The Shipwrecked

by Fereshteh Nouraie-Simone

  On the cracked surface of the pudding I see something like “Allah” traced in cinnamon.

  “Say a prayer,” a woman whispers in my ear.

  Several other women stare at the pudding in amazement.

  “Why don’t you have some, Mom?” Bita asks. “You love the stuff.”

  “What a great man was Imam Hussein!” Behnaz proclaims. “He will still be great in several thousand years.”

  “Why don’t you eat?” Bita asks again.

  By now the procession has started moving. The walls and storefronts along the street are covered with lengths of black fabric. I follow the procession and walk along with the crowds, trying to keep track of my children. I don’t see Nima. The girls are indistinguishable among the women as they all look the same from behind: long black overcoats, black headscarves, black shoes, black pants.

  A white sedan passes me by slowly. A small flag is attached to its side-view mirror. On it in red ink is inscribed “O, Fatima Zahra.”9

  “Nima!” I shout at the top of my voice to get the attention of my son, to no avail.

  THE BLOODSTAINED carcasses of the sheep are dragged into a stately home with its front door wide open to a spacious courtyard where a large cauldron on a makeshift fireplace is bubbling over with boiling water.

  “Marjan,” my husband calls me from where he is standing near the doorway of a store.

  I drop the bowl of rice pudding.

  He calls to the children. Nima comes over. He points to a small cot in a corner of the yard. “That is Ali Asghar’s10 crib,” he announces excitedly.

  I break out in a sweat. Bita points to a quaint-looking old man with very long hair. “Look Mom,” she say, “that is a dervish.”

  Bite-size wraps of grilled minced meat and herbs are now being passed around among those in the procession.

  From the upper floor of a house with darkened windows a haunting chant can be heard,

  “Every breath is of Ali, Ali.”11

  “Giver of breath is Ali, Ali.”

  An old man has managed to draw to him the attention of some men and women in the procession. “This is nothing,” he is telling his audience. “In my youth there were mourner who beat themselves so hard that Imam Ali intervened to restrain them. Now the authorities don’t let them do that. In those days they used long knives and machetes to slit their scalp and forehead. Blood everywhere. Some of them actually saw Ali. I never had the privilege. But I knew some guys who did.”

  Afshin grabs my hand and draws me toward our house. “I told you not to look at the slaughtered sheep,” he admonishes me. “Remember how you collapsed when you came back from the pilgrimage to Mecca?”12

  Now camels were being prepared for slaughter.

  “Camels have a sense of what is going to happen to them,” Afshin observes. “Many of them actually cry.”

  There are rows of blood-soaked carcasses of slaughtered camels and sheep along the path of the slow-moving procession. I see the calf that had managed to get away earlier, now bound and ready for slaughter.

  “You are so feeble-hearted,” my father once said, “when it comes to the sight of blood or butchered animals. I knew a man named Zolfaghar Khan, who claimed to rip out the liver of a live sheep and eat it raw.”

  I was standing next to a brook, sweating profusely, and remember my mother who said that I was probably pregnant. “God willing,” she said, “it’s a boy. And if it is, I vow to sacrifice a sheep for Imam Hussein every year. I’ll dress the child in black and take him to the mourning procession.” And so here we are years later, mourning Hussein and coming to watch the ceremony of his martyrdom year after year.

  I DON’T KNOW what I want to write about. I am holding that wrinkled piece of fabric in my fist. There was another funeral procession this morning. It was for those who had gone on pilgrimage to Karbala after the fall of Saddam Hussein and had been killed in a religious clash. Some family friends who returned alive brought us this piece of consecrated cloth—it had an association, however tenuous, with the Imam Hussein.

  I don’t know if the dead remain alive by themselves, or are kept alive by the living. The important thing is that they continue to stick around—all these images, pictures, sounds, daily funerals. And this piece of fabric brought to me as a souvenir.

  They seem to be with us forever and ever . . .

  MITRA DAVAR is a writer and essayist, and the author of short story collection, Ya Man Huwa, published in Tehran in 2005.

  1A popular Iranian poet and fiction writer (1947–1996). She committed suicide.

  2A prominent Iranian writer (1903–1951). He committed suicide in Paris, France.

  3In the Muslim liturgy, prayers and other spiritually significant events are undertaken facing Mecca.

  4The anniversary of the death of Hussein ibn Ali (626–680), the third imam in the Shi’ite tradition and the Prophet’s grandson, who died at the hands of his adversaries in the Battle of Karbala in today’s Iraq, is observed widely and elaborately in Iran and among the Shi’ite community in other Muslim countries with mourning processions and ceremonies.

  5“He Who Is!”

  6A reference to the Iran-Iraq War (1980–1988).

  7A traditional dish distributed to mourners by religious organizations and charities. Often the names of imams and other holy persons are traced on the surface of the pudding in finely ground cinnamon.

  8The Prophet, his daughter Fatima, his son-in-law Ali, and their two sons Hassan and Hussein.

  9The daughter of the Prophet and the mother of Imam Hussein.

  10Imam Hussein’s infant son. He was also a casualty in the Battle of Karbala.

  11The reference is to Ali ibn Abitalib, the Prophet’s cousin, son-in-law, the fourth of the Rashidin Caliphs, and the first imam in the Shi’ite tradition.

  12It is customary to slaughter sheep or goats upon the return of Mecca pilgrims to their dwellings.

  A Bloody Day of Ashura

  Masih Alinejad

  THE WORD IS THAT Ferdowsi Square is now occupied by “riot-control personnel.” I park the Peugeot sedan near the overpass just before the intersection of two major boulevards and turn off the heater.

  “What are we going to do now, Doc?” I ask the doctor, who is sitting next to me and has been as quiet as ever. Mahtab and Arash are in the back seat and have not exchanged a word since we left the house. Earlier in the morning they had had a long argument about taking part in the demonstration. A loose agreement had been reached to join the marchers by simply following them in the car.

  Arash breaks up the awkward silence as he announces, “I’m going to get off.” He wipes the steam off the passenger-side window of the car and peers outside.

  “But the condition was that we all stay in the car and not join the crowds,” objects his mother Mahtab, trying to tone down the emotion in her voice. Clearly, she does not want a repeat of the quarrel last night in front of the doctor, a perfect stranger.

  The chilly blast of air feels good on my flushed cheeks as Arash cracks open the car door. “Yes, Mother,” he says, stepping out of the car. “You made the decision, but I didn’t say that I accepted it. I still feel bitter about your forcing me to stay home away from last December’s demonstrations.”

  Now the doctor opens the door on his side, in an effort to ease the rising tension. Mahtab rolls down the window and pokes her head out. Her breath steams up in the chilly air as she addresses Arash, who has now crossed the curb and is standing on the sidewalk.

  “So you want me to stay by myself in the car?” she asks, reproachfully. “I had a bad dream last night.”

  “You’ll be all right in the car,” Arash responds, heading toward Revolution Avenue. “We’ll be back soon. Besides, you always have bad dreams.”

  I turn off the engine and eye Mahtab in the rearview mirror. She is gazing at the riot-control police lining the street. The look of anxiety is unmistakable on her face.

  “You can take the car and go back home,” I t
ell her. She has her hands pressed on her chest and doesn’t respond.

  “I’ll leave the keys in the ignition,” I continue. “It’s up to you. Arash is right. You’ll be safe in the car. But I am scared of your dreams,” I add sarcastically, in a failed attempt at humor, and join Arash and the doctor heading toward the rally. It is sunny but cold.

  I can’t help but notice that the municipality has removed all the garbage cans and trash repositories. They were the first to be set on fire in demonstrations to generate smoke to counter the effect of tear gas in canisters lobbed by the police into the crowds. The state TV and media never report antigovernment demonstrations, but the dark spots on the asphalt left by the burning garbage pails tell the people where political rallies have taken place. For a while the municipality replaced plastic containers with metal ones. This time demonstrators not only burned the trash in them for smoke, but also used them as barricades against the advancing police columns. Now the municipality collects all trash receptacles in advance of a demonstration. Ironically, this tells people where and when a demonstration is planned to take place.

  A massive crowd stretched for miles. I can hear them shouting in unison, “This month is the month of blood/Washing away the tyrant in a flood.”1

  I continue to worry and feel concerned for Mahtab, hoping she would be scared enough to drive herself home.

  I see no sign of riot police as the crowds marches on. They are now more intense and animated. A new slogan fills the air, “Khamenei2 is Yazeed,3/Both in word and in deed.”

  The pace of the procession slows as it approaches the intersection of Vali Asr. I hold the doctor by the arm and drag him along.

  Earlier this morning I got a call from my mother. She tried every maternal appeal to prevent me from joining the demonstration. “Listen, Mom,” I said sobbingly, “nearly a hundred of my friends and acquaintances are in jail. How can I stay home and not join the protest rally under the circumstances?”

  The intersection of the boulevards is the designated end of the march. It is here that government forces, armed with firearms, nightsticks, and cattle prods are waiting, The formation suggests they are ready to charge the demonstrators.

  Finally, the doctor ventures a remark, “We have been encircled, and if the police units assembled in the Ferdowsi Square attack from behind,” he says contemplatively, “we would all be trapped with no escape route to get away.”

  He is right. I feel depressed at the prospect of being detained and interrogated again. Arash, who is behind us in the press of demonstrators, grabs the doctor by the arm and places himself ahead of us. He slows the pace of our contingent apparently in preparation for disengaging from the crowd. Obviously, he too is concerned about Mahtab and knows that being arrested at this point would be disastrous for all of us. But the people are still pushing forward, making it harder for us to withdraw. The slogans are increasingly belligerent—and deafening: “Death be to the oppressor / Be it the Shah or the confessor.”4

  We have now been carried by wave after wave of demonstrators to the pedestrian crossover bridge near the major intersection. “He who claims to be just,” the marchers shout, “has betrayed the nation’s trust.” Involuntarily we join in the chorus.

  Suddenly, the street is rocked by the sound of firearms. Somehow, at the sound the marchers become more cohesive and nuanced in their advance. “Have no fear, have no fear,” they chant, “We are together now, and here!” This is the slogan shouted in demonstrations to boost morale in face of danger.

  Below the overhead bridge there are piles of sandbags. The municipality keeps them along major thoroughfares for snowy days. Now protestors are using them as a barricade to prevents the motorcycle police commandos from running down the demonstrators. But some bikers and members of the Basij militia5 have infiltrated the march, clashing with demonstrators in fist fights with the crowd.

  “Let us cross at the bridge,” Arash yells at us over the din. “Mahtab may be scared to death sitting in the car.”

  I am thinking along the same lines. But it is impossible to penetrate the crowd and too dangerous to cross the street where rocks are being hurled in all directions.

  “Oh my God!” the doctor yells and lets go of my hand.

  “What’s the matter, Doc?” I ask, alarmed. He raises his hand and points to the top of the bridge where two young Basijis are leaning on the banister looking down.

  “Those bastards!” the doctor exclaims, pointing at them. “They threw somebody off the bridge.”

  I feel hot and sweaty, despite the freezing air, and rush toward the scene, followed by the doctor and Arash. We can’t get close because of the crowds.

  “He’s still alive,” someone yells from the front rows of the bystanders.

  Arash, taller than average and now standing on tiptoes, has a commanding view of the scene. “He’s alive,” he announces. “His face is covered with blood. They are taking him on a motorbike.”

  The news of the Basiji atrocity reaches the ranks of the marchers. Those nearby look around trees, hedges, empty lots for rocks or anything that can be thrown at the perpetrators.

  “Friends, keep your cool,” Arash shouts at the top of his voice, which has an impressive range. “Control yourselves. The Basijis want to provoke us.”

  I pull at his arm in an effort to prevent him from making a scene. “This is a conspiracy,” he shouts again. “Don’t fall for it. We are all Greens. Our movement is nonviolent.”6

  “That’s enough,” I hiss at Arash. “Calm down, for goodness’ sake.”

  The crowds are now in a state of frenzied rage, throwing anything they get their hands on at the Basijis, who find their position untenable and begin to retreat. Half a dozen of them abandon their motorcycles and run toward an old building, apparently a government office, but before they can reach it they are overtaken by the crowd and bitten. They raise their hands over their head for protection against the attack and rain of rocks and other projectiles.

  Arash pulls himself out of our clutch and elbows his way through the crowd to where the Basijis are cowering in a doorway. He stands in front of them and spreads his arms.

  “Stop it, brothers. Stop it,” he bellows. “I swear you to what is sacred . . .” A rock hits him on the forehead before he can finish his sentence. He wobbles briefly and collapses to the ground. I pull my hand out of the doctor’s grip and run toward him. I can only hear my own scream. Two older women rush to my assistance. Rock throwing ceases. From the corner of my eye I can see a crowd of demonstrators punching and kicking the cornered Basijis, who have now been divested of their helmets and Kevlar vests. The smell of burnt rubber is overpowering.

  I help Arash stand up. But when I try to pull him away with me, he resists and stumbles to where the Basijis are being bitten by the crowds. He reaches a young Basiji and lifts him into his arms, holding his bloodied head to his own chest. I can hear myself shrieking as some punches make contact with his face.

  I can feel the heat of flames behind me. I look back and I see the riot police motorcycles on fire in a pile.

  Two other women approach me to help Arash. I can see some people with their cell phones raised above the crowd shooting pictures and videos.

  The young Basiji has now surrendered himself to Arash, who is bleeding from a gash on his forehead. One eye is shut with coagulated blood, the other raised skyward, streaming with tears. Blood sprays from his nose with every breath. The surrounding crowd is calmer now. More people come forward to help, most of them women of all ages. I desperately look for the doctor.

  Now that the crowd has calmed down, Arash lets go of the Basiji’s head. He tucks the young man’s hand under his arm and leads him to the sidewalk where they both slump on the curb. The sight of the Basiji’s face covered in blood turns my stomach. I can’t bear to look at the swelling where his eyebrows were and the tear at the corner of his lip from which a trickle of blood drips down his chin.

  The doctor now appears, carrying a bottle of
mineral water. He uncaps the bottle and tries to pour the water on Arash’s face. But Arash grabs the bottle in mid-air.

  “Cold water helps stop the bleeding,” the doctor grunts.

  Arash wrests the bottle from the doctor’s grip and splashes some water on the Basiji’s face. Blood washes down his face through his beard and drips on the ground between his legs. He then takes a swig from the bottle, gurgles the water in his mouth, and spits out some thick, red liquid. I almost vomit.

  Arash rises and helps the young man to stand up. They start walking toward the intersection. The doctor and I follow them. The wind spreads heavy smoke in all directions. I can hear the crowd cheering. The government building is now engulfed in flames.

  People are still throwing rocks at the contingents of riot police lined up along the boulevard. They stop when they see us moving in that direction. We walk past a crowd of irate Greens. They stop their rock-throwing barrage, watching us intently. At a short distance from the police lines Arash stops. The Basiji, without looking back, moves toward his colleagues and disappears in their formation. I help Arash to get back to the ranks of the Greens.

  According to reports, police patrol cars have ploughed into the crowds of Greens in the city square, killing several.

  When we get back to overpass bridge, we find no sign of Mahtab or the Peugeot sedan.

  MASIH ALINEJAD was a parliamentary reporter for major reformist newspapers, until her critical articles led to her dismissal in 2006. She now lives in England, and received a degree in communication from Oxford Brookes University. She has written The Crown of Thorn about her experience as a young journalist in Iran.

  1In December 2009, during the holy day of Ashura, there were several demonstrations in the streets of Tehran, and other cities in Iran, against the Islamic regime. These demonstrations ended in bloody confrontation, and the rounding up and jailing of hundreds of the protestors.

  2Seyyed Ali Khamenei (b. 1939), currently the “Supreme Leader” of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Following Ayatollah Rouhollah Khomeini’s death in 1989, Khamenei replaced him as God’s Regent on Earth and was declared the Supreme Leader of the regime.