Khizr
Selected by: The Oral History Website
Translated by Kianoush Borzouei
2025-04-23
In the final days of Esfand (late March), news arrived from the Karbala Headquarters instructing us to swiftly dismantle all our installations and proceed toward the western front. The announcement was both abrupt and unexpected. Our first destination was Ahvaz, where we were to receive further instructions. Brother Jokar was entrusted with leading the first convoy, while I was to assume responsibility for the rest.
After completing preliminary preparations, we set off from the southern region toward the west. Upon passing through Ahvaz and reaching Islamabad, we obtained the coordinates of the designated area from the Najaf Headquarters. Along with two other brothers—Rasti and Kashkuli—I departed ahead of the others, riding in a Land Cruiser toward the specified location. After crossing Gilan-e Gharb, we proceeded through winding, mountainous dirt roads en route to Sheikh Saleh. After several exhausting and famished hours, we finally arrived.
From all indications, a military operation seemed imminent. This prospect filled us with passion and anticipation, and as we advanced, our excitement only grew. Eventually, we reached the assigned site, a military camp. As we continued navigating the rugged mountain roads, my eyes caught a sign marking the distance to Do-Ab. We soon arrived at the Do-Ab River, where troops were already engaged in operational preparations. At this point, I was nearly certain that a large-scale offense was forthcoming.
When we reunited with comrades who had arrived before us, our joy was palpable. After a brief rest and a modest meal, we were informed that the previous night, our forces had penetrated enemy defenses along one axis and had advanced forward.
Not long after, we were tasked with constructing two Khizr[1] bridges over the river dam at Bandijan. It was an immensely challenging mission. The river’s turbulent current severely hindered our efforts, and enemy aircraft repeatedly bombarded our positions several times a day. Nonetheless, the iron resolve and unwavering spirit of our fighters rendered these hardships insignificant. Though preparations were underway, we had to wait two more days for the newly constructed road—being built by our comrades from the Jihad unit—to reach the bridge site. In the meantime, we collaborated with the IRGC to transfer their equipment.These bridges had to be ready for the Najaf Division’s crossing.
As the road gradually approached completion, I accompanied the commander of the Najaf Ashraf Division by boat to survey the location and plan the bridge installation. The site was identified, but two serious threats loomed over the operation: the relentless river current and enemy airstrikes. There was no alternative—we had to press on.
While transporting the pontoon segments, we came under repeated aerial assaults, targeted by rockets and cluster bombs. Despite this, the men remained steadfast in their commitment. On the eve of Nowruz 1367 (March 1988), against all odds, we managed to float a few sections of the bridge onto the water. I then joined the driver and an assistant to tow the pieces into position. Everyone was tirelessly working, with not a single moment of rest. Some were transporting military equipment, others escorting prisoners, and still others helping the local tribes from the liberated areas reach safety behind the frontlines.
As I glanced back for one last time at the tent that had served us as shelter and bunker, I suddenly noticed smoke engulfing the area around me. I could no longer remain standing, nor make the slightest movement. My body was burning in pain, and blood poured from my wounds. I realized I had collapsed. There was no one around—only God could come to my aid. I looked around; not a soul in sight. I prepared myself for martyrdom and recited the Shahadatayn (Islamic declaration of faith). My chief concern was to remain mindful of God in what I believed were my final moments, fearing that pain or injury might lead me to forget Him.
An excruciating pain overwhelmed my entire being. My tongue was paralyzed, and darkness shrouded my vision. In a corner of the pontoon, I noticed another brother wounded by shrapnel. I then realized the pontoon had become disabled, and the river’s current was dragging us toward enemy lines. Those were heartbreaking moments. I began to regain some awareness: several pieces of shrapnel had pierced my side, reaching beneath the skin of my abdomen, and others had struck my right leg.
I caught sight of our base and our comrades. A number of the wounded lay scattered across the area, writhing in pain. I felt utterly powerless—incapable of moving or doing anything to help. Any sudden motion risked capsizing the boat and drowning us. The pontoon was steadily drifting toward enemy territory. Death felt imminent, though the thought of martyrdom remained sweet.
Suddenly, I heard a voice. I turned and saw a boat approaching. As it neared, I discovered that two teenage Basij volunteers were aboard. One of them climbed into our pontoon and, with considerable effort, transferred me and another wounded brother to their boat and headed for the shore. Upon reaching land, I was taken to the division's field emergency unit.
After a grueling journey through mountainous, treacherous roads, I was finally brought to a field hospital nestled among the peaks. The doctor examined me and ordered that I be airlifted to Bakhtaran by helicopter. However, due to a lack of space, I was instead transported by ambulance. In the middle of severe thirst, pain, and hemorrhaging, we endured a two-hour journey through rugged terrain before arriving at Imam Hussein Hospital in Bakhtaran.
When I regained consciousness, I found myself in a hospital bed with several tubes connected to my body. My abdomen and one leg were heavily bandaged. At the time, I had no idea where the shrapnel had struck, though later the doctor informed me that it had penetrated part of my liver, lung, and diaphragm, resulting in the loss of my gallbladder, and had also damaged two vertebrae in my spine.
No one from my acquaintances had any knowledge of my condition. Since I had been injured while aboard the pontoon, my friends presumed I had been martyred and had searched the river for my body. On the first day of Nowruz 1367, while the New Year’s program was being broadcast on the radio, none of my family members knew where I was or whether I was alive.
Three days later, I was airlifted by military aircraft to Isfahan and admitted to Shahid Chamran Hospital for further treatment. After a few days, at my own request, I was transferred to Shahid Faghihi Hospital in Shiraz. Following a long period of partial recovery, I was eventually discharged and returned to the frontlines.[2]
[1] A type of semi-floating bridge that moves across water using steel cables and a tractor, capable of transporting heavy equipment.
[2] Hamadani, A.K., Memoirs of War Veterans, published by the Cultural, Social, and Artistic Affairs Office of the Foundation of the Oppressed and Disabled Veterans of the Islamic Revolution, 1991, p. 121.
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