Da (Mother) 128

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2024-12-15

Da (Mother) 128

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

***

Thirty-Four: Assassination of Dr. Beheshti

Whenever Tehran got too much for me, I would go to the Molavi Camp and spend time with grandfather and Mimi. The folks at the camp were very decent to one another. People from Andishmak, Shush, Dezful, Khorramshahr, and villagers from places like Abbasabad, which was between Andishmak and Shush, were all spending their days in tents. The villagers said, “The enemy is constantly firing their long-range missiles at us to destroy the batteries our side has   positioned there.”

Ringing the Molavi Camp were the Zagros Mountains. In the spring they became carpeted in green, forming beautiful vistas. The camp itself was landscaped with two rows of large palm trees, which in effect formed a kind of wall. One row artfully ran along the river. You could do almost everything with river water—bathe in it, swim, wash dishes, but not drink it. At the end of the camp was a spring with very clear, cool water, which people collected using plastic jugs. Or having hollowed out a shallow pool, they would dip their bowls in it to fill their jugs with drinking water.

The Refugee Aid Committee supplied newcomers with bare essetials like utensils, pots, blankets, etc. They also gave them basic staples, which the families cooked themselves. The aid, however, gradually dried up, forcing families to buy what they needed in Pol-e Dokhtar. Next to the administrative tent in the camp was a clinic where medical aid workers from the Red Crescent and several women and men medics treated people. Many patients came to the clinic because they had fallen prey to the snakes, scorpions, and tarantulas in the camp.

When the refugee population grew too large for the original camp, people pitched tents on the other side of the road. To minimize the snake and spider bites, the tents were set up on cement slabs. Because it had been hastily constructed, the original camp didn’t even have a public bath. It was worse than that: the latrines were shielded from public view by sheets of canvas instead of a proper wall. The new camp, by contrast, had much better facilities. I felt at peace there. It reminded me of the good times we spent in Khorramshahr with grandfather and Uncle Nad Ali. It was easy there to visualize my childhood in Basra, when grandfather would tell us good stories from the Quran and explain their moral lessons. In addition to reciting some verses of scripture from memory, he would illustrate his talks with lines from the Shahnameh. Uncle Nad Ali took after grandfather. Often I would see him walk to the river early in the morning and find some cozy spot where he could be alone and recite lines of soulful, emotional poetry to himself. Sometimes he would fish. I wouldn’t approach him when he was in this solitary state. Once his wife and I took a picture of him, but he was clearly upset because we had intruded on his solitude.

In the spring of 1981, after the Now Ruz holiday, grandfather and Nad Ali were transferred to a camp five kilometers from Borujerd. I visited them a few times there. The occupants were for the most part like me, refugees from the war, but the camp was a big improvement on Molavi. It had a communications center and minibuses that ferried people to and from Borujerd. That year Ramadan fell in a very hot summer, and we had to spend long, scorching days of fasting and cold nights in the tents. Often, to break the fast we would drink a cold, delicious yogurt drink from Borujerd.

To relieve the summer heat, they set up two large Quonset huts, one for the men and the other for the women. Water from a spring near the huts flowed through pipes to a basin in the center. The cold spring water cooled the air inside the hut. Around noon, when the temperatures in the tents became unbearable, everyone transferred to the huts.

Three clerics from Qom came to the camp to lecture on the laws and logic of fasting. They also oversaw the camp’s cultural programs. One of the clerics was Sheikh Mojahed, an Iraqi by birth who had been driven from his homeland. He was fluent in English and a gifted speaker. Although a clergyman with a degree from the theological seminary in Najaf, he had also been trained as a helicopter technician in England.

It was a first for me to meet a cleric with such a background. In addition to lecturing and leading communal prayers, he also gave Arabic and English lessons to the children, who had fallen behind in their studies.

Even though I had to leave school early because of the issue of coeducation, I was very interested in continuing my studies. I thought as long as I was in the camp I would take part in the classes.

They took place in a large, roofless hall where communal prayers were held. Most of the students were Persian or Lor speakers; very few knew Arabic. Mr. Mojahed was fluent in Arabic and English, but struggled with Persian. In English class he would write words on the board and try to explain them. Often not knowing the meanings in Persian, he would say the Arabic words. For example, once he wrote the word “apple” on the board and tried to define it in Persian. Unable to do so, he rounded his hands and said toffah in Arabic.

“What is toffah?” asked the students.

Although it was embarassing to get up and make a spectacle of  myself in front of everyone, I raised my hand and told him I knew Arabic and Persian. Then I explained to the students, “In Persian toffah means sib.”

Another time Mr. Mojahed called a good math and language student to the board. The student, normally very well prepared, failed to answer his question. Mr. Mojahed said to him in Arabic, “Before you were a help (shater), but now you aren’t.”

Misunderstanding the word shater (“baker” in Persian, “helper” in Arabic), the boy said, “No, sir, I’m no baker. That’s my cousin.” I explained the mix-up to the boy in Persian, and the whole class roared with laughter. The helper/baker mix-up became a kind of joke among the students. From that time on I translated for Mr. Mojahed.

One day the wife of Uncle Nad Ali asked me, “Have you heard the news?”

“No.”

“Dr. Beheshti has been killed by Hypocrites in a terrorist attack.”

Everything went dark before me. I couldn’t believe the news and thought she had made a mistake. I ran to grandfather’s tent, where he had a small radio brought from Khorramshahr. Salimeh’s husband was in front of the tent, and his eyes were red from crying. Once I heard the news on the radio, I realized it was true.

I should mention here that Seyyed Abbas, Aunt Salimeh’s husband, would scour the mountains for dried branches and twigs and bring them to grandfather. Though his eyes were failing him and he had undergone two eye operations, grandfather used an axe and a knife to turn the wood into simple things like cutting boards, spindles, spools, rug hooks, sugar cone hammers, pulleys, etc. Mother and Aunt Salimeh would use the spools and spindles to weave woolen skullcaps and loofahs.

The news of Dr. Beheshti’s death made me recall the time some months before when he had visited the Molavi Camp to inspect the refugees. During his tour, Dr. Beheshti was delighted to see a man of grandfather’s age and physical condition still at work. He spoke with him, and, for his part, grandfather was so taken with the simple way Dr. Beheshti interacted with refugees he kissed the man’s hand. Grandfather always remembered his conversation with Dr. Beheshti fondly.

That day the loudspeakers announced we were all to go to Borujerd and participate in mourning ceremonies for Dr. Beheshti. There was a large demonstration during which the people shouted slogans against the Hypocrites and America.

The Hypocrites continued with their atrocities. I was at the camp at the time of the assassinations of Raja’i and Bahonar and the attempt on the life of Mr. Khameneh’i. The people at the camp held ceremonies in their honor.

At the end of the summer of 1981, Uncle Nad Ali and grandfather left the camp near Borujerd and got a house in Khorramabad. With their departure I lost my refuge from Tehran. Now I was in the city for good. For a time I worked in security for Friday prayers. Once I saw Mozhdeh Onbashi at them. Friends told me that on the October 16, 1980 (the same day Sheikh Sharif was killed), she had been hurt while getting a wounded man to the hospital. I hadn’t seen her since that time. She was struck by shrapnel in the head and arm, and her leg was paralyzed. This didn’t stop her from getting married, though. Seeing her again made me very happy.

End of Chapter Thirty-Four

To be continued …