The events in my life unfolded in such a way that I always had a chance to breathe and fortify myself in the interim, and the longer the period of calm, the worse the shock of the next incident. Believing this, I was plagued by hidden anxieties even in the best of times.
With Siamak safely gone, it seemed my gravest concern had been resolved. Although I missed him terribly and at times my longing to see him seemed unbearable, I never regretted sending him away and never wished that he would return. I talked to his photograph and wrote long letters to him about everything that was going on in our lives. Meanwhile, Massoud was so gentle and kind that he not only didn’t create any problems for me, but was often my problem solver. He went through the difficult and turbulent years of adolescence with patience and poise. He felt a deep sense of responsibility towards Shirin and me, shouldering much of what needed to be done in our daily lives. I had to be careful not to take advantage of all that kindness and self-sacrifice and not to expect more from that young man than he was capable of.
Massoud would stand behind me, massage my neck and say, ‘I’m afraid you will get sick working so hard. Go to bed and rest.’
And I would say, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. No one gets sick from hard work. The fatigue goes away with a good night’s sleep and two days’ rest each week. What makes you sick is idleness and useless thoughts and anxieties. Work is the essence of life.’
More than being my son, Massoud was my partner, my friend and my adviser. We talked about everything and we made decisions together. He was right, we didn’t need anyone else. My only concern was that later in life, people would take advantage of his goodness and his willingness to give way; just as his sister could make him do anything she wanted with a kiss, a tear, or a plea.
Massoud acted like a responsible father towards Shirin. He went to enrol her in school, talked to her teachers, walked her to school every day and bought whatever she needed. During the air raids he would pick her up and hide her under the stairs. I delighted in their loving relationship, but unlike most mothers, I was not happy that they were growing up. In fact, it frightened me and my fear deepened as the war dragged on.
Every year, I told myself the war would end by next year and before Massoud would have to serve in the military, but the war wasn’t ending. News of our neighbours’ or friends’ children having been martyred terrified me even more and learning that Gholam-Ali, Mahmoud’s son, had been killed at the front made me lose heart. I will never forget the last time I saw him. I was shocked to see him standing at the front door. I had not seen him in many years. I don’t know whether it was the army uniform or the strange glint deep in his eyes that made him look much older than he was. He was not the old Gholam-Ali.
I greeted him with surprise and said, ‘Has something happened?’
‘Does something have to happen for me to come and see you?’ he asked reproachfully.
‘No, my dear, you are always welcome. I was just surprised because this is the first time you have ever come here. Please come in.’
Gholam-Ali seemed uncomfortable. I poured him a cup of tea and started casually to ask about the family, but I said nothing about the uniform he was wearing or the fact that he had voluntarily enlisted in the army and had been at the front. I think I was afraid of talking about it. The war was steeped in blood, pain and death. When I finally stopped talking, he said, ‘Aunt, I have come to ask for your forgiveness.’
‘For what? What have you done, or what are you about to do?’
‘You know I have been at the front,’ he said. ‘I am on leave and I will be going back. Well, it’s war and, God willing, I may become a martyr. And if I am to be so fortunate, I need you to forgive me for the way my family and I have treated you and your sons.’
‘God forbid! Don’t say such things. You are just starting life. May God never bring the day that something bad happens to you.’
‘But it won’t be bad, it will be a blessing. It is my greatest wish.’
‘Don’t say these things,’ I chided. ‘Think about your poor mother. If she ever hears you talk like this she will be devastated… I really don’t understand how she could let you go to war. Don’t you know that the consent and approval of your parents is more important than anything else?’
‘Yes, I know. But I have her approval. At first she kept crying and weeping. Then I took her to the hotel where some of the victims of war are housed and I said, “Look how the enemy has destroyed people’s lives. It is my duty to defend Islam, my country and our people. Do you really want to stand in the way of my religious obligation?” Mother is really a woman of faith. I think her belief is far stronger than my father’s. She said, “Who am I to challenge God? I am satisfied with his satisfaction.”’
‘Fine, my dear; but wait until you have finished school. God willing, the war will be over by then and you will be able to build a comfortable life for yourself.’
He snickered and said, ‘Yes, just like my father. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. What is wrong with that?’
‘If no one else knows, you certainly do. No, that is not what I want! The front is something else. It is the only place where I feel close to God. You have no idea what it’s like. Everyone willing to give his life, everyone sharing the same goal. No one talks about money and status, no one boasts, no one is after greater profit. It is a contest of devotion and self-sacrifice. You cannot imagine how the guys try to overtake each other to be on the front line. True faith is there, without hypocrisy, without deceit. It was there that I met true Muslims who put no value on worldly goods and material things. I am at peace when I am with them. I am close to God.’
I was looking down and thinking about the words of deep belief coming from that young man who had found his truth. Gholam-Ali’s sad voice broke the silence.
‘When I started going to Father’s shop in the afternoons, the things he did troubled me. I was starting to question everything. You haven’t seen the new house, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t. But I have heard it is very large and beautiful.’
‘Yes, it’s big,’ he said. ‘It’s as big as you can imagine. You can get lost in it. But, Aunt, it is expropriated property, stolen, do you understand? With all his talk about faith and devoutness, I don’t know how Father can live there. I keep telling him, “Father, this house is not religiously sanctioned; its rightful owner has not given his consent.” And Father says, “The hell with its owner, he was a swindler and a thief and he ran away after the revolution. You are worried that Mr Thief doesn’t approve?” The things he says and does confuse me. I want to run away. I don’t want to be like him. I want to be a real Muslim.’
I kept him there for dinner. When he said his evening prayer, the purity of his faith and belief made me shiver. As we were saying goodbye, he whispered to me, ‘Pray that I become a martyr.’
Gholam-Ali’s wish came true and I grieved for a long time. But I could not bring myself to go to Mahmoud’s house to extend my condolences. Mother was angry with me, saying that I had a heart of stone and harboured a grudge as stubbornly as a camel. But I just could not step into that house.
A few months later, I saw Ehteram-Sadat at Mother’s house. She looked old and broken and her skin sagged on her face and neck. Seeing her, I started to cry. I hugged her, but I didn’t know what to say to a mother who had lost her child and I muttered a customary condolence. She gently pushed me away and said, ‘There is no need for condolences! You should congratulate me. My son has been martyred.’
I was stunned. I looked at her with disbelief and wiped away my tears with the back of my hand. How does one congratulate a mother who has lost her son?
When she left, I asked Mother, ‘Is she really not pained by her son’s death?’
‘Don’t say that!’ Mother said. ‘You have no idea how she is suffering. This is how she consoles herself. Her faith is so strong that it helps her tolerate the pain.’
‘You are probably right about Ehteram, but I am sure Mahmoud has taken every advantage of his son’s martyrdom to make a profit—’
‘May God take my life! What are you saying, girl?’ Mother scolded. ‘They have lost their son and you are making wisecracks behind their back?’
‘I know Mahmoud,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me he hasn’t benefited from his son’s death? It is impossible. Where do you think he gets all his money from?’
‘He is a merchant. Why are you so jealous of him? Everyone has their share in life.’
‘Come on, you know very well that honest and clean money doesn’t pour in like this. Isn’t Uncle Abbas a merchant, too? And he got started in business thirty years before Mahmoud. How come he still has that one shop and Ali who just got started is shovelling money in? I hear he has signed for a house worth several million tumans.’
‘Now you’re going after Ali? God be praised, some people are like my sons, clever and devout, and God helps them. Others are unlucky like you. That is how God wants it and you shouldn’t be so resentful.’
I didn’t go to see Mother for a long time. I often went to Mrs Parvin’s house, but I never knocked on Mother’s door. Perhaps she was right and I was jealous. But I could not accept that at a time when people were suffering from war and hardship, my brothers were increasing their wealth from one day to the next. No! It was not moral or humane. It was sinful.
I passed this quiet period in relative poverty, with hard work, and concern for the future.
A year after Siamak left, Hamid’s mother passed away from a cancer that spread quickly. Her desire to die was palpable and I believed she herself was hastening the spread of her illness. Despite her critical condition, she did not forget us in her will and she made her daughters promise that they would not allow us to lose our home. I knew that Mansoureh had been instrumental in this, and later, she did everything she could to stay true to her mother’s wish, standing firm against her sisters.
Mansoureh’s husband was an engineer and he quickly demolished the old house, replacing it with a four-storey apartment building. During construction, he made every effort to circumvent our side of the garden so that we would not have to move. For two years we lived with dirt, dust and noise until that beautiful building was complete. There were two apartments, each one hundred metres square, on each floor, except for the third floor that was one large apartment where Mansoureh and her family lived. They gave us one of the apartments on the ground floor and Mansoureh’s husband turned the other one into his office. Manijeh had the apartments on the first floor. She lived in one and rented the other one.
When Siamak found out that we had an apartment, he irritably said, ‘They should have given us a second apartment so that you could rent it and have some income from it. Even that would have been half what is rightfully ours.’
‘My dear boy,’ I said laughing. ‘You are still not giving up? It is very kind and caring of them to have given us this apartment. They certainly didn’t have to do it. Think of it this way: we now have a beautiful new home and it did not cost us anything. We should be happy and grateful.’
Our apartment was finished before the others so that we could move into it and the other side of the garden could also be renovated. We were happy that we each had our own bedroom. Shirin was a bad room-mate and I was pleased to be free of her fun and games and messiness, while Shirin was delighted to be free of my tidiness and constant complaints. Massoud was thrilled with his bright and beautiful bedroom and still considered Siamak to be his room-mate.
The years were flashing by. Massoud was in the last year of school and the war still continued. Every year that he passed his final exams with excellent grades, my anxiety increased.
‘What is your rush?’ I griped. ‘You can go slower and get your diploma a year or two later.’
‘Are you suggesting that I fail?’ he said.
‘What is wrong with that? I want you to stay in school until the war ends.’
‘God, no! I have to finish quickly and take some of the responsibility off your shoulders. I want to work. And don’t worry about military service. I promise you I will be accepted at the university and I will have several more years before I have to serve.’
How could I tell him that he would not pass the universities’ selection process?
Massoud graduated from school with excellent grades and studied day and night for the university entrance exams. By then he knew that given our family’s past, there was little chance of his being admitted to a university. To console me and perhaps to boost his own morale he would say, ‘I have no political record and everyone at school was pleased with me, they will support me.’
But it was useless. His application was rejected because of his family’s past political involvements. When he heard the news, he pounded his fist on the table, hurled his books out of the window and wept. And I, who saw all my hopes for his future disappear, cried with him.
All I could think of was how to protect him from the war. In a few months he would have to report for military service. Siamak and Parvaneh called and said that I had to send Massoud to Germany by any means possible. But I could not convince him.
‘I can’t leave you and Shirin alone,’ he argued. ‘Besides, how would we come up with the money? You have only recently finished paying back what you borrowed for Siamak.’
‘Money is not important. I will find a way. The important thing is to find someone trustworthy.’
And that was not a simple matter. The only lead I had was a telephone number and the code name ‘Mrs Mahin’. I called, a man answered and said he was Mrs Mahin, but he did not have the same accent as the young man I had spoken to a few years earlier. Then he started asking strange questions and I suddenly realised that I was falling into a trap so I quickly hung up.
I asked Mansoureh’s husband for help. A few days later, he told me the smugglers who had taken Siamak and Ardeshir across the border had all been arrested and severe border controls were now in force. And from others I heard about boys who had been arrested while trying to leave the country and about smugglers who had taken the money and abandoned the boys in the mountains or the desert.
‘What’s all the grieving for?’ Ali said maliciously. ‘Is your kid any better than other kids? Just like Gholam-Ali, they all have a duty to fight for their country.’
‘The likes of you should fight because you benefit from the blessings of this country,’ I retorted. ‘We are strangers here, we have no rights. You have all the money, status and comfort, but my son, with all his talent, does not have the right to get an education and to work. He is rejected by every selection committee because of his relatives’ beliefs, which he does not share. Now, tell me, in deference to which religion does he have to die for this country?’
At the time, my only logic was that of protecting my child and I was at a loss. I could not find a safe and reliable means of sending him out of the country. And Massoud would not cooperate at all and constantly argued with me.
‘Why are you so panicked?’ he asked. ‘Two years of military service is not that long. Everyone has a duty to serve and I will serve, too. Afterwards, I can get a passport and leave the country legally.’
But I could not accept that.
‘The country is at war! It’s not a joke. What will I do if something happens to you?’
‘Who says everyone who goes to war will be killed?’ he said. ‘There are all these kids coming back healthy and in one piece. In the end, there is a risk in whatever we do. Do you think escaping the country illegally is any less dangerous?’
‘But many boys also die. Have you forgotten Gholam-Ali?’
‘Come on, Mother. Don’t make things so difficult. What happened to Gholam-Ali has terrified you, but I promise to come back alive. Besides, by the time I am called to serve and have finished my training period the war may have ended. And since when have you become such a coward? You are the only woman I know who is not afraid of the sirens and the air raids. You used to say, “The chance that our house will be hit is as great as us getting into a car accident, but we don’t spend every day worrying about car accidents.”’
‘When you and Shirin are with me, I am not afraid of anything,’ I explained. ‘But you don’t know the horror I feel when the sirens go off and I am not with you. And now, if they send me to the front with you, I will have no worries and no fears.’
‘Really! What nonsense. Do you expect me to tell them I won’t go anywhere without my mother? I want my mummy?’
It was always like this. Our arguments would end with jokes and laughter and a kiss on the cheek.
Finally, the day arrived when together with thousands of other young men Massoud left for military training. I tried to remain optimistic. My days and nights were like an open prayer rug before God and my hands were raised in supplication for the war to end soon so that my son could return home.
The conflict had been a part of our lives for seven years, but I had never so profoundly felt its horror. Every day, I witnessed the funeral processions for the martyrs and I wondered whether the number of casualties and wounded soldiers had suddenly increased, or whether there had always been that many. Wherever I went I now came across mothers in the same circumstances as me. It was as if I could instinctively identify them. Having surrendered to fate, we consoled each other in choked voices and with fear in our eyes, all knowing we were terrible liars.
Massoud completed his training period, but there was no sign of a miracle and the war didn’t end. My efforts to have him assigned to a less dangerous location were useless, so one day I took Shirin’s small hand and we went to see him off to the front. Dressed in his uniform, Massoud looked older and his kind eyes were filled with apprehension. I could not hold back my tears.
‘Mum, please,’ he said. ‘You have to control yourself, you have to take care of Shirin. See how strong Faramarz’s mother is, see how calmly the rest of the parents are saying goodbye to their sons?’
I turned and looked. To my eyes, the mothers were all weeping, even though they shed no tears.
‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ I said. ‘I will be fine. I will calm down in an hour and in a few days I will get used to you being away.’
He kissed Shirin and tried to make her laugh. Then he whispered to me, ‘Promise me you will be as beautiful, healthy and strong by the time I come back.’
‘And you promise me that you will come back unharmed.’
I kept my eyes on his face until the last possible moment and impulsively ran alongside the train as it moved out. I wanted to etch the lines of his image in my memory.
It took a week for me to accept the fact that Massoud was gone, but I did not get used to it. I not only missed him and worried about the danger he was in, but I felt his absence daily. With him gone, I suddenly realised how much of a partner he had been and what a heavy load he had lifted from my shoulders. I thought about how after a short time we selfishly deem someone’s help to be their obligation and we forget their generosity. Now that I had to do everything on my own, I appreciated everything Massoud had done for me and my heart ached each time I did a task that used to be his.
‘I was devastated when Hamid was executed,’ I told Faati. ‘But the truth is that his death had no effect on my everyday life, because he had never accepted any responsibilities at home. We mourned the passing of a loved one and a few days later returned to our normal routine. The absence of a man who helps and participates in family life is far more tangible and to the same degree much harder to get used to.’
It took three months for us to learn how to live without Massoud. Shirin who had always been a cheerful girl didn’t laugh as much and at least once a night she would find an excuse to sit and cry. I found my only peace in praying. I would sit at my prayer rug for hours, forgetting myself and everyone around me. I would even forget that Shirin had not had any dinner and I would not notice that she had fallen asleep on her schoolbooks or in front of the television.
Massoud called us whenever he could. Every time I talked to him my mind was at ease for twenty-four hours, but then anxiety would set in again and, like a stone rolling downhill, gain strength and speed with every minute that passed.
When two weeks had gone by with no news of him, I was beside myself with worry and I started calling the parents of his friends who had been sent to the front with him.
‘My dear lady, it is too soon to be worried,’ Faramarz’s mother said matter-of-factly. ‘I think the boy has spoiled you. It is not as if they are at their auntie’s house and can call home whenever they want. Sometimes they are posted in areas where for weeks they don’t have access to a bath, much less a telephone. Wait at least a month.’
A month with no news from a loved one who is under a shower of bullets and shells is difficult, but I waited. I tried to fill my days with work, but my mind would not cooperate and I could not concentrate.
Two months went by and I finally decided to make inquiries at the military department responsible. I should have done it sooner, but I was afraid of the answer I might have received. With trembling legs, I stood in front of the building. I had no choice; I had to walk in. I was directed to a large, crowded room. Men and women with pale faces and bloodshot eyes were standing in line for their turn to be told where and how their children had perished.
When I sat in front of the administrator’s desk, my knees were shaking and the sound of my heart pounding was echoing so loudly in my ears that I could hardly hear anything else. For what seemed like an eternity, he leafed through his notebooks and then asked, ‘What is your relationship with Private Massoud Soltani?’ My mouth opened and closed several times before I was able to tell him I was his mother. He didn’t seem to like my answer. He frowned, looked down and again leafed through his notebooks. Then, with feigned kindness and reverence, he asked, ‘Are you alone? Is his father not with you?’
My heart was about to leap out of my throat. I swallowed hard, tried to hold back my tears and in a voice that sounded unfamiliar to me, I said, ‘No! He has no father. Whatever it is, tell me!’ And I half screamed, ‘What is it? Tell me what has happened!’
‘Nothing, ma’am, don’t worry. Stay calm.’
‘Where is my son? Why haven’t I heard from him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’ I cried. ‘What does that mean? You sent him there and now you tell me you don’t know where he is?’
‘Look, dear mother, the truth is that there has been heavy military action in the region and parts of the border have exchanged hands. We still don’t have accurate information about our troops, but we are investigating.’
‘I don’t understand. If you have taken back the territory, then you have found things there.’
I could not bring myself to say ‘bodies’, but he understood what I meant.
‘No, dear mother, so far no body has been found with your son’s identification tags. I have no further information.’
‘When will you know more?’
‘I don’t know. They are inspecting the area. It is too soon to comment.’
A few people helped me get up from the chair, men and women who were waiting to hear similar news. A woman asked the person ahead of her to keep her place in the line and helped me as far as the door. The queue was just like the ones people stood in for subsidised food and supplies.
I don’t know how I made my way back home. Shirin had still not returned from school. I paced the empty rooms and called out my sons’ names. My voice reverberated through the apartment. Siamak! Massoud! And I repeated their names louder and louder as if they were hiding somewhere and calling them would make them answer me. I opened their closet. I smelled their old clothes and clutched them to my chest. I don’t remember much else.
Shirin found me and called her aunts. They brought a doctor who gave me an injection of sedatives. Restless sleep and dark nightmares followed.
Sadegh Khan and Bahman continued to investigate. A week later, they said Massoud’s name was on the list of soldiers missing in action. I couldn’t understand what it meant. Had he turned to smoke and disappeared? Had my brave son perished in such a way that nothing remained of him? As if he never existed? No, it was not logical. I had to do something.
I remembered one of my colleagues saying that one month after his nephew disappeared in the war they found him in a hospital. I couldn’t sit and wait for the bureaucrats. I wrangled with my thoughts all night long and in the morning I got out of bed having made a decision. I stood under the shower for half an hour to get rid of the effects of the sedatives and sleeping pills, got dressed and looked at myself in the mirror. So much of my hair had turned white. Mrs Parvin, who had stayed with me during those dark days, looked at me with surprise and said, ‘What is going on? Where are you going?’
‘I am going to search for Massoud.’
‘You can’t go alone! They will not let a lone woman go to a war zone.’
‘But I can search the nearby hospitals.’
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘Let me call Faati. Perhaps Sadegh Agha can arrange his work and go with you.’
‘No. Why should that poor man neglect his life and work just because he is my brother-in-law?’
‘Then ask Ali, or even Mahmoud,’ she insisted. ‘No matter what, they are your brothers. They won’t leave you all alone.’
I laughed bitterly and said, ‘You know that is rubbish. In the most difficult moments of my life they abandoned me more than any stranger would have done. Besides, I need to go alone. This way, I can take my time and search for my innocent child. If there is someone with me, I will end up having to come home, leaving my search unfinished.’
I took a train to Ahvaz. Most of the passengers were soldiers. I shared a compartment with a couple who were also searching for their son. The difference was that they knew he had been wounded and was in a hospital in Ahvaz.
Spring in Ahvaz was more like a scorching summer and it was there that after almost eight years I finally grasped the true meaning of war. The tragedy, the suffering, the devastation, the chaos. I saw no smiling face. There was commotion everywhere with people bustling about, but just like gravediggers and mourners at a burial, their movements and expressions were devoid of any joy or spirit, and a constant fear and veiled anxiety hovered deep in their eyes. Everyone I talked to was somehow bereaved.
I went from one hospital to another with Mr and Mrs Farahani whom I had met on the train. They found their son. He had been wounded in the face. The scene of the father and mother reuniting with their son was heart wrenching. I told myself, If Massoud has lost his face, I will recognise him by his little toenail. It wasn’t important if I found him crippled and missing an arm or a leg. I just wanted him to be alive so that I could hold him in my arms again.
Seeing so many wounded, disabled and maimed young men shouting in pain drove me mad. My heart broke for their mothers and I wondered, Who is accountable? How could we have been so unaware, thinking that those air raids alone constituted the war? We had never understood the depth of the calamity.
I searched everywhere, going to different military offices and departments until I finally found a soldier who had seen Massoud on the night of the military operation. The young man’s wounds were healing and he was about to be transferred to Tehran. Trying to smile reassuringly, he said, ‘I could see Massoud, we were advancing together. He was a few steps in front of me when the explosions started. I was knocked unconscious. I don’t know what happened to the others, but I have heard that most of the casualties and martyrs from our squadron have already been found and identified.’
It was useless. No one knew what had happened to my son. The phrase ‘missing in action’ was like a sledgehammer that kept pounding on my head. On my way back to Tehran, the load of pain I was carrying seemed a thousand times heavier. I went home in a daze and walked straight into Massoud’s room as if I had forgotten to do something. I went through his clothes. I thought a few of his shirts needed ironing. Oh, my child’s shirts were wrinkled! I started ironing as if it was the most important task I had. My entire focus was on the invisible wrinkles on his clothes. Each time I held them up to the light they still looked creased and I had to iron them again…
Mansoureh was talking non-stop, but only a small part of my brain was aware of her presence. And then I overheard her say, ‘Faati, it is worse like this. She is really losing her mind. She has been ironing the same shirt for two hours. It would have been better if they had told her he was martyred. Then she could at least mourn for him.’
I tore out of the room like a wild dog and screamed, ‘No! If they tell me he is dead, I will kill myself. I am only alive with the hope that he is alive.’
But I, too, felt that I was not far from losing my sanity. I often found myself talking out loud to God. My relationship with him had severed; no, it had transformed into the hostile relationship between a merciless power and someone who had been beaten and had given up on life. A defeated person who had no hope of being saved and in her final moments had found the courage to say whatever was in her heart. I spoke with irreverence. I saw God as an idol that demanded sacrifice and I had to carry one of my children to the altar. I had to choose between them. I sometimes delivered Siamak or Shirin to be sacrificed instead of Massoud and then, with a guilty conscience and deep hatred for myself, I would again grieve and ask myself, What would they think of me if they ever found out that I would sacrifice one of them for the other?
I was incapable of doing anything. Mrs Parvin had to bathe me by force. Mother and Ehteram-Sadat offered advice and talked about the honour and eminence of martyrs. Mother tried to instil a fear of God in me. ‘You have to be content with his pleasure,’ she said. ‘Everyone has a fate. If this is his will, you have to accept it.’
But I went mad and screamed, ‘Why should he give me this fate? I don’t want it! Haven’t I suffered enough? How long did I go from prison to prison, wash blood from my loved ones’ clothes, mourn, work day and night, and raise my children despite a thousand miseries? All for what? For this?’
‘Don’t speak evil!’ Ehteram-Sadat cried. ‘God is testing you.’
‘How long do I have to pass his tests? God, why do you keep testing me? Do you want to prove your power to someone as wretched as me? I don’t want to pass your tests. I just want my child. Give me back my child and give me a fail grade!’
‘May God spare you!’ Ehteram-Sadat scolded. ‘Don’t raise God’s wrath. Do you think you are the only one? All these mothers, every woman who has a son the same age as yours is in the same situation. Some have had four or five children martyred. Think about them and stop being so ungrateful.’
‘Do you think I thank God when I see other people’s misery?’ I screamed. ‘My heart breaks for them. My heart breaks for you. My heart breaks for myself for having lost my nineteen-year-old son and for not having even a corpse to hold in my arms…’
I was starting to accept Massoud’s death. That was the first time I mentioned his corpse. But those fights and arguments were making me feel much worse. I lost count of the days and months; I took sedatives by the fistful and thrashed about in a world between sleep and wakefulness.
One morning I woke up with my throat so dry that I thought I would choke. I made my way to the kitchen and saw Shirin washing dishes. I was surprised. I didn’t like her to do housework with those tiny hands.
‘Shirin, why aren’t you in school?’ I asked.
She stared at me with a reproachful smile and said, ‘Mum, schools closed for the summer a month ago!’
I stood there aghast. Where had I been?
‘What about your exams? Did you take the final exams?’
‘Yes!’ she said grudgingly. ‘That was a long time ago. Don’t you remember?’
No, I didn’t remember and I didn’t remember how thin, sallow and sad she had become. I had been so selfish. In all those months wallowing in my own sorrow, I had forgotten she existed; I had forgotten the little girl who was perhaps grieving as much as I was. I held her in my arms. It was as if she had long wished for that moment. She was trying to bury herself deeper in my embrace. We were both crying.
‘Forgive me, my dear,’ I said. ‘Forgive me. I had no right to forget you.’
Seeing Shirin so unhappy, so thirsty for love and so helpless, pulled me out of my apathy and stupor. I had another child for whom I had to live.
Heartbroken and alone, I resumed my daily life. I tried to stay at work longer and drove myself harder. I could not concentrate on anything at home. I decided never to cry in front of Shirin. She needed a normal life, she needed fun and joy. That nine-year-old girl had been harmed enough. I asked Mansoureh to take her with them when they went to their villa on the Caspian coast. But Shirin didn’t want to leave me alone and so I went with them.
The villa was the same as it had been ten years earlier and the northern coast, with the same beauty as before, was waiting to transport me back to the best days of my life. The sound of the boys playing together echoed in my ears. I felt Hamid’s eager gaze following me. I sat for hours and watched him play with the children. Once I even picked up their ball and threw it back to them. These beautiful images would suddenly end with an intrusive sound. God, how quickly it had all passed. Those few days had been my share of a sweet family life. The rest had all been filled with pain and suffering.
Everywhere I looked brought back a memory. Sometimes I would instinctively open my arms to embrace my loved ones and I would suddenly come to, look around me with shock and wonder if anyone had seen me do that. One night, when I sat on the beach drowned in my thoughts, I felt Hamid’s hand on my shoulder. His presence seemed so natural. I murmured, ‘Oh, Hamid, I am so tired.’ He squeezed my shoulder, I laid my cheek on his hand, and he gently stroked my hair.
Mansoureh’s voice made me jump.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for an hour!’
I could still feel the warmth of Hamid’s hand on my shoulder. I wondered, What sort of fantasy is it that seems this real? If madness means breaking with reality, I had reached it. It was so pleasant. I could surrender to it and live the rest of my life in sweet illusions, in the freedom of insanity. The temptation drove me to the edge of the cliff. It was only Shirin and my responsibility for her that forced me to resist taking the plunge.
I knew I had to go back home. I was suddenly afraid the fantasies would defeat me. On the third day, I packed my things and returned to Tehran.
One warm August day, at two in the afternoon, everyone at the office suddenly started running and shouting with joy. They were all congratulating each other. Alipour opened the door to my office and yelled, ‘The war is over!’ I didn’t move from my chair. What would I have done if they had given me this news a year ago?
I had not gone to make enquiries at any military department in a long time. Even though as the mother of a soldier missing in action I was extended every courtesy, the officials’ expressions of respect were as painful to hear as the insults I had endured behind the prison gates as the mother of a Mujahed and the wife of a communist. I could not tolerate them.
More than a month had passed since the end of the war. The schools had not yet reopened. At eleven in the morning, the door to my office flew open and Shirin and Mansoureh burst in. I leaped up in horror, afraid to ask what had happened. Shirin threw herself in my arms and started to cry. Mansoureh stood there staring at me with tears streaming down her face.
‘Massoum!’ she said. ‘He is alive! He is alive!’
I fell in my chair, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. If I was dreaming, I wanted never to wake up. Shirin was slapping me with her small hands. ‘Mum, wake up,’ she pleaded. ‘For the love of God, wake up.’ I opened my eyes. She laughed and said, ‘They called from headquarters. I talked to them myself. They said Massoud’s name is on the list of prisoners of war; on the United Nations’ list.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘You may have misunderstood. I have to go there myself.’
‘No, you don’t have to,’ Mansoureh said. ‘When Shirin came to my apartment in a state, I called them myself. Massoud’s name and all his information is on the list. They said he will soon be exchanged.’
I don’t know what I did. Perhaps I danced like a lunatic and genuflected in prayer on the floor. Fortunately, Mansoureh was there and pushed everyone out of my office so that they wouldn’t see me behaving like a madwoman. I had to go somewhere holy. I needed to ask God’s forgiveness for all my blasphemy; otherwise, I was afraid that happiness would run through my fingers like water. The closest place Mansoureh could think of was the Saleh Shrine.
At the shrine, I clung to the enclosure around the tomb and repeated over and over again, ‘God, I was wrong, forgive me. God, you are great, you are merciful, you must forgive me. I promise to make up for all the prayers I have missed, I will give alms to the poor…’
Now that I look back at those days, I realise I had really gone insane. I talked to God as a child talks to her playmate. I defined the rules of the game and I watched carefully to make sure neither one of us broke those rules. Every day I begged him not to turn away from me. Like a lover who had made up with her beloved after a long separation, I was both eager and scared. I constantly pleaded with him in the hope that he would forget my past ingratitude and understand my circumstances.
I was alive again. Joy had returned to my home. The sound of Shirin’s laughter was once more ringing through the rooms. She would run and play, throw her arms around my neck and kiss me.
I knew that being a prisoner of war was harsh and gruelling, I knew Massoud was suffering, but I also knew that it would pass. All that mattered was that he was alive. I spent every day waiting for his freedom. I kept cleaning and tidying the house and rearranging his clothes. Months passed, each month becoming more difficult than the one before, but the hope of seeing him again kept me on my feet.
At last one summer night they brought my son home. For many days beforehand, the neighbourhood streets were decorated with lights and banners, congratulating him on his return, and flowers, sweets and syrups bathed our home with the scent of life. The apartment was crowded with people. I didn’t know many of them. I was thrilled to see my cousin Mahboubeh and her husband. When I saw her father-in-law had also come, I wanted to kiss his hand. To me he was the personification of piety and love.
Mrs Parvin was in charge of the reception. Mansoureh, Faati, Manijeh and Firouzeh, who was now a beautiful young girl, had been busy for several days preparing everything. The day before, Faati had looked at me and said, ‘Sister, colour your hair. If that boy sees you looking like this he will faint!’
I agreed. I would have agreed to anything. Faati coloured my hair and plucked my eyebrows. Firouzeh laughed and said, ‘It’s as if Auntie is getting married! She looks as beautiful as a bride.’
‘Yes, my dear, it’s as if it is my wedding. But it’s much better than that. I wasn’t as happy as this the day I got married.’
I put on a beautiful green dress. It was Massoud’s favorite colour. And Shirin wore the pink dress I had just bought for her. By early afternoon we were both ready and waiting. Mother came with Ali and his family. Ehteram-Sadat also came. She looked shattered. Her repressed grief was growing deeper with time. I tried to avoid looking into her eyes. I was somehow ashamed that my child was alive and hers had died.
‘Why did you bring Ehteram?’ I asked Mother.
‘She wanted to come. Is something wrong?’
‘The envy in her eyes makes me uncomfortable.’
‘What nonsense! She is not envious at all. She is a martyr’s mother; her status is much higher than yours. God holds her in the highest esteem. Do you really think she would be jealous of you? No, my dear, she is actually very happy and you don’t need to worry about her.’
Perhaps Mother was right, perhaps Ehteram-Sadat’s faith was so strong that it kept her going. I tried to not think about her any more, but I continued to avoid her eyes.
Shirin kept lighting the small brazier for burning wild rue, but it kept going out.
It was past nine o’clock and I was running out of patience when the caravan arrived. With all the sedatives I had taken and all the time I had had to prepare for that moment, I started shaking violently and I fainted. How beautiful that moment was when I opened my eyes and found myself in Massoud’s arms.
Massoud was taller but very thin and pale. The expression in his eyes had changed. What he had endured had matured him. He had a limp and was often in pain. From his behaviour, his insomnia and the nightmares he had when he did manage to sleep I realised how much he had suffered. But he did not like to talk about it.
Wounded and barely alive, he had been captured by the Iraqi army and treated at several hospitals. He still had wounds that had not healed. At times he suffered excruciating pain and broke into a fever. The doctor said his limp could be corrected by complicated surgery. After he had regained his strength he underwent the procedure and fortunately it was successful. I took care of him and fussed over him like a child. Every moment with him was precious to me. I would sit and watch him sleep. His handsome face looked like that of a child when he slept. I gave him the nickname God-given. God had really given him back to me.
Massoud slowly regained his physical health, but emotionally he was not the energetic and lively young man he used to be. He didn’t draw or sketch any more. He had no plans for the future. Sometimes his friends, fellow soldiers and former cellmates came to see him and he would be distracted for a while. But again he would grow quiet and withdrawn. I asked his friends not to leave him alone. Among them there were men of every age.
I decided to discuss Massoud’s depression with Mr Maghsoudi, who in time would come to play a pivotal role in my son’s life. He was about fifty years old, had a kind face and seemed worldly; Massoud had a lot of respect for him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘All of us were more or less the same way. And this poor boy was badly wounded, too. He will gradually recover. He has to start working.’
‘But he is very talented and smart,’ I said. ‘I want him to study.’
‘Of course he should. As a war veteran, he can go to university.’
I was ecstatic. I gathered his books and said, ‘Well, recuperation time is over. You have to start planning for your future and finish everything that has been left unfinished. And the most important of these is your education. You have to start this very day.’
‘No, Mum, it’s too late for me,’ Massoud said quietly. ‘My brain doesn’t work any more and I don’t have the patience to study and prepare for the entrance exams. There is no way I would be admitted.’
‘No, my dear. You can use the quotas and benefits that allow veterans to go to university.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘If I don’t qualify academically, it doesn’t make any difference whether I am a veteran or not. I will not be admitted.’
‘If you study, you will be more qualified than anyone else,’ I argued. ‘And being able to get a university degree is a right they have given to all veterans.’
‘In other words they have given me the right to take away someone else’s right. No, I don’t want it.’
‘You will be taking what is yours by right; a right that was unjustly taken away from you four years ago.’
‘Just because they took my right from me back then, now I should do the same to someone else?’ he contended.
‘Right or wrong it is the law. Don’t tell me you have got used to the law always being against you? My dear, sometimes it is for you. You have fought and suffered for these people and this country. Now these people and this country want to reward you. It’s not right that you should reject.’
Our seemingly endless arguments finally ended with me as the victor. Of course, Firouzeh was very instrumental in this. She was in her last years of school and came over to the apartment every day with her books so that Massoud would help her with her homework, forcing him to study as well. Her kind and beautiful face brought the joy of life into Massoud’s face. They studied, talked and laughed together. Occasionally, I would insist that they leave their books and go out for some fun.
Massoud applied to the Department of Architecture at the university. He was accepted. I kissed him and congratulated him. ‘Between you and me, it wasn’t my right,’ he said, laughing, ‘but I am very happy!’
Massoud’s next problem was to find a job.
‘It is embarrassing for a guy my age to still be a burden to his mother,’ he often said. And a few times he even mumbled something about dropping out of university. I again turned to Mr Maghsoudi who had a relatively senior position at a ministry.
‘Of course there is work for him,’ he said with confidence. ‘And it doesn’t have to interfere with his studies.’
Massoud easily passed the required exams, the selection process and the interviews, which were mostly a formality, and he was hired. The stigma we had been branded with seemed to have been suddenly erased. Now, he was a precious gem. And as the mother of a war veteran, I was extended every respect and offered jobs and resources that at times I had to reject.
That drastic change was comical. What a strange world it was. Neither its ire nor its kindness had any substance.