The Days Long Past of this Tale

Nasrin Khaledi
Translated by: Fazel Shirzad

2025-8-27

“If they should ask thee of the days long past of this tale”[i]

I go back to the earliest “oral” stories—when we played aunty games in the courtyard, in the corner of the porch. One day, quite unintentionally, I overheard a conversation between Mom and Miss. Balakhanem, our neighbor from years ago. At that time, there were barely enough television channels to count on one hand, and I remember that the series Madame Kouri was broadcast on Wednesdays.

Miss. Balakhanem, a kind and pleasant woman, held firmly to tradition in her daily life. She told Mamani, in her lilting Gilaki dialect [of Gillan], that after suffering from toothache for several days, she had planned to have the tooth extracted. But on a Wednesday night, while passing a fortune teller’s stall, she overheard two young boys talking about that night’s TV series. Suddenly, it occurred to her that pulling her tooth might somehow cause her to go blind. I always wondered—if, instead of Madame Kouri, the television had been showing The Legend of the Sultan and the Shepherd and Mirror of Lesson, would my grandmother have made a different decision about her teeth?

In those days, the spaces for sharing feelings, emotions, and problems were mostly limited to family and neighborhood gatherings—intimate, face-to-face exchanges that were “verbal” and often accompanied by unique solutions which, by chance, sometimes worked.

One cold night, during my father’s long missions in Ahvaz, the wail of the red siren at Mehrabad Airport sent waves of anxiety through our small hearts. We huddled together around the light of a lantern that our mother had prepared in advance, hoping it would make us less afraid. I could never understand why hearing the announcer say, “This is the sound of a red situation” was more terrifying than anything that might follow. As we clung tightly to each other, the short, trembling rhythm of our breathing in the midst of the air raid sirens made my father’s absence feel even heavier.

I remember that night clearly. When we finally heard, “This is the sound of a white situation”, Mom turned the dial of my father’s small orange two-wave radio, trying to make as little noise as possible, so she could hear the names of the cities that had been bombed—keeping the crackling sound of the radio away from our ears, now too sensitive to bad news.

We were listening in silence when the door to the courtyard opened. I was the one in charge of answering it, so I stepped outside, with Mom following. I called out, “Who is it?” and recognized the voice of my friend Gita: “It’s me, you have a phone call. Abbas Agha is behind the counter.” Mom hurried inside to fetch her tent, while I opened the door for Gita.

When my mother returned from the call, she reported that Andimeshk had been hit that day, and other cities’ airspace had been violated. Father had called from the neighbor’s house—both to reassure us and to check on our safety. Later, I learned that earlier that day, 54 Iraqi planes had bombed Andimeshk for 100 minutes—the longest aerial attack since World War II.

That day stays vivid in my memory not only for its terror, but because it coincided with the birthdays of both my sisters—born ten years apart, yet on the same date: November 25, 1986. This, too, is history.

Over the years, “oral history” has meant nothing less than life itself, and all the memories woven into it. I had intended to speak about the history of nearly 700 issues of our website devoted to “oral history”—a living archive of narratives and memories from those who lived through history’s most intense moments and learned from them.

When I launched the Oral History website, I saw the spark of enthusiasm and love in the faces of my hardworking colleagues at the Office of Revolutionary Literature—especially Mr. Mohsen Kazemi. Today, after almost 15 years, the site has gathered a priceless collection of interviews, writings, and observations—each with something to say, and something worth hearing. From the very beginning until now, well done has been present in every stage, shaping a shared treasury of memories: moments that expanded our knowledge, joyful successes, and the sorrows we bore together. The birth of a website is important; its endurance is even more so.

I wanted to remind you that sustaining and growing such a platform in a cultural center depends on the effort of each colleague—writing relevant content, from book introductions and reviews, to seminar announcements, meeting reports, and more. When that effort is consistent, the site naturally fills with an influx of news, notes, and articles—so much so that we might even have to wait in line for days to publish our work. And perhaps, in those moments, my turn might never come—and your eyes and ears would be all the more at peace!

With love

The last hours of July 2025