Memoirs of Ali-Asghar Khani, Commander of the Karbala Battalion in the Ali ibn Abi Talib Division

On Martyr Mehdi Zeynoddin

Selected by Iranian Oral History Website
Translated by Kianoush Borzouei

2025-5-26

“I know your battalion well,”.

I glanced at him with surprise and asked, “Our battalion? How? From where?”
He didn’t respond. Curiosity compelled me to repeat the question:“Mr. Mehdi, how do you know the Karbala Battalion so well?” Once again, he evaded the answer, responding only with a smile. Time passed—until Operation Valfajr-4. Pointing to a map, he said:“Khani, see this hill? You must take this height.” It was one of the mountains next to Kani Manga^[1], an elevation the 27th Division was tasked with seizing. I knew all too well how formidable the mission would be. If Kani Manga wasn’t captured, we would remain exposed to enemy fire. I said, “I’m not saying we can’t do it, but I think this mission may be too heavy for our battalion. Maybe we should...”He cut me off mid-sentence with a single word:“No.” Then he added, “What are you afraid of? I know your battalion well. You’re capable.” I had been waiting for an opportunity to get an answer to a question that had long preoccupied me. Without hesitation, I asked: “You’ve said that before. But how is it that you know my battalion even better than I do?” He blinked and said:“I never said I know them better than you. But I do know them. Every now and then, I pull a cap low over my head and anonymously walk among the battalions, do a quick check—and return.”For a moment, I couldn’t help myself. I grinned and asked, “You mean, without the battalion commander’s permission?” He fixed his gaze on my face and, half-joking, said: “I am the division commander, after all. Shouldn’t I know what’s happening in the battalions?” Then, more seriously, he continued: “I’ve observed your troops up close. They’re well-trained and spiritually elevated.” I wanted to ask how he had discerned that, but he answered before I could speak: “I dropped in on your battalion once or twice at night. I saw how many of your men rose for midnight prayer. You can carry out this mission.”

I mobilized the battalion toward the hill. After three grueling hours of combat, we managed to reach the summit. The Ali ibn Abi Talib Battalion had struck the enemy on a neighboring ridge, but despite their relentless pressure, the Baathist forces had prevented them from advancing. They remained stuck on the slope. The 27th Division, also locked in combat with the Iraqis on Kani Manga, had been stalled mid-elevation. Atop the hill, we were left alone—under a torrent of blistering, furious fire from every direction.Another battalion was meant to secure the rear road so ammunition could reach us. Yet early on, their commander was martyred, and the mission faltered. Our supplies were dwindling, but the Baathists were unrelenting. They were determined to dislodge us, no matter the cost. Hulking men, muscular and imposing, they had moved in so close that even in the dark of night, the sheen of their uniforms and gear could be seen. They were freshly deployed to the front.I radioed in. Mr. Mehdi answered personally. When I requested ammunition and reinforcements, he replied: “Hold fast. I’ll send them.” The noose of encirclement tightened ever more. The fight had turned into a duel of grenades—they hurled, and we lobbed. By dawn, the firefight had reached its climax. It was as though the Iraqis had sworn an oath to expend every last shell upon us and that hill. The bombardment was so intense, I broke my prayer five times mid-recitation. The winter sun had begun to illuminate the sky. From afar, the roar of enemy helicopters approached. As if we hadn’t had enough to contend with, now fire rained from above as well as from the ground. I took the handset from the radio operator and, in a voice tinged with desperation, pleaded again for ammunition and backup. Mr. Mehdi gave the same reply. I lost my composure. I could no longer keep silent. I poured every ounce of strength I had into my throat and shouted: “What kind of situation is this? Why won’t you support us? Why isn’t artillery covering us? The boys are being torn to pieces! What happened to the ammunition? Where are the reinforcements?” He let me vent. Then, with the same calm, always-steady voice—though now laced with a touch of sorrow—he said: “Brother, I’m doing everything in my power. Just hold on.” I set the handset down and waited. Around me, the Basijis were fightin heroically and falling, helplessly, to bullets and shrapnel. The toll of martyrs and wounded was rising. We were enduring tremendous pressure. Yet still, no reinforcements. No ammunition. I keyed the radio: “We can’t hold any longer.”Mr. Mehdi knew it toothat the hill was lost. He didn’t object. He said:“Decide however you think best.” I understood—he had tacitly permitted a retreat, unwilling to declare it outright over the radio.  I didn’t hesitate. Turning to my men, I said: “Twenty stay behind. The rest fall back. Take the wounded with you—whatever it takes.” Artillery fell like hailstones. I needed those twenty to keep the enemy distracted so the others could retreat safely—then they too would withdraw. I was arranging their formation when a bullet struck the radio operator’s neck. I reached to pull him toward me, and the next bullet tore through my forearm, exiting cleanly through the other side. Blood poured from the wound. Pain pulsed through my body like waves crashing through my limbs. Ignoring it, I started down the hill with the troops. Exhausted. Drained. The blood loss weakened me further. My vision blurred, and I collapsed to the ground. A medic arrived and tightly wrapped my arm to stanch the bleeding. He dressed the wound and slung my arm around my neck. I kept moving—but I was a shell of myself. All I could see were the bodies of the martyrs left behind atop that hill. I would’ve preferred to be torn to shreds than leave a single corpse behind. I thought of the city. Of the moment I would return. Of the mothers’ expectant eyes. Of the fathers’ searching, wordless stares. How would I answer them?How could I say I came back, but their beloved sons had been left behind—unretrievable? Even bringing the wounded back had been hell. And once we descended from the elevation, there was still a river to cross. We had to climb another ridge, ford the river, and return to our starting point—the very place from which we’d launched our assault the night before. I don’t even remember when we arrived. I looked down at my hand. The white bandage was soaked in blood. From afar, I spotted Mr. Mehdi. I didn’t want to approach him. I resolved to pass by without acknowledging him—pretending not to have seen. I was both resentful and ashamed. I had snapped at him over the radio—shouted things I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t do it. I drew closer. It was as if he had been standing there, waiting to see me return alive. He masked his fatigue behind the faint smile on his lips. Dust had settled over his face like a mask. His eyes—tired, sleepless, yet overflowing with affection—met mine. I lowered my gaze in shame. He gently embraced me, patted my back, and kissed my face. I can still feel the warmth of that kiss. In a fatherly tone, he said:“God bless you. You resisted greatly. I’m proud of you.” I lifted my head. Our eyes met once more. His eyes were brimming with tears.^[2]