Strange Times, My Dear

by Nahid Mozaffari

  He’s in a rush. “I’m going out to see what’s going on.” “If this news is true . . .” Saber says.

  Mohsen closes the door behind him. Mina brings the phone. Saber lights a cigarette. I’ve barely had a chance to plug the phone in when it rings.

  “Hello?”

  It’s Ali, my cousin.

  “Have you heard?”

  “You mean about the airport?”

  “They’ve hit the airport tower.”

  “Were there any planes on the tarmac at the time?”

  He doesn’t know. I hang up. The radio is broadcasting the international news. I turn the knob to find another station with the news, but there’s nothing. I get up, dress, and leave the house. It’s a few minutes before three o’clock, and it’s hot. The whole city seems to be shaken. This time of day the streets are usually quiet, but today people couldn’t stand being inside once they heard about the airport. They walk the street aimlessly. In front of stores, men and women gather and listen to the news. It’s just ordinary news, as if nothing has happened to Ahvaz airport. A car passes by and the driver shouts

  “We’re at war!”

  This is serious. I wander aimlessly around town. I get to Mama Rain Circle and head toward the coffeehouse. I stop by the public water pump to wash my face and cool down. Three young men are sitting and chatting in the shade by the wall of the cafe. They are talking about Iraq and the bombing of the airport and the fact that the radio announcer is acting as if nothing has happened. I fill my mouth with water and gargle, listening.

  “You begin to think that with this silence, they are being traitors to this country! Otherwise, why wouldn’t they say anything about it?”

  I look at them. One of them looks very familiar. I think he is a student from the College of Philosophy at the university.

  “They’ve almost wiped out the airport. . . and not a word on the radio.”

  One of them is skinny and tall, and, with his legs crossed, he retorts, “If it were any other hellhole, they wouldn’t only inform people about the events, they’d actually use the mass media to instruct and lead.”

  The philosophy student, whose most visible characteristic is his thick curly hair, rubs his hands together and says in a voice filled with protest and sadness, “Silence, silence, silence.”

  After cooling down, I sit on the coffeehouse bench. The owner, who is called Mehdi the Pauper, comes out and hands me a glass of tea.

  “You’ve heard, of course.”

  I nod. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  The radio in Mehdi’s store goes silent for a second, and then a politician begins to speak. His voice is completely calm. One of the young men asks Mehdi to turn up the volume, and he does. The sound of the radio is filling the square. Rostam Effendi is sleeping inside the cafe. Kal Shaban, the neighborhood grocer at the other side of the square, comes out of his store and looks over in our direction. The politician is saying that Iraq has unilaterally transgressed the Algiers Accord and that today, a few minutes after two in the afternoon, Iraqi planes attacked our nation and bombed the airports of Tabriz, Hamedan, Dezful, Ah-vaz, and Tehran’s Mehrabad airport.

  One of the young men pushes the meaty part of his fist into his forehead and says in a muffled voice, “Bastards!”

  Dumbfounded, Mehdi the Pauper listens to the radio. Rostam Effendi gets up, comes over, and squats at the cafe door. The official asks people to remain calm and then, his voice a crescendo of excitement, says that our people will defend their revolutionary nation and will repel the transgressors.

  I am concentrating on the radio when a voice says, “It’s finally started!”

  I turn my head. It’s Mohammad the mechanic, just back from work. His black eyes are tired and his curly black hair is a mess.

  At dusk, the streetlights do not come on. People are pouring out of their houses. Radios are blasting. The Iraqi attacks have united the people. People, friends or not, greet one another. The word on the street is about resistance and beating back the enemy.

  “We’ll crush him like a snake!”

  “We’ll bury all the Iraqis in one grave!”

  “Who’d have thought that Saddam would have the guts!”

  “This doesn’t take guts, it takes stupidity!”

  “He had to invade — our revolution has shaken up Iraq!”

  “It has shaken up the whole region!”

  There is no sign of worry on anyone’s face. The darkness of night flows in the streets. Car lights are off. In Khomeini Street — usually bright as daylight — there is not even the flicker of a candle. A mild mugginess has taken over the city. People have covered their doors and windows. The supporting pillars of White Bridge are enveloped in the mist rising off the Karun, and the bridge, in the dark of night, seems to hover in midair. The motorboats are bobbing alongside the flooded river. The hollow, fearsome sound of the Karun River seems threatening at night. There’s no one on the banks.

  I am sleeping on the roof when I jolt awake to the roaring thunder of an airplane.3 It’s early in the morning. The sun hasn’t yet risen. Shahed jumps off his bed and hoists himself up to the top of the staircase. He shades his eyes with his hands, looking east. Everyone is now awake. I get out of bed. The coolness of dawn is blending with the light mugginess of daybreak. I look down at the street from the edge of the roof I hear Baba Rahman’s voice: “It was a plane, right?”

  I turn toward the other roof. Baba Rahman’s forehead, eyes, and nose are visible over the wall.

  “I think it was . . . Yes, it was a plane!”

  Shahed jumps back on the roof.

  “They’ve hit around Silu! There’s thick smoke

  The words have barely left his mouth when the plane approaches again and passes right over us. It’s so loud that my knees turn to water for a quick second. Shahed covers his ears and squats. I think of the radio next to the bed. I turn it on and tune to the Ahvaz station. Sirens start wailing. People are gathering on their rooftops, shading their eyes with their hands and looking in the direction of the plane. The radio asks people to go in their cellars until the air raid is over. Saber, his eyes still full of slumber, murmurs, “Air strikes!”

  As the sounds of antiaircraft guns are heard from the western part of the city, Baba Rahman calls me, “Wait. . . look over there!”

  At Silu, a thick smoke rises, tears apart, and disintegrates into the east.

  The sun is pulling up. On Ahvaz radio, the announcer asks people to pay close attention to the different sirens, and then they set off the yellow alert. I take the radio and go downstairs. Mother has set up breakfast on the porch. Saber takes the tea glass from her.

  “Mother, from today on, we have to live in the cellar.”

  Mother is calm. “God will protect us. Whatever He wills . . .”

  Saber says, “That’s right, Mother, God will protect us. But we still have to live in the cellar.” The siren is still on the radio as Saber continues, “Take all the appliances and furniture to the cellar. The refrigerator, too.”

  I don’t know what time Mohsen had left this morning, but he comes back in a rush. “The local guys have formed a group!”

  Shahed is putting on his shoes to go to work. “A group?”

  Mohsen wipes the sweat from his forehead and sits on the edge of the balcony. “Yes, a group. To fight Iraq. Since last night, there are already two groups of ten to twelve kids ...” Mohsen takes the tea glass from Mother. “Hojjat’s group had eleven people.”

  He takes a sip of the tea, and continues, “Babak’s gang, too, is up to nine people!”

  “Hojjat? Abdollah the carpenter’s son?” Shahed says.

  Mohsen swallows more tea. “Yes, Abdollah’s son.”

  Shahed lights his cigarette. “But he’s so wimpy!”

  “Maybe . . . but he has a head on his shoulders. The other kids respect him!”

  Shahed heads out.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He hasn’t rea
ched the door when the red siren goes off; he pauses a second and looks back at us. Saber calls him. “Come back . . . don’t leave now

  The antiaircraft batteries start in again. Shahed looks at his watch, his ear cocked to the sound of the guns. Mohsen goes upstairs to the roof to have a look. Shahed shuffles about a while. “I should be off. I’ll be late to the office.” With which, he pushes out his motorbike and closes the door. The airplane can still be heard in the distance. Mohsen stretches his neck over the wall of the roof. “It looks like they’ve hit Campelu!”4

  With that, I peel off my seat and hurry up the stairs. Saber doesn’t move a muscle. Once on the roof, I pull myself up onto the ledge above, which supports the staircase. In a few spots around the western part of the city, clouds of dust are rising. The airplanes can be heard. I look at the sky. Not even one shred of cloud. The sound of antiaircraft machine-gun suddenly roars like thunder. It’s from the Island. Overnight, it seems, they’ve put up antiaircraft guns on the Island, alongside the bridges, in fact throughout the city.

  Baba Rahman is still on the roof. This time, he’s standing on a stool, with only his head and chest visible from our side. I hear the voice of the old man. “Looks like there’s really going to be war!”

  I jump from the ledge down onto the roof. Baba Rahman’s son calls out to him from their courtyard, but the old man keeps standing on the stool looking at the sky. I move slowly over to him.

  “That’s right, Baba Rahman, the war has started!”

  Baba Rahman’s red gums peer through his toothless grin.

  The news of tanks creates a lot of confusion. It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Suddenly word spreads that over two hundred tanks have pulled to within ten kilometers of the city. They have crossed the Azadegan Plains and are approaching. Suddenly the whole town turns into mayhem, like a bees’ nest on fire. Movements are hurried. Words smell like fear peppered with anxiety, resistance, and flight.

  “Who says the tanks are coming?”

  “Who? The radio!” someone shouts.

  “Did you hear it yourself?”

  “Get a grip on yourself, man!”

  “Everybody in the city has heard.”

  “More than two hundred!”

  “Two hundred!”

  An old man is leaning against a wall, drenched in sweat and hyperventilating. He pounds his head with his fist and murmurs, “We’ve nowhere else to go. All our life, our honor, our work . . . and now we’ll be on the streets!”

  A retired colonel, with one foot in the grave and a pair of scorpion tails for a mustache, takes his binoculars and breathlessly goes up to his roof, grumbling, “This isn’t some backwater. Just two hundred tanks? Is the army dead?”

  Offices close. People pour into the streets and build barricades with sandbags.

  Two nights ago, Basra television announced the fall of Dabb Hardan. Now, at night, everyone watches Basra TV. They showed us how their soldiers had poured out of military trucks, stood in tight lines and gunned down the whole city, then dispersed into the town and killed everything — even the cats and dogs — with their Kalashnikovs.

  Everyone in town has their radios turned on. The rhythm of revolutionary anthems and military marches has filled the city. The military march fades away for a few moments as the radio announcer declares that all schools will be closed. But the kids have left school already and started making Molotov cocktails. The voices of young people are everywhere.

  “Hey, Asad . . . MOVE!”

  “You . . . yes, I’m talking to you, Morad . . . take Jaber and Amir and go find some jars, bottles, empty bottles.”

  “Ghazal. . . yeah you, Ghazal. . . get some soap . . . run . . . Now!” “And don’t forget the grater . . . the grater!”

  Kids are stopping cars, adding to the frustration of the drivers.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Gasoline!”

  “What do you want to do with my gasoline?” “Even a liter is enough!” “For heaven’s sake, I don’t have a hose!” “It’s all right, we do . . .”

  Doors get pounded. Kids, sweat dripping from their faces, haul bags full of empty bottles. Gas canisters, soap boxes, and cans of burned cooking oil weigh down on their shoulders. The effort is getting more intense and widespread. Gasoline lines grow longer by the minute

  “Thirty liters . . . that would get me to Khurramabad.”

  “Are you running away?”

  “Running away?”

  “Why are you in such a rush?”

  “Listen, Mister, I have to get my kids to a safe place!”

  Again, the antiaircraft rockets; and then, the sound of a plane explodes like thunder. Everyone leaves their cars and lies flat on the medians and sidewalks, looking at one another in disbelief and shock.

  “Did you get burned?”

  “No . . . but I think I twisted my ankle.”

  “Check it out. . . you might have been shot!”

  Workers — blue- and white-collar — are building barricades. From Zeitoon to Zand Street, from Kianpars to Shilangabad, from Golestan and Bustan to Chaharshir. The black market in gasoline is booming.

  “I just want ten liters.”

  “That’ll be a hundred tomans a liter!”

  “A hundred tomans?! Buddy, I hope you are praying for your own

  soul

  “Oh, yeah?! Then go wait in the gasoline lines till grass grows under your feet. . . and maybe even get shot for all I care!”

  Handcarts, trucks, and pickups rush sand from the Karun to all parts of town. Everyone’s wet with sweat. The sun is blistering. There is not even a trace of a cloud.

  An old man is standing in front of the construction site on his property. He’s holding a dented shovel in his hand, guarding his pile of sand from anyone who gets close. Kids laugh and taunt him. He is foaming at the mouth, chasing them, panting and cursing.

  Women, kids, boys, and girls go house-to-house collecting empty bags. Next to the barricades kids are shoveling sand into the bags.

  Homes are abuzz. Everyone is gathering their goods.

  “Father, why are you rolling up the carpet?”

  “Didn’t you see what they did in Dabb Hardan?”

  “Yes, but

  “There’s no ‘but’ . . . they have no mercy for anybody . . . they’re burning down everything!” Voices overlap.

  “Mother, empty that rice sack!”

  The mother turns around in confusion.

  “Where . . . where I am supposed to empty it?”

  “I don’t know . . . on the floor . . . in that pot.”

  As kids pound on the doors, voices come from inside,

  “What’s all the noise?”

  “Auntie . . . soap . . . give us all you can!”5

  “They took it already ... I swear my own kids took everything

  I had!”

  Bottles of Molotov cocktails are standing next to the barricades, on roofs, alongside walls. The images from the fall of Dabb Hardan have put hatred in everyone’s heart.

  “We’ll counter aggression with aggression!”

  “We’ll break their legs!”

  “Over our dead bodies . . .”

  “If they set foot in this city we’ll burn them alive!” Buses, minivans, and passenger cars are filled with young and old on their way to the military base.

  “Get in!” “Where to?” “The base!” “What for?” “Weapons!”

  The roar of motorcycles cracks like a storm and fills the streets. Boys and girls, two, three, even four to a seat, are driving toward the base for weapons. Mohammad the mechanic appears for a second and then hurtles like a meteor down the street. Wind blows his thick hair and makes it look even bigger. Young people with G-3s and Kalashnikovs arrive at the barricades and load their weapons.

  “Who’s that guy . . . the redhead?”

  “Nezam, the ironsmith.”

  “Mash Safar’s son?”

  “That’s him. He’s the son of Mash Safa
r the ironsmith.”

  “Who’s the other one . . . the dark guy?”

  “Qasem the bricklayer.”

  “And the tall one?”

  “You don’t recognize him?”

  “He looks familiar.”

  “He’s a schoolteacher . . . he’s formed a group with his students.” In front of the giant gates of the military base, it looks like Judgment Day. People are screaming. Everyone wants a weapon. The soldiers are holding guns and placing their sweat-filled bodies between the people and the walls of the garrison. Every time a new group arrives, the voices get louder and the crowd, pressed into each other, drive toward the garrison like a wave.

  “Give us weapons!”

  “Guns!”

  “Machine guns!”

  “RPGs!”

  “I’ve served already . . . armored division . . . give me a tank!”

  Voices are rising like the sound of the sea before the storm breaks, a roar that sinks fear into your heart. Sometimes a resonating voice overtakes the noise and rises above it, drives towards the garrison, and echoes like a wounded bird hitting its flailing head against the wall.

  “Who is going to protect the city?”

  “The tanks are coming!”

  “We’re fed up with this incompetence!”

  “Give us weapons!”

  “Please be quiet and listen to me!”

  The voice of a young officer soars from a loudspeaker. “We thank you . . .”

  “Give us weapons!”

  “I beg you, please allow me to speak!”

  The sound of the crowd disintegrates. The voice of the young officer — which now has a pleasant tone — calmly and patiently emerges from the loudspeaker: “We thank you . . . the captain has ordered me to thank you and ask you to return to your homes. I beg you, please remain calm. Do not lose your heads. Be confident that the army will protect the city. Know that the Ninety-second Armored Division alone can go all the way to Baghdad. Please have faith. The only thing that

  The voice of a young man standing at the front of the crowd rises. “If the army is protecting the town, why did the Iraqi tanks

  Suddenly, the young man’s voice is drowned out by the blast of gunshots fired into the air.

  The young officer yells into the loudspeaker. “Don’t shoot!”