Daughter of Sheena (1)

Behnaz Zarrabizadeh

Daughter of Sheena

Memories of Qadamkheyr Mohammadi Kanaan
Wife of Sardar Shaheed Haj Sattar Ebrahimi Hajir
Memory writer: Behnaz Zarrabizadeh
Tehran, Sooreh Mehr Publications Company, 2011 (Persian Version)
Translated by Zahra Hosseinian

Introduction
I said I’m writing this woman's life story. I had taken my decision. I phoned. You yourself picked up the phone. I expected to talk to an old woman. I could not believe. How young your voice was! I thought it might be your daughter. "I want to speak with Haj Sattar’s wife.” I said. You laughed and said, “It’s me!”
I heard about your biography. With what a hardship and suffering, after Haj Sattar’s martyrdom, you raised five children single-handed!
I said this is it, I will write this woman’s life story and everything was okay. “I’m not interested in interview and discussion." You said, but made the first appointment. It was 21st April, 2009.
It was greengage season. I was coming to your house; sitting down in front of you, and turning my MP3 recorder on. You told me about your memories, your father, your mother, your pleasant village, and your childhood; until you came to Haj Sattar and war – which the two were mixed. The heavy burden of war was fallen down on your little house, on frail and weak shoulders of you, i.e. Qadamkheyr Mohammadi Kanaan. And nobody understood it.
You said and I heard. You laughed and I laughed. You wept and I wept. The interview was finished in Ramadan . You were pleased that you can fast. Finally, you said: "I didn’t want to say anything, but as if I’ve said everything." I was happier than you. I started to transcribe the interviews.
We arranged when the memories got ready, I give you the content all-out, you read it, and if something had been missed, I correct it. But when that happened, things fall apart.
As I heard it, confusedly I saw you, not with a bundle of paper, but with a few compotes and juices. It was 31st December, 2009. I saw that you have lied in bed with wide open eyes; you were looking me but did not know me. I could not believe. "Qadamkheyr, Honey! It’s me, Zarrabizadeh.” I said, “Do you remember it was the greengage season? You told me your story and I was eating greengage. In excuse of its sourness, I closed my eyes, so you couldn’t see my tears. To be honest with you, I hadn’t come to refresh your sorrow and grief."
“It is my pleasure that after all these years, a woman has come and sat in front of me and I can tell her about my grief, my loneliness in all these years.” You said, “Worries and sorrows that I have not told them to anyone else." You said “When I tell about Haji to you, I just remember how much I’ve missed him. I lived with him for eight years, but not saw him to my heart’s content. We never are together, like other wives and husbands. We loved each other, but always were apart. In these eight years, we were not together some months continuously; believe me. Haji was my husband and not was mine. My kids always missed him, whether when he was alive or after his martyrdom. They said, all daddies come to school and take their kids to home, mommy, why we haven’t daddy?! I said, but you have a mom. Accompanied by my five kids, we took Khadija to her school. Masoomeh’s school shift was afternoon. At noon, we fivesome went to Khadija’s school and took her, and then sextet took Masoomeh to her school. And this story was repeated at evening and the next days."
I was wept, when told me the story of snowing days and shoveling the roof and yard.
My dear friend! You raised your children. Your only son took in marriage and your daughters got married. You were worry about the last one!
Wake up. Your story has not finished yet. I have turned my MP3 recorder on. Why do you not speak? Why do you look me so blankly?!
Your daughters are crying for you. "We just now learned that our mommy was sick in these few years and said nothing for the sake of us.” They say, “She was afraid to upset us. She said you just now feel comfortable and live like others. I don’t want your pleasures lose out because of my sickness.” Your sister says," This damn sickness ...”
No, I do not want anyone else speak but Qadamkheyr. Dear Qadamkheyr! This is not acceptable. You must finish your life story. You said everything about Haji. But now it’s your turn to tell about your patient, your courage and your sacrifices, you have fallen sick and silent. Why do you not know me? Wake up, this story must be told. Wake up; I’ve turned my MP3 recorder on. I’ve sat in front of you. Do not look at me so blankly!

Behnaz Zarabizadeh, Summer / 2011