Once Upon a Time, There Was War, Shell Fragments, Chemicals; My Father Is Not History

A Note by a Fighter\\\'s Son:

News ID: ۱۰۱۳۴

جمعه - ۰۵ دی ۲۰۱۳ / 2013 05 October

When I close my eyes and I think about my dad. Something like a foggy image is imagined on my eyes. It is the same as the sequence of the films that story champion is among the fogs and he moves slowly towards the camera and you wish to run towards him and to express all of your excitement to him, but my father is neither a hero in a movie, nor history or myth.

When you express the name of dad, you remember the sentences which had been written in the elementary school books including ‘Dad gave bread’ and ‘Dad gave water’. But when you are in the first elementary class and your dad does not be present and the dad to be present in the battlefields, the dad to be fighting, the dad to be injured, and the dad to be…no more you will believe that the books are expressing the truth.

From the time that I extinguished my right from left hand, I found my dad in the soiled uniform of Basij and I can remember that each time that my dad would return from the battlefields, he was so tried and his look except so much sorrows had nothing. Each time that I would see he was coming home in the alley, I would empower his feet and I would ran towards him in order to hug him and he would try to make his daughter happy despite of all the difficulties that he had.

The war had been finished, but the work and services of my dad had not been finished. Someday he would go to Kurdistan province and one day he would go to West Azarbaijan province. They would say that still the anti-revolutionary militants are active in the abovementioned provinces and they had made these places insecure. Since I did not know the meaning of these words at the time, but I wanted to end the war in order let my dad to rest for a while and to stay with his little daughter away from the war and quivers.

When I date back to the past, I can remember the time that my mother was young and her little daughters and since the bombardment sounds would be reflected in the mountains of Khorram Abad and my mother had inserted his fingers in the ears of his daughter in order not to hear about all of these disasters.

The bombs, missiles and rockets would hit the mountains over our heads, but yet we would not shout or scream and even we would not cry! The aircrafts of the enemy would go away from the sky, but after that we feel so much dusts in the atmosphere of that place and they come to our houses; after a few minutes we can hear the voices of groaning and weeping and those persons who have been trapped under the debris.

As always, my mother has hanged a radio to her wrist and each time that she hears the alarm of the red situation, she takes us to the corner of the yard and she attempts to protect us by her own arms. In fact he attempts to play the role of a rifle pit and shield for us. She struggles to prevent the little girls of dad to fear from anything. The dad is not there, but the mom is there and the dad should be there who has so much courage.

I can not remember so much about that time, but my mother says about the quivers that came near my pillow and they stayed in my bed. She says that the quivers came exactly near one meter away from my pillow and they stayed there. Also she cry in tears and my heart feel aches due to this quiver which has failed.

The war means this, it means the childhood which has got used to with the bombs and missiles. I means those young mothers who lost all of their freshness and excitement under those missiles and those dads who have not given bread and water, but they are dispatched to the red war zones. If you pay attention to these things, you will notice that the meaning of war is this! Unless you have not felt all of these things, you won’t understand that how much the war has penetrated our bones and what wounds have been left from it.

I review my memories regarding my dad as follows and I say that how much I can remember about his hugging. I don’t remember all the things. I don’t remember so much; because during the time that I was a little child, the dad was not with me so much, I had dad, but my dad was not with us, can you understand the meaning of this situation? (Having father, but not being with you)

I don’t know whether someone can understand the concept of the abovementioned sentence, if someone can understand that when the little children try to say good words, but the dad not to be present. There is no dad there to pat you and listen to your words.

The album of our photos has two separate atmospheres. One is related to the war and war zones and the other is about dad when he is present in our house. When we look at the photos related to the war and war zones, they have the smell of chemical gases, the rasping voices of chest and the smell of his martyred friend ‘Ebrahim Beiranvand’!

In one of the photos, the friend of my dad has hugged me and I am looking to the camera so surprisingly. He has laughed and I analyze the camera with my circled and black eyes. I would ask what martyr Beiranvand is doing in the photo. She gets chocked with tears and after that I get chocked with tears and then dad gets chocked with tears…Still I did not understand what the martyr was saying to me in the photo!

When the dad takes out the photos from the commode, he shows the other side of Hoor and he says there is Iraq. Sometimes he has taken photos in the mountainous areas of Kurdistan province. He points out to the backside of the mountains by his finger. He shows the land and soil of Iraq to me and he says that what a disturbance had been raised there.

In all the photos, dad has a gun, from the Alvatan and cedar forests to the mountainous areas of Baneh, Changuleh, Merhan, Sare Pole Zahab and sometimes I think that the gun has been so fortunate that it remembers dad before me.

In the photos that dad has; most of the persons who are seen in the photo have been martyred. The dad says nothing and when he does not say about them, and he gets chocked with tears. When he wants to talk, he cries in tears and he makes me understand that what he has missed when he sees these photos? He does not know whether he stays here with his daughters or to go to the appointment that he has with his martyred friends.

Once when the television was broadcasting the Fath Narration, it showed my little dad that was 17 years old at the time. My dad still sees the Fath narration films. My mother still dreams about the war. Also everything I dream about the quiver which crept to one meter away from my bed. Here in our house, the war has not been finished yet.

The dad has stood behind a gun and he does not smile to the photo. I say, dad, where is here? And he slowly says, it is the mountainous areas of Gamu. It is exactly close to Soleimaniyeh province of Iraq. He mentions the name of some of martyred friends including Abdol Rahman Nour Al-Husseini, Morad Ali Momeni, Abdol Azim Paryad…It seems that when he remembers the quivers of the operation, his eyes turn red and again the a rain of blood starts!

My dad who has taken part in the military operations Beitol Moghadas, Fathol Mobin and Mersad and he has gone to the mountainous areas of Shakh Shamiran, Shakh Meisam, Shakh Bardekan and Balambou…even he remembers that at what moments God and what minutes and moments he remembered Gamu and Gerde Resh and what rocks of the western mountainous areas of Iran have the smell of blood.

During these days that the military operation ‘Beitol Moghadas’ is being reconstructed in the atmosphere of the city, the dad gets nervous, he stays in Darbandi Khan and he gets exposed to chemical weapons!

All of his memories related to Beitol Moghadas are filled with three words and how much full will be this operation with the three small words: Dad, chemical and Darbandi Khan!

His body has been badly used to with the consequences of chemical weapons. At the beginning when he had returned from the war, during the winters he had a badly damaged respiratory system and sometimes his coughs had the smell of blood. Now his health condition has become better, he himself says that he has had to use to with this pain. He does his own work and I do my own work too!

Still the sound of missiles, bullets and quivers can be heard in the ear of dad. Sometimes he is yet in the Majnoon Island and he gets so nervous about those days in way that his hair and beard are whiter and each person who sees him thinks that he is an old man. They say that he is the same as old men, but dad says that the lifetime has made him old that is why he passes the whiteness of his hair and he says about something else.

Sometimes he goes to the public cemetery and he read what has written on the gravestones of each of his martyred friends. His heart aches and he cries the same as children. When he comes back home from his red eyes we can notice that where he has been today and we notice that he has had a day of talking with his martyred friends including Seyed Mehdi Rezvan, Seyed Taj Al-Din Musavi, Seyed Habib Musavi, Iraj Noorollah and Ebrahim Beiranvand…

Dad speaks so less and he says a bit about his memories. When his heart misses the southern and western battlefields, he goes there along with Rahiyan Noor tours. He has taken himself to the tour section so that each time that he misses there, he goes there and in his imagination he flies to different places…

Yes! When we say about dad, we are not talking about the dad which has been written in the books. My dad is so much different from the dad which has been mentioned in the books. In fact the dad which has been discussed in the books lacks many things. My real dad has wounds, pains. He has experienced the war. He has slept inside the bombs, missiles and rockets… My dad still dreams about martyr Hussein Mansouri and Karim Papi Zadeh.

Yes, the body of my dad has a smell of war…it has a smell of blood, quiver and chemical weapons. He has the smell of several divine men…it has the smell of Majnoon island; it has the smell of Hoor war zone and the smell of western mountainous areas of Iran. Sometimes I think that no one knows my dad! Sometimes I think….

Written by Sediqe Husseini, the daughter of war veteran ‘Mohammad Vali Husseini’

The End

Source: Rahian Nour Central Staff

When I close my eyes and I think about my dad. Something like a foggy image is imagined on my eyes. It is the same as the sequence of the films that story champion is among the fogs and he moves slowly towards the camera and you wish to run towards him and to express all of your excitement to him, but my father is neither a hero in a movie, nor history or myth.

When you express the name of dad, you remember the sentences which had been written in the elementary school books including ‘Dad gave bread’ and ‘Dad gave water’. But when you are in the first elementary class and your dad does not be present and the dad to be present in the battlefields, the dad to be fighting, the dad to be injured, and the dad to be…no more you will believe that the books are expressing the truth.

From the time that I extinguished my right from left hand, I found my dad in the soiled uniform of Basij and I can remember that each time that my dad would return from the battlefields, he was so tried and his look except so much sorrows had nothing. Each time that I would see he was coming home in the alley, I would empower his feet and I would ran towards him in order to hug him and he would try to make his daughter happy despite of all the difficulties that he had.

The war had been finished, but the work and services of my dad had not been finished. Someday he would go to Kurdistan province and one day he would go to West Azarbaijan province. They would say that still the anti-revolutionary militants are active in the abovementioned provinces and they had made these places insecure. Since I did not know the meaning of these words at the time, but I wanted to end the war in order let my dad to rest for a while and to stay with his little daughter away from the war and quivers.

When I date back to the past, I can remember the time that my mother was young and her little daughters and since the bombardment sounds would be reflected in the mountains of Khorram Abad and my mother had inserted his fingers in the ears of his daughter in order not to hear about all of these disasters.

The bombs, missiles and rockets would hit the mountains over our heads, but yet we would not shout or scream and even we would not cry! The aircrafts of the enemy would go away from the sky, but after that we feel so much dusts in the atmosphere of that place and they come to our houses; after a few minutes we can hear the voices of groaning and weeping and those persons who have been trapped under the debris.

As always, my mother has hanged a radio to her wrist and each time that she hears the alarm of the red situation, she takes us to the corner of the yard and she attempts to protect us by her own arms. In fact he attempts to play the role of a rifle pit and shield for us. She struggles to prevent the little girls of dad to fear from anything. The dad is not there, but the mom is there and the dad should be there who has so much courage.

I can not remember so much about that time, but my mother says about the quivers that came near my pillow and they stayed in my bed. She says that the quivers came exactly near one meter away from my pillow and they stayed there. Also she cry in tears and my heart feel aches due to this quiver which has failed.

The war means this, it means the childhood which has got used to with the bombs and missiles. I means those young mothers who lost all of their freshness and excitement under those missiles and those dads who have not given bread and water, but they are dispatched to the red war zones. If you pay attention to these things, you will notice that the meaning of war is this! Unless you have not felt all of these things, you won’t understand that how much the war has penetrated our bones and what wounds have been left from it.

I review my memories regarding my dad as follows and I say that how much I can remember about his hugging. I don’t remember all the things. I don’t remember so much; because during the time that I was a little child, the dad was not with me so much, I had dad, but my dad was not with us, can you understand the meaning of this situation? (Having father, but not being with you)

I don’t know whether someone can understand the concept of the abovementioned sentence, if someone can understand that when the little children try to say good words, but the dad not to be present. There is no dad there to pat you and listen to your words.

The album of our photos has two separate atmospheres. One is related to the war and war zones and the other is about dad when he is present in our house. When we look at the photos related to the war and war zones, they have the smell of chemical gases, the rasping voices of chest and the smell of his martyred friend ‘Ebrahim Beiranvand’!

In one of the photos, the friend of my dad has hugged me and I am looking to the camera so surprisingly. He has laughed and I analyze the camera with my circled and black eyes. I would ask what martyr Beiranvand is doing in the photo. She gets chocked with tears and after that I get chocked with tears and then dad gets chocked with tears…Still I did not understand what the martyr was saying to me in the photo!

When the dad takes out the photos from the commode, he shows the other side of Hoor and he says there is Iraq. Sometimes he has taken photos in the mountainous areas of Kurdistan province. He points out to the backside of the mountains by his finger. He shows the land and soil of Iraq to me and he says that what a disturbance had been raised there.

In all the photos, dad has a gun, from the Alvatan and cedar forests to the mountainous areas of Baneh, Changuleh, Merhan, Sare Pole Zahab and sometimes I think that the gun has been so fortunate that it remembers dad before me.

In the photos that dad has; most of the persons who are seen in the photo have been martyred. The dad says nothing and when he does not say about them, and he gets chocked with tears. When he wants to talk, he cries in tears and he makes me understand that what he has missed when he sees these photos? He does not know whether he stays here with his daughters or to go to the appointment that he has with his martyred friends.

Once when the television was broadcasting the Fath Narration, it showed my little dad that was 17 years old at the time. My dad still sees the Fath narration films. My mother still dreams about the war. Also everything I dream about the quiver which crept to one meter away from my bed. Here in our house, the war has not been finished yet.

The dad has stood behind a gun and he does not smile to the photo. I say, dad, where is here? And he slowly says, it is the mountainous areas of Gamu. It is exactly close to Soleimaniyeh province of Iraq. He mentions the name of some of martyred friends including Abdol Rahman Nour Al-Husseini, Morad Ali Momeni, Abdol Azim Paryad…It seems that when he remembers the quivers of the operation, his eyes turn red and again the a rain of blood starts!

My dad who has taken part in the military operations Beitol Moghadas, Fathol Mobin and Mersad and he has gone to the mountainous areas of Shakh Shamiran, Shakh Meisam, Shakh Bardekan and Balambou…even he remembers that at what moments God and what minutes and moments he remembered Gamu and Gerde Resh and what rocks of the western mountainous areas of Iran have the smell of blood.

During these days that the military operation ‘Beitol Moghadas’ is being reconstructed in the atmosphere of the city, the dad gets nervous, he stays in Darbandi Khan and he gets exposed to chemical weapons!

All of his memories related to Beitol Moghadas are filled with three words and how much full will be this operation with the three small words: Dad, chemical and Darbandi Khan!

His body has been badly used to with the consequences of chemical weapons. At the beginning when he had returned from the war, during the winters he had a badly damaged respiratory system and sometimes his coughs had the smell of blood. Now his health condition has become better, he himself says that he has had to use to with this pain. He does his own work and I do my own work too!

Still the sound of missiles, bullets and quivers can be heard in the ear of dad. Sometimes he is yet in the Majnoon Island and he gets so nervous about those days in way that his hair and beard are whiter and each person who sees him thinks that he is an old man. They say that he is the same as old men, but dad says that the lifetime has made him old that is why he passes the whiteness of his hair and he says about something else.

Sometimes he goes to the public cemetery and he read what has written on the gravestones of each of his martyred friends. His heart aches and he cries the same as children. When he comes back home from his red eyes we can notice that where he has been today and we notice that he has had a day of talking with his martyred friends including Seyed Mehdi Rezvan, Seyed Taj Al-Din Musavi, Seyed Habib Musavi, Iraj Noorollah and Ebrahim Beiranvand…

Dad speaks so less and he says a bit about his memories. When his heart misses the southern and western battlefields, he goes there along with Rahiyan Noor tours. He has taken himself to the tour section so that each time that he misses there, he goes there and in his imagination he flies to different places…
Yes! When we say about dad, we are not talking about the dad which has been written in the books. My dad is so much different from the dad which has been mentioned in the books. In fact the dad which has been discussed in the books lacks many things. My real dad has wounds, pains. He has experienced the war. He has slept inside the bombs, missiles and rockets… My dad still dreams about martyr Hussein Mansouri and Karim Papi Zadeh.

Yes, the body of my dad has a smell of war…it has a smell of blood, quiver and chemical weapons. He has the smell of several divine men…it has the smell of Majnoon island; it has the smell of Hoor war zone and the smell of western mountainous areas of Iran. Sometimes I think that no one knows my dad! Sometimes I think….

Written by Sediqe Husseini, the daughter of war veteran ‘Mohammad Vali Husseini’

The End

Source: Rahian Nour Central Staff