I was around 12 years old when Sadaam Hussain attacked Tehran. The war between Iran and Iraq was at its peak, with a very high rate of violence and atrocity on both sides. I lived in a large house on Shriati Street in the Andishe neighborhood, northeast of Tehran. My mom heard on the radio and T.V. to tape indoor windows and glasses to minimize injuries and save the house from shattered glasses.
One night, around 2 a.m., we heard by a deafening siren. My aunt, younger sister, and I were sleeping in the safest room in the house. My mom, dad, and baby brother were sleeping in my dad’s study, the next safest room. These two rooms didn’t have too many windows.
After the siren, everyone got up and gathered under the biggest door frame in the house. My dad said this spot was the safest place if the building were to collapse.
All five people were sitting by the door frame except me. I was in bed. I didn’t want to leave my sleep! I didn’t care about the siren and the bombing. I was too tired of leaving my bed each time I heard siren. I was too tired of being scared.
A few minutes later, I heard a very loud scream. “Sara?” my mom was yelling. Her voice sounded like a crying wolf.
“Allah, thank you very much giving my kids back. Allah, I am your slave. Allah, I am your lamb; I am nothing. God, please do not test me by taking my kids.”
Next thing I knew, someone was wrapping me in my blankets and sliding me towards somewhere. Then, she grabbed me in her arms and held me very tightly. It was my mom.
My mom was holding me so tightly, my aunt was holding my mom so tightly, and my dad was holding my sister and brother so tightly. We thought we could save one another by holding each other tightly.
A few minutes later, our house shook so violently. For a second, I thought we were dead. When I opened my eyes, the smoke was everywhere. Every single window in our house broke that night, but not shattered, thanks to mom.
About five minutes later, my 2-year-old brother started crying. My aunt was in tears. My mom kept checking my head and body for any blood sign. My dad was all over my sister and brother, checking them for any sign of injuries. As he moved his hands around our bodies, my mom spotted a few tiny pieces of glass stuck in his forearms. She rose to grab the first-aid kit. Just then, my dad shouted, “Sit down!” As he was screaming, the whole house shook again. At first, I thought the house was shaking due to my dad’s scream. But there had been another attack. I closed my eyes.
Aghajoon, My Grandpa
Five hours later, my grandpa was at the gateway. His steps were so heavy. It seemed like he couldn’t walk. When he got closer, he started crying. I had never seen a man cry so hard.
“Thank you, God,” he said. “Thank you very much for allowing me to have my kids back. Allah, I am your slave. Allah, I am your lamb; I am nothing. God, please do not test me by taking away my kids.” Then, he held my mom and aunt so tight. They were all crying.
Death and carnage
After a long time of crying and hugging, my mom took my grandpa to our large terrace on the second floor. There was bomb shrapnel everywhere. “I cannot believe you were spared,” my grandpa said helplessly.
Our house was still standing. But, I could hear loud cries from the distance.
My grandpa wanted to see where the bombs hit. “Can I go with Aghajoon?” I asked my mom. Aghajoon was what we called him. “No way,” she commanded. You stay here with me.” She was already traumatized by my slow response to the danger a few hours earlier.
Aghajoon left the house a few minutes later. I grabbed my shoes and zipped out of the house without telling my mom. I wore them outside, running after my grandpa.
Our house was on Andishe Ten, in a neighborhood built by Germany a few years before. The bomb had hit houses on Andishe 8, less than two blocks away from us.
When we turned into Andishe 8, I saw something I would never forget. There, lying on the ground, was the corpse of a 12-year-old girl. Her mom was close to her, putting her hands on the girl’s head. The woman was pregnant.
I vividly remember the scene and what I said to that 12-year-old in my heart. “I will stop another war in Iran,” I told her. “I promise you.”
The Middle East and Its Endless Wars
To stop another war against Iran feels helpless and hopeless.
Would the war in the Middle East ever stop? Could Israel drag Iran into a new war in the Middle East? What is war, and why do I write about war on the International Day of Peace?
Israel’s aggression against Palestinians is unjustifiable. Each week, if not days, we face a new attack conducted by Israel. According to the latest report on Tuesday, September 17, we are dealing with a new attack in Lebanon that killed 11 people and injured at least 2700 individuals.
I feel hopeless about the U.S. response to Israel’s atrocity. I feel hopeless against my promise to the 12-year-old many years ago. And I think it is a mockery to talk about an International Day of Peace on September 21 when no one, no entity, no organization, no government, no individual, no rally, no protest, no power can stop Israle’s killing machine.
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Goltune Editorial Team