Da (Mother) 132
The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra HoseyniSeyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman
2025-01-12
Da (Mother) 132
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
***
Once we were driving home when a mortar round or a shell—I don’t remember which—hit our house, destroying a good part of the second story and collapsing the ceiling of the first. The house was a shambles with dirt and debris everywhere. We had to find another place to live.
Mrs. Musavi and Mrs. Eqbal Pur had gone to Ahvaz, but I was left homeless in Abadan. We found a place in Braym, a spacious neighborhood with a desert feel to it, where workers for Abadan radio and television had been housed. There were seventeen houses in all: eight pairs of attached duplex villas and one home larger than the others, apparently the residence of the network head.
Each pair of houses was separated from the next by an open triangular area. The homes had three entrances and raised terraces lined with flowerpots. There were tables and chairs on the terraces. The homes had roomy, green backyards, and there was a large park in the neighborhood with a playground for children. Rows of boxwoods ensured privacy. The English-style homes stood on asphalt lanes that branched off from the main road. On the first floor were a kitchen, storage closets, a large hall, a living room, and a full bath. The living room opened onto the terrace. Steps led down from the terrace to the lawn. On the second floor, over the kitchen, was a bedroom. A hallway led from the bedroom to a bridging walkway to another full bath. The homes had been abandoned since the outbreak of the war. The residents had carted away all their personal possessions, leaving behind only large pieces of furniture. We arranged to have our things moved to the new home. The place was filthy, but were no rats—they probably hadn’t been able find anything to eat. It was teeming with geckos, though. The first time I saw one of these creatures, I jumped on the hall table and stayed there until Habib killed it. Then he went after the others and managed to get rid of about eight of them.
With a lot of effort we managed to clean up the place. Shock waves from the bomb blasts had shattered all the glass in the picture windows lining the place. Habib replaced them with thick black plastic sheeting, which gave us privacy and protected us from the rain and wind. The front door had been knocked off its hinges by a mortar round. We replaced it by nailing a sheet of waterproof canvas and a blanket to the doorframe and made the kitchen door the new entrance to the house. Every once in a while, a mortar shell would knock out the power. Repairmen would come and restore it, and then there would be another round and then another.
Water trickled from a faucet at the side of the house. The pressure was so low it took an hour to wash the pots. When people in the adjoining house were using water, ours would stop completely. Soon even the trickle from our spigot ceased. We were told the main supply had been shut off. Every few days, tankers from the army came around to fill the cisterns. After they hooked up the pipes from the central source, water flowed by itself again, but since the well in our kitchen was blocked up and we had no way of unclogging it, water backed up regularly, and the house filled with sewer gas. The kitchen stove didn’t work, and there was no refrigerator.
A few months after we moved in, I became a mother, which under normal conditions was difficult, but under these was almost impossible. It was the height of summer, and by 8:00 a.m. temperatures would reach 135, leaving me with no choice but to cook outside over an open fire on the lawn. Habib would say to me, “There’s no need for you to work like that and put so much pressure on yourself.”
“I’m not doing anything here to help. You’re the soldier. At least allow me to look after you.”
But he wouldn’t listen, and on days he was home he did all the washing, even my clothes. Nevertheless, when he wasn’t home, I tried my best—hard as it was—to do housework. There were times, however, when the pain in my back was so bad I couldn’t move; it felt like I had a needle in my spine. Often I had to sweep the house crawling on all fours.
Our house was located on the edge of the development. It wasn’t the safest place because Hypocrites were always prowling around and knocking on doors to see if the men were at home. They were particularly curious about the houses in the raido and television development because they knew military families were living in them. In time I knew all the women in the neighborhood. Either we had been friends before or we had been introduced through our husbands. We visited back and forth regularly.
Among all these friends, the person I would say I was closest to was Batul Kazeruni.
We met one day when Tahereh Bandari Zadeh came by, saying, “Come, let’s go to Batul’s house.”
“Who’s Batul?” I asked.
“Saleh Musavi’s wife.”
“I’ve heard of her, but I don’t think we’ve met.”
I put on my chador and we walked to Batul’s house, which was in the middle of the development next to the Bandari Zadehs’. To the best of my memory, it was April around the time they were going through initial stages of Operation Beyt al-Moqaddas. As we walked mortar rounds went off everywhere, peppering the area with shrapnel. Tahereh and I would stop and point to the places where the metal landed. I looked up and saw Javad Kazeruni standing at a window, making gestures and angrily shouting at us to get out of the way.
We paid no attention. “Let him shout,” Tahereh said.
When we were inside, Javad growled, “Are you two tired of living, or what? Didn’t you notice it was raining mortars out there?”
Ignoring him, we went to Batul’s room, and, the minute I saw her, it hit me: she and I had gotten into an argument back in Tehran. It happened before I was married, during Moharram. I had gone to Mr. Mohammadi’s apartment for a visit. They had been moved from their place at the officer’s college to a building across from Laleh Park. The building had two sections: one for the martyr families and the other for refugees.
Since all the residents of the building were Khuzestani, they were holding the mourning ceremonies the way they did back home. I had gone to Mr. Mohammadi’s building to take part in the ceremonies. It was the eve of the tenth day of Moharram, and I saw a good-looking young woman with a lively sense of humor talking and laughing with the women around her. Offended by seeing someone telling jokes on such a solemn occasion, I was furious and yelled at her, “You think this is funny? We’re supposed to be mourning the death of the Martyr. If you want to make jokes, go home and let the other people mourn his death.”
Things got out of hand, and they called in security. We went to the guard office, where the matter was settled. Now I found myself the guest of the same woman with her lively sense of humor.
Batul was in a bad way. She was at her wits end with her baby Hajar. She said, “She won’t sleep, so I have to stay up with her all night.” Weak from lack of sleep, she fell behind in her chores. Although neither of us brought up the incident, it was embarrassing to be in the same room with her. I tried to make up for it by doing housework for her. Our friendship dates back to that time. One day we were talking and joking, and Batul, a very blunt and straightforward person, asked, “Do you remember that night?”
“Yeah, may it rest in peace!”
“You were really serious, huh?”
“Yeah, but you just wouldn’t stop carrying on.”
With preparations for Operation Beyt al-Moqaddas in their final stages, Habib begged me to go back to Tehran.
I said, “I’m staying.” Faithful to the vow he had made to let me be with him wherever he was, Habib didn’t pursue the matter. He only said, “Whatever you think best, but I feel it’d be safer if you went away.”
Leila had gotten married shortly after I did and had moved to Isfahan. A few days before the operation, Leila’s husband, Hoseyn Ta’i Nezhad, came to our house and asked Habib, “Why is she still here?”
“She’s intent on staying.”
“Meaning what? She’s said she’s staying, and that’s that?”
“I can’t convince her she should go.”
Turning to me, Hoseyn said, “It’s not right for you to stay. Habib’ll be worried about you. There’s nobody to look after you. The sector is very dangerous. It’s not just your life that’s at stake here!”
We went back and forth like that for a while, but, knowing I couldn’t say no to my brother-in-law, I finally gave in. Hoseyn said, “Go to Isfahan and spend a few days with your sister. She’s all by herself. But don’t go anywhere for now. Wait until we come for you.”
Habib’s duties prevented him from taking me to Isfahan himself. After a few days Hoseyn came and drove me there. I hadn’t seen Leila in five months, but since I was only able to stay with her for a few days, I soon found myself stuck in Tehran again.
With the start of operations, they stopped all nonmilitary traffic in and out of the war zone. My exit and entry permits were revoked, and I couldn’t even get through by telephone or by mail. Every once in a while, I got an inkling of what was happening from soldiers convalescing in the hospitals.
Khorramshahr was finally liberated on May 24, 1982, at 2:00 p.m. It was difficult to express what we felt hearing the news. Cries of joy echoed throughout our building, and people hugged and cried for joy. Passersby and neighbors from Tehran congratulated us. Everyone was delirious. We left the building and saw that office workers had left their desks and taken to the streets to celebrate. There was pandemonium. I stopped a van in the street and hopped on with the kids in tow. I told the driver to go to Jamaran, but we weren’t able to see the Imam because he was meeting with officials. They wouldn’t let us in no matter what we said. We weren’t the only ones; many people had come to congratulate the Imam and express their joy. We went back to the city in the same van and went around the streets. Tehran was a madhouse. Wherever we went, people were handing out sweets and offering sherbet. Drivers drove with their lights on and honked their horns. Many people were waving Iranian flags. During those moments, memories of the martyrs came to mind, and when tears of sadness mixed with cries of joy it was a thing of beauty. The feeling of what it was like to be in that special moment is impossible to describe.
The day of celebration came to an end, but we still didn’t have any word from the front. I kept cursing myself for being persuaded to come to Tehran. I wanted to be there to celebrate. The first thing I said to Habib when I finally made contact was that I wanted to return to Abadan.
Mohsen and I wasted no time and went back. Not all the ladies of the radio and television neighborhood had returned, but the female soldiers were there.
Many of the men from Khorramshahr were killed during Operation Beyt al-Moqaddas. Among the martyrs were Gholam Reza, Ali Reza Abkar, Abdol Reza Musavi (Jahan Ara’s successor as commander), and Esma’il Khosravi, Rabab Husori’s husband. Rabab gave birth to their daughter Vadi’eh several days after her husband’s martyrdom.
Habib replaced Mahmud Rabi’i as the person in charge of the Moharrezi district. During the occupation of Khorramshahr, the area was actually the first line of defense for Iranian forces against the Iraqis. Most of the military and officials who visited the sector came to Moharrezi. Ayatollah Khameneh’i and Mr. Mahdavi Kani both came on inspection tours. Because the district was considered a battle zone, entry was strictly forbidden to civilians, especially women. Nevertheless, I insisted Habib take me there. He hated the idea, but when he saw I had my heart set on at least going to the Abadan-Khorramshahr Highway, he took me to the area below Airport Circle.
The End of Chapter Thirty-Five
To be continued …
Number of Visits: 16
http://oral-history.ir/?page=post&id=12334