We’re here. We’ll do it.”
“No, I want to be the one to put him in the grave,” I said. I went in and asked them to pass him down to me.
As soon as she saw me there, mother’s screeches got even louder. She began to wail, calling on her absent relatives: grandfather, her brothers, to come to her aid and put out the fires in her heart.
Then, turning to father’s body, she moaned, “We’re burying you like some stranger; there’s nobody to see you off.”
The effect of the grief became more intense with each moment. She droned on in Kurdish, in Arabic, standing up for a time, and then throwing herself on father’s body. I got the feeling that when she sang in Arabic, it was more of a comfort than Kurdish. I could also hear the sounds of the children crying; five-year-old Zeynab’s sobs being the loudest. With mother going on like that, the rest of the people also started wailing. Parvizpur and several others kept warning them their grieving only added to the suffering mother and the children felt.
I asked mother, “Didn’t you promise me you would try to control yourself? Look at all the people here. They’re like family to us, like our brothers. So what’s the difference? They’re offering their sympathy. Remember the blessed Zeynab, how there was nobody to comfort her. Think of Imam Hoseyn’s children; how they were slapped around. Everybody here has treated your children with kindness and comforted them.”
Then I repeated, “Pass father down to me.”
One of the body washers joined me in the grave. The other men stepped forward and lifted him. Mother shrieked. The children, terrified, clung to her for dear life and cried in a louder voice.
Leila, who had been in my keeping these past few days, was now in hysterics, but I couldn’t comfort her, as I was focused entirely on mother. If Ali had been there, I thought, things would have been easier. Mother’s shrieks sent shivers down my entire body. My mind stopped working. I didn’t know whether to climb out of the grave and embrace her or what. I was at a loss. It was unbearable seeing her like that. There had always been a mysterious bond between us; whenever she was away from home, visiting relatives for example, I wasn’t myself until she returned. That was how much I felt her absence. Now that she was writhing on the ground that way, I was coming apart body and soul. My heart was in agony and it was hard to breathe—as if someone had taken all the oxygen from the air. I looked to sky in the hope of finding relief, but the world around me had gone dark. The air was thick with dust. All I could say was: “Mother, I swear for the love of father’s soul, calm down! For the sake of the blessed Zeynab, control yourself. These poor children are having a fit seeing you this way!”
My swearing like that turned her shrieks into quiet sobbing. Parvizpur and one or two others lifted the body and handed it to me and the old man. I took father’s head, pressed it to my chest and kissed him. But I couldn’t take it any longer. I was physically and spiritually drained. My head felt like it was in a vice, while the rest of me was totally lifeless. Unable even to cry, in a husky voice I said, “I can’t do it. Somebody help me.”
One of the men slid into the grave and took the body by the waist. Then he called on the others to help. Zeynab and Leila grabbed me and hoisted me from the grave, otherwise I wouldn’t have climbed out myself. Once out of the hole, however, I felt weak and collapsed in a heap. I still managed to crawl to the edge of the grave, where I had my last look at father, whose face was uncovered as they recited in Arabic over his body. The recitations gave me the feeling Judgment Day had come.
There was a saying from Imam Khomeini that I had seen written on a wall of the Imam Sadeq Mosque: “The red line of martyrdom is the lineage of Ali in the Family of the Prophet.” The memory of that sentiment, so full of beauty and meaning, made me for a moment ashamed of feeling so sorry for myself. I pulled myself together. One of the soldiers who had been with father during his last moments told me in a quivering voice how he had sworn to avenge the Seyyed’s blood. Even if ordered to retreat, he said, he would not leave Khorramshahr and allow the Iraqis to trample on the martyrs’ remains. As the soldier spoke, an old Kurdish poem that father used to recite when I was a child came to my mind: “It’s time for war, my belt is full of bullets … let my enemy beware.”
Someone in the grave said to mother, “Lady Seyyed, it’s time to come and ask the Seyyed’s forgiveness.”
Mother wailed, “What sins I have committed that I should beg for forgiveness from him? He’s the one who should ask me for forgiveness.” Nevertheless, she sat by the grave and said, “Seyyed, I have a long list of sins and I beg your forgiveness. I tried to be a partner in all the good times and the bad times in your life. If I failed in any way, please forgive me. Forgive me if I caused you any pain. Whatever goodness or evil we’ve had, forgive me. Be content with me and, God willing, the Lord will be content with you.”
These words pierced my heart. Mother and father—both of them endured so much hardship, having been orphaned as children, which was harder on mother than it was on father; girls feel the loss more than boys.
As they were arranging the gravestones, my heart was in turmoil. I sat by the grave, clawing the earth, breaking up the clods. All the while my eyes, my whole being, were fixed on the corpse.
With the stones finally in place, I had to face the fact that there was no hope of seeing father again. Mother, who had finished her asking for forgiveness, was now staring vacantly in silence. It seemed that the shrieking had taken all the life from her. She would whimper from time to time, though.
All my senses were trained on father until they put the final stone in place and they began to shovel dirt on him. I couldn’t stand to be there any longer. I rose with difficulty; my legs wouldn’t hold the weight, but somehow I managed to walk away from the grave. But as I got closer to where the soldiers and the others were standing, I felt that what I had done was not right. I returned to the grave and began shoveling earth on it with my hands, saying under my breath, “Sleep well, father, sleep well. It’s finally time to rest.”
To be continued …
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