Da (Mother) 124

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni
Translated from the Persian with an Introduction by Paul Sprachman

2024-11-17

Da (Mother) 124

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

***

With Uncle Hoseyni and Mohsen gone, how to get lunch became a question. Mansur, Sa’id, and I went out to buy food. Not knowing the area, we went to the end of the avenue but didn’t find a shop or restaurant. We weren’t too sure about how wholesome the sandwiches sold on the street were. We turned back and went to Revolution Avenue. At Lalehzar Avenue we found a basement kabob place. Sa’id and I waited at the street-level entrance while Mansur went down to buy food. He came back with five portions. But now, because of all the twists and turns, we didn’t know how to get back to the building. We asked somebody where Ferdowsi Square was and were told to follow the avenue until we got to Ferdowsi Street. When we got back, we realized how mixed up we’d gotten. The sleeping arrangements that night were the same as the previous one.

A few days after coming to Tehran, mother got very ill and became completely bedridden. She was so sick we were afraid she wouldn’t make it. The news of Ali’s death had been a great shock to her. During this time a relative told her she had read a newspaper interview with a wounded man named Seyyed Ali Hoseyni. Mother thought it could be her Ali. I told her the relative was mistaken, because I had buried Ali myself. I asked her, “Wouldn’t I have known my own brother?” I told her the Martyrs Foundation had lists of people with similar names.

It turned out the wounded man with my brother’s name spoke Turkish and was from Tabriz. Despite this mother still nurtured hopes that her Ali was alive somewhere. Now I felt even guiltier about not telling her immediately. On the other hand, I knew if I had told her she would have remained pinned to his grave forever, making leaving Khorramshahr impossible—she was so emotionally tied to her son. Every word he spoke was scripture to her, which was why when Leila told mother it was Ali who said to leave Khorramshahr, she did.

Around this time, Mr. Mazandarani and two others from the Martyrs Foundation came by to ask us to make a list of things we needed. I had warned mother if anyone asked if there was anything we wanted, she should say nothing. We hadn’t given two martyrs to the cause to go on the dole here. That was why I told Mr. Mazandarani we had everything we needed.

“Take the clothes,” he said. “The kids will catch cold without them.” I said, “We don’t need a thing.” “My dear sister,” he said, “you don’t even have the basic necessities.” “We’ll buy them ourselves,” I said. “You can’t,” he said. “Your legal status is still not clear. Don’t be so pigheaded.” “We don’t need a thing,” I insisted. Mother also joined in, “Whatever my daughter says. It’s not easy to hear somebody say he’ll provide for us. It’s the worst thing in the world for us, I feel. It’s insulting.” Mr. Mazandarani kept at it, saying, “God forbid you think it’s charity or you’re under any obligation. Perish the thought! We’re the ones who owe you a great debt.”

He was so insistent I finally gave in and took a few little things. After uncle and Mohsen came back, they went with Mr. Zeyn al-Din, the building manager, to the foundation to get a full set of blankets, utensils, plates, bowls, etc. Seeing Mohsen drive up with a van was very upsetting. Mother said, “Darling, there’s no way around it. You’ve seen how we’re freezing to death at night? If things go on like that, we’ll all be sick.”

After they unloaded the supplies, I returned the covering and the blankets to Mrs. Khorrami. Then I went to the superintendent and said, “You said there would be another family in addition to ours in these rooms. Apart from its being small, our room is connected to the other one. There’s only one way of getting in and out of it. How is the second family supposed to go to their room? You’ve got to do something for us.”

The superintendent moved us into a room directly opposite the stairway. It was very large and had two doors, one at each end. The room was partially partitioned, which created two separate living spaces. We cleaned it and settled in.

There were several other refugee families on our floor. One was a Khorramshahri family, who lived with their daughter and son-in-law. They had commandeered the only kitchen in the building, stocking it with their own utensils, a gas stove, and a refrigerator. They didn’t allow us to use it. Our other neighbor, Mrs. Akbari, had her own hotplate so she didn’t have to fight with them. The Khorramshahris claimed they had a right to the kitchen because they had been in the building before everyone. Sometime later, when that family’s circumstances improved, they left the Kushk Building and moved to a rental home. After they left, the superintendent said no family had the right to appropriate the kitchen; it was to be for common use. It was first come, first served, which meant everyone now had to wait their turn.

Each floor had only two working bathrooms, one of which they had closed. As the number of residents increased, crowds waiting in line for the bathroom grew. Little by little the carpeting in the hallways was pulled up because it was getting ratty and full of germs that might cause infections. There was no place to shower in the building, so we had to go out to the public bath.

It took some time to get used to life in Tehran. Apart from the annoying things I mentioned, what I found most irritating was the idiotic talk I heard on the street. In Tehran, I took a bus back from the hospital to Mr. Mohammadi’s house. One day around sunset, with no bus in sight, I heard people in line saying, “It wasn’t smart for the people of Khorramshahr to run away from home like that and pitch their tents in cities around Iran and in Tehran.” Suddenly an air raid siren sounded, and everything went dead quiet. Antiaircraft guns started firing, terrifying people. Several women in line fainted, and everyone else was anxious. I thought this was the perfect moment to say something. “See how easy it is to cower or pass out at the sight of one enemy plane. You’re all looking for a place you can hide. So why blame the folks in Khorramshahr for fleeing? There’re under enemy shelling day and night. Do you think you would have been able to put up with what they had to?”

The ones who complained about the refugees in their midst didn’t know what to say. Others agreed with me. Then I added, “Don’t take it out on the refugees. Saddam is to blame for the suffering. There’s no need to make it worse. Right now the people of Abadan are in the same boat, surrounded by the enemy with no hope of getting help from the outside.”

I couldn’t help speaking out. It hurt me to hear them blame the refugees for fleeing. Having seen boys mowed down at the front, I found myself getting into a lot of arguments with city people. It was my impression they didn’t know the first thing about the war and what was happening in the region. In the beginning, of course, the news had not been reported well or extensively, but in time people became more aware of the problems the war caused.

Not everyone was like that. There was a man, Hajj Aqa Talayi (now deceased), who went out of his way to help the refugees in the Kushk Building. A very decent and pious person, he owned a trading house on Manuchehri Avenue and was a trustee of the Qa’em Mosque. He would visit our building regularly to see if he could do anything for us or to know if there was something we needed. “Being of service to you is only my duty,” he said.

In addition to the refugee families and victims of war, living in the building were a number of poor people from the city, who had no connection to the war. They were officially known as the “oppressed.” In time the atmosphere and character of the building changed for the worse. We asked the Martyrs Foundation to do something for the young children. The seventh floor of the building, formerly the cafeteria and assembly hall of the Bureau of Budget and Planning, was converted into a preschool and cultural center, which offered classes on carpet weaving, the Quran, and sewing. They also set up an infirmary on the third floor and invited physicians and nurses to staff it. I was made responsible for giving injections. The infirmary soon caught on, and people from neighboring buildings started to use it.

The new classes and recreational activities at the center took a load off the minds of residents with children. The school eased concerns about the young ones getting into mischief in the hallways.

As part of the Ten Days of Fajr (January 29-February 8, 1981), the celebration of Imam Khomeini’s return to Iran, the Martyrs Foundation put on a terrific program. In the morning they brought the martyr families to Freedom Stadium. Going back and forth to the stadium, I saw many old acquaintances from our town. They put on various athletic and cultural events in the convention center, which held about 12,000 people. The learned cleric Mohammad Taqi Jafari came to speak. A very unpretentious, plain-spoken person, he lectured in a way everyone could understand.

On one of our visits, Leila and I saw Abdollah Mo’avi at the stadium. He had come along with a number of wounded convalescing in Tehran. It was a joy to see Abdollah, and we rushed over to say hello. I noticed he recognized Leila but not me, which was upsetting. I said, “It’s me, Zahra, Seyyed Ali’s sister. You remember Seyyed Ali, don’t you? I was working at Jannatabad.” “I don’t know you,” he said. I was bewildered and tried to jog his memory by mentioning what happened in those days. “Remember the time, Abdollah, we were walking from Jannatabad to the Congregational Mosque, when a dog started following us, and nothing we did made him go away?”

“No,” he said.

I went into detail about it. Zohreh Farhadi, Sabah Vatankhah, Leila, and I were walking from Jannatabad to the Congregational Mosque. Hoseyn Idi and Abdollah were with us, walking a few paces ahead. Because of the heavy Iraqi shelling, even the animals in the town sensed the city was unsafe. As we walked along, the dog started following us, and each explosion brought the poor thing closer to us. Suddenly a Peykan appeared. Abdollah flagged it down and told us to get in. When the back door opened, the dog hopped on. I went out the other door, and the dog followed. We all chuckled. Abdollah asked, “Why don’t you get in? What are you waiting for?”

We pointed to the dog. Abdollah blocked its way, and we got in. He and Hoseyn sat in the front seat. The dog followed the car all the way to the mosque.

To be continued …