Third Regiment: Memoirs of an Iraqi Prisoner of War Doctor – 28

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

2026-5-3

Third Regiment: Memoirs of an Iraqi Prisoner of War Doctor – 28

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

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

***

Life on the front lines was very boring and monotonous. I felt as if the hands of my clock were moving slowly. Back then, my range of activities was limited to my own bunker, the rest bunker, eating meals with the other officers, and going back and forth to other bunkers. I usually spent my free time talking with others, reading, and listening to radio programs. I had two witty, Kurdish-speaking neighbors. One of them was the driver for the battalion commander's chief of staff, "Nouri," the operations officer, and the other was his orderly. Both were from Soleimaniyeh and considered themselves to be among the returned Kurds. These two had taken part in the 1974 war in the north against the central government and had returned to Iraq from Iran after the dethroned Shah of Iran made peace with Saddam. In those days, it was written in the service records of this group of Kurds: "Exempt from compulsory military service and reserve duty, and attached to the national ranks." But a few months before the war started, they were called back to service — an issue that, from our viewpoint, was completely normal. When they made use of these Kurds in the army, due to their lack of trust in them, they did not give them weapons or ammunition, nor did they assign them to important or sensitive positions. Instead, they simply asked them to carry out their assigned duties within the army. For this reason, my two neighbors harbored a deep grudge against the regime. They kept themselves occupied with beautiful pigeons they had brought from a nearby village and placed in a cage on top of their bunkers. Whenever I looked at those pigeons, I was reminded of my own situation and said to myself: I, a doctor—a symbol of friendship and compassion—came to the front lines reluctantly, and these pigeons, symbols of peace and reconciliation, have also stepped foot into a land of war and slaughter against their will. Even though those beautiful birds received excessive attention and care from those Kurds, I still felt that they were not happy with their captivity and presence on the front lines.

A few days later, I saw my usual visitors—those seeking medical leave and those addicted to tranquilizers and sleeping pills. Except for a fifty-year-old warrant officer who usually came to see me at night, the rest visited this ward regularly. The fifty-year-old warrant officer suffered from inner anxiety and, at times, madness. One day, while one of those Kurds was standing next to me, he came to see me. He got his usual medication and left. My friend turned to me and said, "This poor man's illness is incurable."

I asked, "Why?"

He said, "He suffers from a guilty conscience because of a horrific crime he committed at the beginning of the war." I said, "Tell me the whole story."

He said: "Very well. I'll tell you briefly. At the beginning of the war, when our brigade captured the Ahvaz-Khorramshahr road and took control of it, the Iranians, unaware of this, were fleeing from Khorramshahr to Ahvaz using that very road. Colonel Mohammad Javad Shitneh, a staff officer, stationed a group of men along this road to inspect private cars fleeing from Khorramshahr to Ahvaz in order to find weapons and military personnel. This man was part of the inspection team. That day, a private Volvo car showed up. A woman was driving, and next to her sat a young boy and a young girl. They signaled for her to stop. She gradually slowed down to come to a halt. Just before the car stopped, the trunk flew open and two armed men jumped out—one carrying a G-3 rifle, the other an RPG-7. This warrant officer opened fire indiscriminately toward the car, resulting in the deaths of those two innocent children. The two armed men fled toward the Karun River, exchanging fire as they went." "Two of our men were also wounded. The tragedy truly struck when the bullets pierced through the car's body and tore into the driver and her companions. In an instant, their blood burst forth, and they convulsed like beheaded chickens. It was an extremely painful and heartbreaking scene. Our men were so stunned and bewildered that they froze, not knowing what to do. The local women, upon witnessing this horrific incident, began wailing and lamenting, beating their chests and faces and tearing their clothes. This reaction multiplied the sense of catastrophe several times over. The news reached the commander. He immediately arrived at the scene and ordered the children's bodies to be removed from the car. The deeply stricken women grabbed the hands and feet of the corpses, trying to prevent them from being taken away, but the soldiers forcibly took them. The commander then threatened the women and told them to leave for Ahvaz, and they left the area with tearful eyes and broken hearts. The commander ordered us to bury the bodies and not to speak to anyone about the matter."

My friend continued his account, saying: "I and some of the soldiers voluntarily buried them near the road leading to Ahvaz. That warrant officer has been out of his mind ever since that day, because the ghosts of those children still haunt him to this very moment."

I turned to my friend and said: "By God, I am incapable of curing him. Only divine mercy could help him. God alone can forgive him and grant him healing."

From that day on, I spoke with him several times about medical and religious matters and encouraged him to seek God's forgiveness, hoping that he might regain his health, but I was unsuccessful. Referring him to a neurologist was also of no use.

After two weeks of staying at the brigade headquarters, I decided to go to the field medical unit to pick up medicine and medical equipment. We left early in the morning and returned to the "P" brigade headquarters in the afternoon after loading the supplies and equipment. The ambulance was driven by Sergeant Youssef. We traveled along the road leading to the brigade headquarters, a dirt road stretched across the middle of the desert. Now and then, we passed by abandoned village houses. Eventually, we came across three mud houses. Seeing the livestock, dogs, and children playing nearby, I sensed that some people still lived there. We stopped. They asked us for food, cigarettes, and even gasoline. Their faces reflected pain and bewilderment. They were a group of barefoot children wearing tattered clothes. Poverty, hunger, and illness were evident in their eyes. I ordered the driver to give them cigarettes, food, and several cans of supplies. Just then, three women came out and joined the children, repeating the same requests. They were Khuzestani Arabs who had been deceived by the Baathists and had remained behind the Iraqi military units. As the war dragged on and water supplies were cut off, their livestock grew weaker and weaker, and their provisions in that barren land ran out. Apparently, officers took advantage of this situation and bought their livestock at the lowest prices, purchasing each sheep for five dinars and selling them in the markets of Basra for fifty dinars. After partially meeting their needs, we sped on and reached the village of “Seyyed Khalaf."

To be continued …