Da (Mother) 117
The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra HoseyniSeyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman
2024-09-29
Da (Mother) 117
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
***
We were about to start out on the road to camp when a jeep showed up with the same commandos, thirsting for our blood. They were just as stunned to see us as we were to see them. They pulled up, blocking our way and, asking nobody in particular, “How come they’re out?”
One of them asked, “What are you doing here? Didn’t we hand you over last night?”
Sabah said, “What are you doing here yourselves? Shouldn’t you guys be at the front instead of cruising around town?”
“Still mouthing off, huh?” he said.
“Didn’t you know? They executed us yesterday,” I said. “We’re ghosts, you see, looking for revenge. Now mind your own business!”
Fearing another flare-up, Zohreh and Ashraf tugged at my sleeve and pulled me away. At the same time, they shouted, “Why don’t you leave us alone? What do you want from us, blood? You’ve had your fun, so now go about your business!”
I started to walk away and the other girls followed, but the men wouldn’t stop their taunts, trying to provoke us into defending ourselves. Finally they said, “Yellow-bellies, how come you’re sitting here behind the lines?”
I turned around and said, “There’s only one answer for fools: silence.”
We reached the road and got a ride to camp. I was shamefaced, walking home. What would I tell mother if she asked where we had been the previous night? I prayed she wouldn’t be home and shared my worries with the others. They said, “Tell her the truth. We were supposed to go by hovercraft, but it broke down. They told us to wait till it was fixed. We stayed there till morning, but it was still broken. Then they told us to go home, and promised to let us know when to return.” This way we wouldn’t be lying but, at the same time, we wouldn’t be telling the whole truth.
Luckily mother wasn’t home when we entered. The boys said she had gone to wash dishes. All the same it bothered my conscience to have to keep part of what happened the previous night from mother so she wouldn’t get upset. On the other hand, I knew if she felt it was dangerous, there was no way she’d give us her blessings when we wanted to leave again. She had only to say something like, “You make me regret nursing you when you were a baby.” This never failed to get me to cave in.
Mother was surprised to see us. I explained what happened the way the girls said. She said nothing. I considered it a good thing to have the girls around for several reasons. First, it increased my chances of going to Abadan. Second, mother had to be hospitable to them. But they sensed what was going on between her and me. After lunch when they tried to leave, I made them stay. I told them I was certain Yaddi would arrange something for us.
In the evening we took a tour of the camp. Again we saw families being turned away from the aid tent. Women were wailing and begging pathetically for God’s help. Seeing the crowds and the chaos in front of the tent we felt we had to do something. We walked to the tent that served as a makeshift clinic, and said, “We want to help.” We wrote down the names of the sixty or so people waiting there, and assigned them numbers. That way they took turns rather than trying to rush inside. We took advantage of being there to speak to some of the refugees. They opened their hearts to us. With people taking turns, the work at the clinic went more smoothly, and we soon went back home.
That night we waited and waited for word from Yaddi and his comrades, but none came. The next morning, the girls said goodbye, and I walked with them to the road. It was very distressing to think we might never see one another again. I could barely speak. Sensing how choked up I was, they tried to cheer me up by joking. Finally they boarded the minibus and left. I stood by the road until the bus was out of sight and cried. I felt abandoned in a world of suffering, and, on top of that, my back and legs began to give me trouble. I hadn’t given them a thought to that point. I wanted to sit in a corner somewhere and cry my eyes out. I felt I had to get to Abadan somehow or I’d be stuck in the camp forever. The more I thought about it, the more I held onto the hope of going back.
I wandered around the camp and found myself at the aid tent. There was a crowd as usual. I told the same man we had spoken to the day before I would do anything to help. I handed out numbers until 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. and monitored the coming and going of patients. I also translated for Arabic-speakers and explained the prescriptions to them.
There seemed to be no end to the flow of patients.
As soon as I got home, I sprawled out on a cushion. “Where were you?” asked mother.
“At the aid tent.”
“Does your back hurt?” she asked anxiously.
“No. I went there to help out. They fed me.” As we sat around having tea, mother’s expression told me she was happy having Leila and me around. It had been quite a while since we had tea together. I looked closely at her face. She seemed demoralized, as though she never smiled any more. I got the feeling if it weren’t for the children, she wouldn’t do any housework, not even prepare meals.
After tea I played soldiers with Hasan and Sa’id, and I gave Zeynab a piggyback ride, which made her roar with laughter. The boys followed us, laughing as I limped around the room with her on my back. Distressed by this, mother said to me, “Put her down before you injure yourself.” But seeing Sa’id, Hasan, and Zeynab so happy and giggling, I didn’t have the heart to stop.
Just before sundown, one of our neighbors popped in to say two soldiers had come looking for us. Mother, Leila, and I went out and saw Yaddi with one of his runner friends. The neighbors thought they were bringing news of Ali’s death. They stared at us anxiously, waiting to see what would happen. Once, when mother was out fulfilling a vow she had made to be charitable in father’s name, I had told some neighbors about Ali. Word of his death spread around the neighborhood. After the usual greetings, Yaddi told me he was only able to get two passes. The next morning two of us would be able to go to Abadan by helicopter or launch. When he asked about Zohreh, Sabah, and Ashraf, I told him they had left. Then I asked, “What time should Leila and I be at the jetty?”
“You don’t have to bother coming on your own; we’ll pick you up.”
Then he added, “For God’s sake, if you see those other commandos, keep your distance. They’re up to no good.”
Mother asked Yaddi about Ali. Uncomfortable with lying, he looked at me and then said to mother, “God willing he’ll be back. Don’t worry. But it’s war. He can’t just drop what he’s doing and come.”
After they left, we went back inside. Leila and I were hugging each other deliriously. Mother growled, “So the enemy did us a favor by destroying the family, killing your father—you two are so happy about going back to the front. God knows how joyful you’d be if they hadn’t done it.”
That night I stopped in at Uncle Nad Ali’s to say goodbye. He was against our going back, saying, “There’s work for you in the camp and, besides, if you stay you can look after your mother and the kids.” But I was determined to go and help with caring for the wounded. In my travels, I had gotten to know the nurses at the Taleqani and Abadan Oil Company hospitals.
They would definitely welcome an extra hand. Zohreh and Sabah confirmed this when they said, “After the fall of Khorramshahr, the nurses went to Taleqani Hospital.”
The next morning after prayer, Leila and I got ready. We kissed the sleeping kids; I didn’t have the heart to wake them. Even before sunrise mother had breakfast prepared. We were busy eating when we heard the sound of a jeep pulling up. We jumped to our feet. I hugged mother and rapidly repeated the instructions I had given her before. She barely managed to get a word in edgewise, but pleaded, “I beg you, tell Ali to come.” “Sure. Sure,” I said and kissed her goodbye. Walking to the road, I kept looking back at her. Seeing her cover her mouth with her scarf, I realized she couldn’t stop crying again. Having the girls and the two of us with her for the past days had kept her emotions in check, but now she was drowning in grief. But having nearly gotten myself killed for a chance to get back to the front, I wasn’t about to let it slip through my hands now.
It was fully light when we got to the jetty. Soon a Chinook landed, and people boarded in the order that their names were called. Next, they loaded the munitions, medical supplies, and stretchers. After a tank entered the hold, the helicopter took off, sending up a cloud of dust and debris and putting a chop on the water by the shore.
Our turn to board came around 10:00, when an air force helicopter appeared. Around forty people crammed into it, sitting on two rows of benches or on the floor. Among the passengers I saw seven or eight women army nurses. Leila and I were the only civilians. Others were mostly military, oil workers, or hospital personnel. The helicopter wobbled a bit before gaining altitude. The sound of the motors and whirl of the blades drowned out everything. I looked out the window. Though we weren’t far from the town of Chu’ebdeh, there was water as far as the eye could see. The pilot had chosen to give a wide berth to enemy radar and antiaircraft. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have taken a route over land. He also varied his altitude during the flight. In addition to the pilot and co-pilot, a flight engineer and two attendants were in the crew. The engineer and the attendants sat with us and were in touch with the pilot with headphones. When the helicopter jerked sharply, causing us to lose our balance, they said, “Don’t worry. It’s just turbulence.” I whispered to Leila jokingly, “Was this a good idea getting on this helicopter, or what?”
When we arrived in Abadan, my first thought was to get in touch with a unit called Warriors of the Southern Front. When I had been at the Nemazi Hospital in Shiraz, I heard that Mr. Mesbah and some others had formed the unit at the Congregational Mosque. They arranged courses in guerilla warfare for people on their way to the front. It made me very happy to see the word “warrior” in the name. Previously we had referred to them as “urban militia” or “defenders.” “Warrior” seemed far more fitting under the circumstances.
To be continued …
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