A TIME TO BETRAY (29 page)

We made a few stops along the way in Hamadan, Khorramabad, and Dezful. The entire trip took more than twelve hours and darkness was upon us when we arrived at a garrison in Ahwaz. From there, we headed to the base behind the front lines. Our forces had no offensives planned the next day, so there was no sermon that night. It was already late, so shortly after our group
namaz,
we went to sleep. I was relieved that Javad had not challenged me on the trip, but I was still wary of him. I had to find a way to show him that I was devoted to my mission in
jebheh
and that I would fight for my country just like any other Guard or Basiji. If I could win his confidence, perhaps he would leave me alone.

The next morning, we drove on a narrow dirt road bookended by hills on either side. Several times, ambulances rushing back with wounded forced us to pull over, a stark reminder of what we were facing. The sound of artillery guns firing behind us was deafening. A loud boom shook the ground with such force it felt like an earthquake.

As we got closer, I could see the incoming artillery rounds from enemy fire blasting the surrounding areas. We felt a thump followed by a loud explosion as a round hit a small hill on our right, shaking our car and showering us with dirt and stones. Another one roared over our car, whistling as it went by. Kazem pressed harder on the gas. Javad ducked. Another shell seemed targeted for the roof of our car, but it hit a couple of hundred feet behind us. A hissing, screeching sound filled the air. It felt as if the sky were falling.

Kazem sped behind a hill close to the command post and slammed on the brakes. We got out, keeping our heads down as we made our way toward the commanding officer.

Kazem presented him with our orders from Rahim, saying,
“
Baradar,
how can we be of assistance?” Transferring ammo, distributing food, or helping with the injured had been our assignments on previous trips.

“For right now,” the commander responded, “it would be best if you just take cover. The Iraqi forces are attacking our positions aggressively. Many tanks are approaching, using artillery and aerial support.”

We took shelter in a shallow hole reinforced with sandbags. We could see flashes of light all around as explosions shook the ground. This was the closest we had come to war. We could hear the commander barking orders. Bullets whizzed overhead. A shell burst about twenty yards away. Someone screamed for a medic. It was chaos.

And then the fighting intensified.

The three of us squatted in that hole. Javad and Kazem seemed nervous, both mumbling verses from the Quran. To my surprise, I was the least flustered of the group. Even though I knew I might not escape this insanity alive, I felt strangely calm.
If I die here,
I thought,
Wally and the attendant burdens will die with me. Maybe that would be the easiest way out.

Javad looked at me constantly. He tried to give the impression that he was not afraid, but I could see that he was. Remembering that his brother had died in the war, I felt a surge of compassion. Had he been thinking about that since we embarked on this trip?

“Kazem, tell me more about your new bride,” I said to change the mood. “By the way, I agree to be your best man, even though you have not asked me.”

Kazem smiled nervously. “I think the timing of
khastegari
was not right. It should have been done sooner.”

“Don’t worry, the wedding will go on as scheduled with or without you.”

He chuckled, and just then a Guard approached our bunker, clearly in distress.

“You have to leave now and get back to the base behind the front
lines. We are changing position and moving back. Get out now! Move!”

We ran toward our SUV. I was in front, with Kazem and Javad following. The sound of explosions mingled with the screams of the injured and shouts of
“Allaho Akbar!”
Billows of smoke surrounded us, making breathing difficult. As we neared the hill, I could hear the hissing sound of incoming rounds. I was running as fast as I could, but I felt heavy and slow.

Then I heard a short whistling sound. A shell hit close to us with a loud percussion followed by the buzzing noise of shrapnel splaying out into the air. We scattered and took cover. I couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in my ears. I felt something hit my leg. Lying on the ground, I turned my head and saw some blood on my left ankle. I could still move the ankle and feel it, though, and it didn’t hurt that much.

I looked around for Kazem and Javad, but they weren’t behind me anymore.

“Kazem, Kazem!” I shouted. No answer.

“Javad, Javad.” My voice was lost in the sound of explosions.

Another Guard, who was running for cover, reached me. “Just keep moving—run!” he said. But I could not. I had to find Kazem and Javad. I headed back in the other direction, and amid the dust and the smoke, I saw two Guards lying on the ground facedown, one covered with blood.

“Kazem, are you okay?” I called. No answer.

I broke into a run.
Please, God, not Kazem.

As I got close, I saw that one of the two fallen Guards was trying to get up. I could now clearly see that it was Kazem. He noticed me and said, “I am okay, Reza. It’s just my arm. Go check on Javad.”

I blew out a deep breath and continued toward the second Guard. It was indeed Javad, and he was bleeding heavily. He had been hit by a large piece of shrapnel. It had torn into his back right under his left shoulder, taking out a chunk of tissue. He was not moving or making any sound. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around him,
grabbed his upper body, put him over my shoulder, and bent over from the weight, started running. Kazem followed us, holding his arm. When we reached the car, I laid Javad in the backseat and drove back to the base. He didn’t respond when we asked him questions, but his eyes were wide open and he was moaning.

Once at the base, we got out and called for help. The medics rushed Javad inside.

Kazem and I were both in shock. I have no idea how long we sat in one place before Kazem looked at me and said, “Are you okay, Reza? There is blood on your ankle.”

I had forgotten about that. I looked down and saw that my ankle had been cut open by shrapnel. Medics soon came and closed the wound with seven stitches. They dressed the wound on Kazem’s arm, assuring him he’d taken only a small hit.

While waiting to hear about Javad’s condition, Kazem placed his jacket on the ground, took his holy stone and prayer beads from his pocket, and prayed. I walked back and forth gingerly on my repaired ankle, trying to process what we’d been through. We stayed like this until a medic walked up to us.

“Javad is now a martyr,” he said flatly. He rubbed his forehead with the back of a blood-covered hand and went back in.

Kazem and I looked at each other in disbelief. I leaned against the wall, slid down to the ground, and sat there trying to compose myself.

Kazem handed me a cup. “Here, Reza, drink some water. You look pale.”

“I am all right, Kazem. I am all right.”

But I could not stop thinking about Javad. I felt responsible for his death. Had he chosen to come to
jebheh
because of me?

That night, while the Guards and Basijis gathered inside the base, thankful for the shelter and hot food, I walked outside and sat on a small hill nearby. The curtain of stars on an infinite sky provided a backdrop for the lights of Iraqi jets flying above, trying to find their targets. I stared at this dreadful portrait drawn by two madmen—Saddam and Khomeini—for untold minutes.

The sound of artillery rounds coming in and going out filled the air. I thought about God looking down and watching mankind once again killing one another for land, power, and other meaningless things. I maintained this tortured meditation for some time and then at last went back inside.

The light was dim. There were more than a hundred combatants in the room. Some were doing their prayers, some were lying down on blankets, and others were engaged in conversation. Looking around, I spotted Kazem sitting with a group of fighters. I joined them, listening to their war stories.

“… He was in charge of bringing back three Iraqi POWs,” one Guard was saying, “but he shot them instead, taking revenge for his brother who was captured and killed by the Iraqis. He said one of the Iraqis begged for his life and took out a picture of his wife and children. But he pulled the trigger anyway.”

Another Guard added, “One of our buddies survived an offensive that turned against us. He told us that the Iraqis were going over to the injured Guards and Basijis, shooting them in the head to finish them off. He and a few others, who were also injured, played dead. At night, when no one was around, they crept on their bellies to get back behind friendly lines. In the morning, the Iraqi choppers swooped down, hunting for any Iranians they could find. He was lucky he managed to make it back after a couple of days without much food or water. He survived by chewing on grass and sipping the early-morning frost. He said he saw a light that guided him in the right direction.”

It amazed me how sometimes one’s faith brings extraordinary strength to accomplish impossible tasks. I felt compelled to contribute something, so I told them about Javad’s fate—how he had come here to be of help at the front and became a martyr instead. They shook their heads, acknowledging his sacrifice. That story was nothing new for them, just a daily reality of war.

Javad’s death left me with a strong sense of contradiction. I knew
I should have been relieved that he would no longer be pursuing me. The very real fact was that his loss was my family’s gain. But at the same time, I couldn’t stop feeling guilty. His pursuit of me was what killed him in the end, so if I hadn’t made the decisions I’d made, he’d still be alive.

Since both Kazem and I were wounded, the Guards sent us back home the next morning. Kazem spent a great deal of time talking about Javad on the way back.

“He was only twenty-four, not even married yet,” he said as he choked back tears. “He was not armed or fighting the enemy; he was just trying to help. He dedicated his life to Islam, and took care of his poor family and his disabled brother. God loves him and honored him with martyrdom. He will receive his proper rewards now.” He attempted to say this last line with pride, but I heard the resignation in his voice.

Upon our return, we headed straight to Rahim’s office to inform him about Javad. The news saddened our commander and he pledged to arrange the funeral and take care of Javad’s family. A martyr’s funeral was a special one, and as Rahim promised, Javad’s was one worthy of a martyr. We held it the following Friday at Javad’s house.

People throughout his neighborhood displayed pictures of him. They placed black-and-green banners reading ya hussein and shahid-e-rah-e-hagh (the martyr of God’s path) along the roadside. Hundreds of Guards members in uniform gathered in the street. Several Guards, including Kazem and me, carried the coffin on our shoulders for a few blocks around the neighborhood while the rest followed us, some beating their chests with the palms of their hands while singing sorrowful songs of martyrdom. A ceremony of mourning then took place inside Javad’s house with a mullah preaching and paying tribute to Javad and other martyrs.

After the ceremony, we headed to Behesht-e-Zahra cemetery for the burial. Inside the burial ground was a vast area dedicated to all
martyrs. Thousands of young people who had given their lives were resting in peace in that section. Rahim had chosen a special place for Javad next to his older brother. On a stand on Javad’s grave was a huge picture of him covered with flowers and flags. Javad’s mother wailed while his father, an old man, was reading verses from the Quran. After the burial, we approached Javad’s father.

“Congratulations to you for your son’s martyrdom,” Rahim said as he hugged the man. “Javad sacrificed his life for Islam. He is a great
shahid
and is now in heaven with Prophet Mohammad, Imam Ali, and Imam Hussein. You are very lucky to have given two sons to God.”

Javad’s father looked at us with tears in his eyes and said, “I wish I had more sons to dedicate to Islam.”

The power this religion had on its most fundamentalist followers continued to astound me. As much as I believed many of the tenets of Islam, I didn’t think I could ever accept congratulations on a death rather than condolences. Iranians have been practicing Islam for many centuries. For some, it offers guidance, a light that illuminates the darkness on the path of life. To others, it is a set of written rules from God through his Prophet Mohammad, and no one should ever amend these under any circumstances. During the shah’s regime, people had the freedom to follow their interpretation of their religion. Not now, though. Now, not following it as the mullahs demanded you follow it carried serious consequences. Therefore, as always, I kept my thoughts to myself when in the presence of Kazem and others who thought as he did.

Kazem believed that the Islamic Revolution would lead to worldwide salvation. He talked about this as we drove back from the cemetery. He believed that the war with Iraq was not only to defeat Saddam, but also to ultimately defeat imperialism and Zionism.

“Can’t you see, Reza? Saddam attacked Iran with the encouragement of America. They want to destroy our movement, as it is the first of its kind to confront the West. America is only interested in
Middle Eastern oil and not the progress of its people. And other Islamic countries like Egypt and Saudi Arabia are nothing more than servants of the West. We are not like them. We are defending Islam and will fight with the last drop of our blood.”

Kazem did not see the crimes being committed by the mullahs as unjust. He thought those who did not believe in Imam Khomeini and the clergy were enemies of Islam. He believed Prophet Mohammad and his army fought and killed thousands of nonbelievers to raise the flag of Islam. He thought that now we would raise that flag at all corners of the world and that we would defeat the greedy, corrupt West once and for all.

I could see that religion had stripped Kazem and others like him of perspective, common sense, and independent thinking. They did not question what the mullahs decreed because they believed the mullahs spoke the rules of God.