Da (Mother) 95
The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra HoseyniSeyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman
2024-04-28
Da (Mother) 95
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
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Twenty Six: Fed Up and Unnerved
After father’s death, working at Jannatabad was no longer a priority. The number of corpses had decreased, and to me keeping the living alive was more important. Nevertheless, whenever I did stop by and there was a body to attend to, I would do what was necessary. The searing pain caused by the death of father and Ali had made it more difficult to tolerate the work. I no longer had the patience to slave away at the body washers’. In the past I would stay from dawn when I entered the building until perhaps the evening call to prayer. But now I couldn’t sit still. Seeing those mangled faces and bodies or hearing the bombardments had eroded my patience. I had seen things that were beyond imagination. Shrapnel hitting children in the stomach, making their intestines spill out. A few women, in addition to having stomachs torn open, had their kidneys come out as well. There was one case so awful it made even me want to get away from the patient. The head and legs were so badly crushed we couldn’t tell how old the person was. It appeared a mortar had blown off on his head, leaving no part of the body intact. They didn’t wash it, just rubbed it in earth and shrouded it; but so much blood flowed from the corpse that the shroud became soaked. They said, “Place it in a corner to let the blood dry, and we’ll shroud it again.”
When I first saw that corpse, my heart broke, but I couldn’t go near it. Eventually, as I dragged it to where it would dry, I managed to speak to it directly: “Why did you stay in the city only to suffer like this? Why didn’t you let them evacuate you? Where were you going? Wherever it was, there was no escaping the hand of fate! It’s a good thing that you left this world as a martyr, so now you’ll be buried as one.” My rage was now coming to a boil, and I shouted: “Goddamn you, Saddam! May God strike you dead! Why did there have to be war? Why do I have to be here now? How long do I have to bear this? How long do I have to go on seeing these things?” Suddenly my ears and face felt like they were on fire. I stop dragging the body and, in tears, declared, “I’m fed up. I can’t take it any more in this damned morgue. I’ll never set foot in here again.”
I pounded the door open and stormed out of the building. Zeynab went with me. I ran where no one would find me, but Zeynab followed. She took me by the arm and pulled me toward her. I tried to push her away, but she wouldn’t let me and hugged my head and kissed me. As she caressed me, she said, “You have every right to be fed up. We’re all tired and have had it. Anybody in your shoes would be worse off, but, Zahra my dear, what else can we do? I have an idea. Stay away for a while. Don’t come to work.” Then, after a short pause, she said, “I’m sure you won’t be able to keep away. But it would be better now if you do.”
Sobbing, I said, “No. That’s impossible.”
“So, what then? What should I do for you?”
I was ashamed of the way I acted toward Zeynab. I promised myself I would try to keep my emotions in check, but that was impossible. I believe it was around the October 12, 1980, one of those days at the body washers’ like the rest when my emotions had gotten the better of me. My nerves were shot. I remember having a bowl or a length of cloth in my hand and throwing it across the room and leaving. Again it was Zeynab who followed me out, but this time she didn’t catch up to me. I ran so fast I was short of breath. I stopped and, after calming down, started to walk. I asked myself: Poor thing, who do you think you’re running away from? From yourself? From the martyrs? Who? I started crying again, bawling with my eyes closed. When I opened them, I found myself in front of our home. I unlocked the door and went inside the yard. I wanted with my whole being for father and Ali to be there. Seeing them would restore my composure. I wanted to embrace and kiss them, insist they take me with them. But entering the yard, my hopes were dashed. Of course, there was no sign of them. I didn’t want to go inside the house. I looked into the hall through the window. Our things were where we left them, but there was a layer of dust on everything. Seeing the furniture reminded me that every once in a while, we dragged it all, huffing and puffing, out into the yard. We beat the dust out of the carpets and the furniture with sticks. I would be in a cleaning frenzy until the whole house was spic and span. Then, with the house full of guests and so much noise I couldn’t hear myself think, I relaxed.
I stood by the garden. All of the flowers and shrubs had died. Even the Shah Pasands, denied water, withered. All of a sudden I thought of what mother was going through. I had no idea where she was, which made me feel worse. I stood in that deserted and hushed place until I couldn’t stand it any more and left. There was no one in the alleys. Not even a bird was stirring. It was getting dark, and everything was bathed in the reddish light of sunset. I passed grandfather’s home and peeked in. As I surveyed the house, I realized how much I missed him and grandmother.
I didn’t have the strength to walk all the way down Ordibehesht Avenue to the mosque, so I took a shortcut through the date grove behind the flour mill, hoping to emerge at the Mohammadi florist on the Forty-Meter Road. I could hear whispers in the fearsome silence of the grove. It felt like I was about to have a heart attack. I listened intently. It appeared to be the sound of two or three people speaking softly, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I tried to control my fear, telling myself that I was imagining things. Nevertheless, I began to run.
A little farther on, I saw several uniforms lying at the base of some trees. I was certain they were Iraqi uniforms because of the dark green color. The boys said that they were Israeli. I had heard that when the Iraqis entered the city, they would change their uniforms and go around the city gathering information in different uniforms or dishdashas. Seeing these uniforms, I was certain the whispering I heard hadn’t been my imagination. Upon seeing me, they got to their feet and continued to whisper among themselves. I thought to myself: The thugs would soon have me surrounded.
With these thoughts swirling in my mind, I was gripped by a fear I had never before experienced. I wanted to run away, but didn’t have the strength. It was as if my feet were nailed to the ground. I took a grenade from my pocket and got ready to pull the pin the moment I saw anyone. I began to run and pray at the same time, like someone chased by wolves. I cut through the grove to Ordibehesht Avenue and kept on running until I reached the mosque. Afraid the men would start in on me again for going out alone and putting myself in danger, I didn’t tell anybody about what had happened.
End of Chapter Twenty Six
To be continued …
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