Da (Mother) 135

The Memoirs of Seyyedeh Zahra Hoseyni

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

2025-2-2

Da (Mother) 135

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-Eight: Hoseyn Eidi Dies

One day in January 1983, Habib came by in a strange mood. “Has something happened?” I asked. He forced a smile and said, “Hoseyn Eidi is dead. He was killed.”

The news was a real shock. It was unbelievable. The dark-faced boy with frizzy hair, whom I had known since childhood, was gone. I recalled the first time I saw Hoseyn and Abdollah working at Jannatabad. I didn’t think they’d be of any use, but they turned out to be more sympathetic to the grieving and worked harder than all the others. Hoseyn and I were about the same age. He would always call me “sister,” and I actually thought of him as a brother. The news of his passing reopened the deep wound made by Ali’s death. The grief I felt was so awful I longed for my own death. Habib, as usual, remained his consoling self, telling me, “Martyrdom was the path they chose themselves. There’s no cause for grief.” That was what he’d usually say, but whenever I asked him to come with me to the cemetery where his martyred comrades were buried, he would make excuses. He was very depressed and withdrawn for a few days. Apparently being around the boys dredged up painful memories. He would say, “I can’t understand why I’m still here, when everybody else is gone.” Hoseyn served under Habib, and they were very close.

I asked Habib how Hoseyn had died. “We were in the process of clearing areas in Khorramshahr,” he said, “and Hoseyn, Mohammad Reza Pur Heydari, and Morteza Kazemi had gathered unexploded mortar shells to load them into a van so they could be defused elsewhere. En route the van hit a pothole, and one of the shells exploded, setting off the rest. This sent Hoseyn and the driver flying from the vehicle, but his entire body was horribly burned. The bodies of Reza Pur Heydari and Morteza Kazemi were mangled beyond recognition. I saw pictures of their corpses. The only thing that remained of Kazemi was a strip of flesh and of Heydari an ankle. They rushed Hoseyn to the hospital, but he was so badly burned he didn’t last more than twenty-four hours.”

The brothers had made a recording of what Hoseyn said during his last terrible hours. They buried the three of them in Jannatabad, and the army held a memorial service. With the families in attendance, they played the tape of Hoseyn’s last words. The sound wasn’t clear because even his voice box had been burned, but we could make out him praying to the Lord of Time.

Hoseyn had always been a regular visitor at our home—especially after Abdollah was born. He was very fond of the baby, and the day after the shell hit, he came by to hug and kiss him. “Abdollah,” he joked, “you’re a regular antiaircraft battery!”

Every time he had to go to Tehran on a mission, Hoseyn would come to our door and ask whether I needed anything for the baby.

Hoseyn’s death brought back memories of the first days of the war. I specifically remembered how I felt seeing Abdollah Mo’avi lying neglected in the hospital. At least I had seen Hoseyn whole and healthy before he died. But still, hearing of his death, I wanted to die myself. All the boys I knew were dying one after another, and so were the men in our neighborhood. It was unbelievable for me to be speaking to them one afternoon and to hear they had been killed the next. Here would be a neighbor in the flesh one day, and the next you’d be marching in his funeral procession.

At such times I would turn for comfort to a woman who was like a mother to me, Sima Bandari. She had a knack for getting me through the hard times. “Hoseyn’s gone,” I said to her, “and I wish I were dead.”

Sima said, “When Majid Khayyat Zadeh was killed, Batul Kazeruni said the same thing.”

After Hoseyn’s death, his mother moved into one of the radio and television homes. They held a memorial service for him in her house, and his forty-day remembrance coincided with Ramadan. Since one of Hoseyn’s favorite foods was a fish called bayah,[1] his mother prepared a large number of them to break the fast. That night Hoseyn’s sister gave birth to a baby girl, but his death had so jarred her mentally she couldn’t take the baby. Hoseyn’s mother, who was far better off than his sister, cared for the girl instead. I checked in on them regularly to see how they were doing.

End of Chapter Thirty-Eight

To be continued …