An Excerpt from the Memoirs of Masoumeh Ramhormozi

The Blessed Month of Ramadan at the Front

Compiled by Fa’ezeh Sasanikhah
Translated by Fazel Shirzad

2026-03-10

In August 1981, the enemy’s fifth column was active in the border villages, and reports of their movements frequently reached us. Several patients had come from the village of Bechachreh near Arvandkenar and told us about their hardships. The villagers lived with the barest means, and diseases were spreading widely among them. At the same time, the enemy’s informants moved freely there, passing the fighters’ information to the Iraqis. Only a small number of Tribal Committee members were stationed in the area, lacking the strength to counter such activities.

Shahnaz Vatankhah, one of the volunteer medics from Khorramshahr, spoke with me and said:

 “Ramhormozi, let’s do something for this village and convey their problems to the officials.”

Shahnaz was a high‑school teacher who, after the outbreak of war, had volunteered as a nurse in Taleghani Hospital. She had three sisters (Sabah, Saleheh, and Fowzieh) all of whom also worked there as emergency aides. After hearing her suggestion, I began thinking about how to report the villagers’ suffering. At the time, Mr. Abbas Bagheri, brother of Iraj Bagheri, was the commander of the Tribes Committee in Abadan. Iraj’s wife, Mrs. Fatemi, was a close friend of ours. I used this connection and explained the matter to Mr. Bagheri. He agreed and said that the problems were due to the widespread military operations along the borders and the shortage of local manpower. He advised us to raise the issue with higher officials to find solutions for the affected villages.

Shahnaz and I visited Mr. Safati, the parliamentary representative of Abadan. We spoke with his office director, and it was decided that when Mr. Safati next came to Abadan, we would meet him and, if possible, accompany him to inspect the villages. The hospital staff teased us:

“You two have turned political! Please, while you’re at it, tell the honorable representative about our hospital’s problems too!”

Ignoring the jokes, we pursued the matter seriously. When Mr. Safati arrived in Abadan, Mr. Bavarsad, his office manager, contacted us and arranged a meeting. We presented the villagers’ main issues (poor healthcare, lack of security, and food shortages). At the time, his office was located in a company house in Station No. 6, where the meetings were held. It was agreed that Mr. Abbas Bagheri, Shahnaz Vatankhah, and I would visit Bechachreh and several other villages and report back.

On one of the hot days of August, we set out. The route passed through Golestan‑e Shohada Road toward Arvandkenar, about 40 km from Abadan. It was Ramadan, and both Shahnaz and I were fasting. We had to return to the hospital before noon. We reached the village around 9 a.m.

Bechachreh was beautiful (crisscrossed by small and large canals). A wide stream ran through its center where villagers moved about with small wooden boats (balams). They drank, cooked, and washed from this same water. They were humble, hard‑working people who refused to abandon their homes despite the dangers.

To receive medical treatment, they had to go to Abadan and visit one of three hospitals (Shahid Beheshti, Taleghani, or Imam Khomeini ) run by the Oil Company). The last was closer, but some patients came all the way to ours. They were terrified of the enemy’s fifth column and could not rest at night. Most villagers didn’t speak Persian, so one member of the Tribal Committee served as our interpreter. The Basij post was a clay house where about ten local volunteers served.

That visit left a deep impression on me. I resolved to continue following up on the villages’ problems alongside my work in the hospital. I told myself:

“We must all stand by these steadfast people who have stayed on the frontlines.”

By late morning, we rushed back to the hospital in a light‑blue Jeep Ahou. The sun’s rays pierced the windshield; if we opened the windows, the hot wind lashed our faces. Thirst tormented us. There were still about eight hours until sunset. Fasting under the 50°C southern heat is far harder than anywhere else.

I remembered the first year I was required to fast. Ramadan had fallen in a hot month (for in Khuzestan, spring begins in February, and by mid‑April it is already summer). Air conditioners worked nonstop, and the heat never relented. That year, I fasted only one week. I used to wear a scarf during the day and remove it after breaking my fast, laughing at those early days (when I thought my fast would be invalid without hijab). “From dawn to dusk I was a Muslim,” I told myself, “and at sunset, I was free.”

After the Revolution, when I was twelve years old, I joined my brother Esmail, Shahrbano Sediqeh, and my friend Shahla Sayahi, along with the Jihad and IRGC volunteers, to rebuild houses for the poor and receive basic military training.

It was summer 1979, again during Ramadan, when we went to the villages. We would return home in the afternoon, pale as corpses, collapsing before the air cooler and sometimes crying from thirst. We were too young and too weak for the long fasts. My mother prepared the table for iftar and placed four full glasses beside my plate and Esmail’s: one of lemon sherbet, one of basil seed drink, one of khakshir (herbal seed drink), and one of doogh (yogurt drink). Water was in the center.

At the first Allahu‑Akbar of the call to prayer, I would drain all four glasses. My mother used to say:

“First drink the khakshir to prevent heatstroke, then the basil seed drink. Save the doogh and lemon sherbet for dinner.”

But my body cried out for plain water. I drank so much that I would collapse beside the table with stomach pain.

That scorching August day, there was no mother waiting to prepare iftar and no table spread before me. I had to endure until the call to prayer (and afterward, as the saying goes, ‘Whatever comes from a friend is sweet).’

When we reached Taleghani Hospital, I felt awful: dizzy, weak, and nauseated. I barely managed to say goodbye to Mr. Bagheri before everything went black and I fainted. Shahnaz wasn’t much better.

After a year of war and chronic malnutrition, such weakness was common. They carried me to the emergency ward, where doctors found my blood pressure dangerously low and my body dehydrated. The physician ordered an IV glucose‑saline drip, and I lay on a stretcher for hours. I didn’t break my fast; I endured until sunset, praying Maghrib while seated from fatigue.[1]

That night, bread, cheese, watermelon, and water became a heavenly feast. I discovered how delicious simple food could be. A day or two later, we submitted our report to Mr. Safati’s office. He promised to help — and fortunately, after the breaking of Abadan’s siege, new organizations were assigned to support the villages, taking meaningful steps to improve their situation.[2]

 
Number of Visits: 61

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