Third Regiment: Memoirs of an Iraqi Prisoner of War Doctor – 14

By Mojtaba al-Hosseini
Translated into Farsi by: Mohammad Hossein Zavar Kabeh
Translated into English by: M.B. Khoshnevisan

2026-1-25

Third Regiment: Memoirs of an Iraqi Prisoner of War Doctor – 14

By Mojtaba al-Hosseini
Translated into Farsi by: Mohammad Hossein Zavar Kabeh
Translated into English by: M.B. Khoshnevisan

***

Of course. Here is the translation from Persian to American English, rendered in a formal, analytical tone suitable for a historical or political context.

***

On October 26, 1980, an order was issued regarding my departure to the “P” Headquarters of the 20th Brigade. I set out in a military jeep and drove along the asphalt road leading to Ahvaz, which passed by the Hamid Garrison.

I stopped briefly to observe the destroyed railway station and the adjacent restaurant. After a few kilometers, the destroyed “microwave” station on the right side of the road caught my attention. Twenty kilometers farther on, I reached the “P” Headquarters of the brigade. I entered the headquarters’ only bunker, which was divided into two sections: a clinic and the brigade secretary’s office. The rest of the personnel lived under tanks and armored vehicles and inside reinforced shelters.

Ground and air attacks had reached their peak. This was the first time I was experiencing the reality of war firsthand. I asked Dr. “Naeem” about the local medical orderly. He said, “He was arrested by intelligence agents and sent to Basra.”

Dr. “Naeem” was a devout man with outstanding moral qualities, which deeply impressed me.

The commanders’ positions were located east of the Ahvaz–Khorramshahr road and on the southern side of the shrine of “Seyyed Taher.” The combat forces were positioned opposite us, and facing them were forests stretching from alongside the road and the village of “Dobb-Hardan” in the west to the banks of the Karun River in the east.

Night fell, but sleep did not come to my eyes. Terrifying nightmares gave me no moment of peace. The sound of artillery explosions had caused me severe dizziness. The next day, the medical orderly informed me that the artillery attacks by the Islamic forces stopped only during the times of prayer. I said to myself, Subhan Allah… through this act they were reminding us of Islam and Islamic brotherhood. In any case, I thanked God. That brief period was an opportunity to perform the prayers and to breathe air free of the smell of gunpowder.

At sunrise, I could see the buildings, factory towers, and the Ahvaz radio station. One of the officers said, “The distance from here to Ahvaz is only 16 kilometers, and those areas are being targeted by tanks.”

On the afternoon of the following day, Captain “Hussein al-Avadi” came to me and said, “The brigade commander has assigned you a mission to go to the 10th Tank Battalion headquarters to treat Captain ‘Ala,’ the commander of the second company.” I told him, “I won't go.”

He said, “In that case, go and see the brigade commander.”

I went to the brigade commander. He had taken shelter beneath a tank. Three officers were standing around him. He asked, “Why don't you go?”

I replied, “First, I am a physician, and army regulations require that the injured be brought to me, not that I go to the wounded. Second, a physician can carry out his duties in a medical bunker with access to proper equipment and technical supplies. Moreover, the area is extremely dangerous due to the intensity of missile and artillery attacks; going there would mean certain death. The driver and the ambulance could also be lost.”

He remained silent for a moment, then said, “Don’t be afraid. It is not possible to bring Captain Ala here.”

I said to him, “I am not afraid, and the reason is that despite the continued shelling, I am still present with the brigade. It is you who have taken shelter under a tank.”

He became very angry and said, “Do you know who you are talking to?”

I replied, “Yes, I do.”

He said, “I can have you sent, bound hand and foot, to the division commander so that he issues your execution order. You are disobeying orders. I advise you to obey the order and set off immediately.”

I returned to my bunker in a sorrowful state. A few moments later, Captain “Hussein al-Avadi” entered the bunker. He advised me to go and obey the orders; otherwise, my future could be ruined. I said, “I am willing to go, but I want a guide to accompany me.”

They looked for a guide but found no one. The truth was that no one volunteered to accompany us on this route, because everyone saw the heavy shadow of death hanging over them. Finally, at seven o’clock in the evening, one of the soldiers volunteered, and together we set off toward the front lines. There, I did not know from which direction the bullets were coming. I entered the battalion headquarters and saw the captain lying on the ground. I immediately loaded him into the ambulance and returned to the brigade headquarters. When I examined him inside the bunker, I found nothing in him except a weakness of morale. For this reason, I wanted to transfer him to the rear, but the brigade commander—since he was familiar with the temperament of this treacherous officer—insisted that I go with him so that he would not flee to the rear of the front.

As the days passed, I became accustomed to certain aspects of life underground, amid bombs and bullets. One interesting matter was that a cow and her calf shared this life with us. During the day they grazed, and at sunset they returned near the bunkers. Some of the soldiers fed them and made use of their milk. On one of those days, a commotion broke out. I came out of the shelter and saw two soldiers holding the calf and intending to slaughter it. I intervened and saved the calf from their hands. Two days later, our four-legged friends fell into the hands of an Arab from Khuzestan who was cooperating with our army’s intelligence unit and receiving large sums of money in return. He frequently went to Major Staff Officer “Abd-al Qader,” the brigade’s intelligence officer, and in exchange for money provided him with information about the Iranians.

He had a pickup truck at his disposal and would load people’s livestock onto it and sell them in Basra. Our army’s intelligence unit was well aware of this matter. I wished I had the power to sever his head from his body.

In those days, a number of armed men in civilian clothes frequently came and went from the brigade headquarters. I learned that they were members of the “Arab Liberation Front.” The mission of this organization, which had been established in the region by the Baathists, was to carry out acts of sabotage and espionage in favor of the Iraqi regime under the pretext of defending Arabs and Arab identity.

After three weeks at the brigade headquarters, I returned to the village of “Nashwa.” I took my first three-day leave there to visit my family. My mother and brothers welcomed me with tearful eyes and heavy hearts. Their situation was extremely pitiful; they had no oil or gas for cooking or heating the bath. Often, the electricity would go out, and people, as in the past, cooked their food by lighting wood fires.

Despite the prevailing oppression, political jokes circulated among the people. The children were the bravest and would greet the soldiers with the slogan, “O Saad, O our ancestor… we have neither gas nor oil.” By “Sa'ad,” they referred to Sa'ad ibn Abi Waqqas, whom the Ba'athists constantly glorified as the hero of Qadisiyah.

To be continued…