Over the Rainbow

By Mohsen Sharifi

This book is a historical and inspirational juvenile fiction which takes place during the Iran-Iraq war in a small village, Sardasht, at the Iran-Kurdish border. Hiwa’s teen-age world of dreams and fantasies has been shattered. The cruel Iran-Iraq war, during the eighties, didn’t even leave a poor little farmer’s boy and his family immune.

The main character, Hiwa, and his sisters are severely injured by the chemical attacks of Saddam Hussein, while his parents perish. Hiwa now has to fight in order, despite tremendous odds, to change his destiny. He wants to leave a positive imprint, not only for his country, Iran, but for the whole world.

Will he succeed? There is no guarantee.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Editions Dedicaces
• Release date: Mar 30, 2016

Mohsen Sharifi

Mohsen Sharifi, a teacher and a published author was born in 1948 in Iran. He went to school in Germany and college in the USA. He received an M.A. degree from the University of Michigan in 1976. He lives in Gaithersburg, Maryland with his wife.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sardasht is a town in Northwestern Iran. According to the 2006 census, its population was 37,115, situated southwest of Lake Uremia about 1,300 feet above sea level. It lies in the West Azerbaijan province. It was the first city in which civilians were attacked with chemical weapons by Saddam Hussein during the Iran-Iraq War.

Although it happened even before the attack on Halabja, the main place of the chemical assault of the Kurds by Saddam Hussein, it didn’t get much publicity at the time because Iran was being ignored by the international community.

On June 28, 1987, Iraqi aircraft dropped what Iranian authorities believed to be mustard gas bombs on Sardasht, in two separate bombing runs on four residential areas. Mustard is not considered a lethal agent, but an incapacitating agent, causing only three-to-five percent mortality. Many of the ninety-five percent who survived the Sardasht gas attack developed serious long-term complications over the next few years, including serious respiratory problems, eye lesions, and skin problems, as well as problems of the immune system. The numbers of victims were initially estimated as 10 civilians dead and 650 civilians injured, and about a hundred more died in hospitals in Iran and Europe during the next month.

Because Sardasht was not considered a military target, the population was both unprotected and unprepared for a chemical weapons assault. Living close to the border and the war front, its citizens had become accustomed to Iraqi bombardment with conventional weapons.

The worst attack of chemical weapons came when the government of Iraq carried out a genocidal campaign against the Kurds during March 1988, near the end of the Iraq-Iran War.

Halabja, a town of 40–50,000 people, located about eleven kilometers from the Iranian border, came under attack with chemical and conventional weapons. The chemicals used included mustard gas and the nerve gases Sarin, Tabun, and XV.

At least 5,000 people died immediately and it is estimated that up to 12,000 people in all died during the course of those three days.

Iraqi forces under the command of Ali Hassan Majid, infamously known as Ali Chemical by the Kurds, were responsible for this despicable act of inhumanity.

It was June 28, 1987 and nobody expected a tragedy of this magnitude to unfold.

A little background about Hiwa, our true hero, starts here:

Hiwa, which in Kurdish means hope, is a bright boy of eleven years, slender and tall for his age, with an inerasable smile and radiant energy, always ready to carry out chores for his family and neighbors. That day he experienced a horrific nightmare that no child should go through. It was as though he was sucked into a vortex, with no hope to escape. That day changed his life forever and made him even stronger than he’d ever been.

The Kurdish people are native to the Middle East, mostly inhabiting a region known as Kurdistan, which includes adjacent parts of Iran, Iraq, Syria and Turkey. They speak the Kurdish language, which is part of the Iranian branch of the Indo-European language.

Hiwa lived in Sardasht, a town in Northwestern Iran, where the simplicity of life put a smile on everybody’s face, especially on Hiwa's, but soon it was changed, not only in the beauty of its landscape, but also in the inner beauty of the people. The natural landscape of the city is very serene and attractive. The people of Sardasht believe that the city is the birthplace of Zoroaster, an Iranian prophet. The Shalman waterfalls, located close to the city, are very famous and are surrounded by spectacular natural views.

Although the waterfalls were more than a one-hour walk from his home, when Hiwa had no school or chores, he would go to the falls with a drawing board and a journal. He was both a good writer and an illustrator. In his drawings he drew sketches of himself attending an elite university in Europe or America and receiving a degree. He pictured in his mind being a doctor who would cure children that did not have the means to pay. In his journal he wrote about his short- and long-term goals and how he planned to achieve them. Hiwa dreamed of a world where there were no wars and no suffering and everyone had dignity and the freedom to chose his or her life to the best of their ability without worrying about their ability to afford it or not. Sometimes, when there was an occasional rain with a bright sun on the horizon, a rainbow would show up, stretching all the way from the waterfall to the other side of the village. He knew about the story, according to the Irish, that there is a Pot of Gold on the other side of the rainbow and a Leprechaun, a little guy with a green suit and a hat, is watching it. Of course, he knew it was only a folk tale and not real, but for a moment he pictured in his mind that this story may have some truth, if he’d only believe in his ability to ride the rainbow to the other side, and maybe find that Pot of Gold.

My story starts here.

When a child, I lived with my parents, who were poor simple farmers, and two younger sisters by the names of Ronak, meaning the illuminated, seven years old with blue eyes and long brown hair; and Shanar, meaning pomegranate flower, the younger one, who was five years old and had green eyes and golden hair. Ronak was like a mother to her younger sister, and tried to share all she had with her and look after her when her mother was not able to do so. When she was only seven years old, her maturity level was that of a ten-year-old. She was self-conscious about maintaining an air of authority over her younger sister. She had learned the art of dominating a scene not only by sheer intensity, but also because of necessity. We lived in a shack made of mud and bricks. Inside this mud and brick house, however, was a small window with a simple crystal stone next to it that my father once found in the vineyard that he believed had magical powers. Anytime the sun extended its golden rays on that crystal, it shone like a crown jewel and filled this tiny house with such a tremendous radiant energy that it lit up the house like a palace. My mother and father, by the names of Rojan and Farhad Ramyar, both of petite statue, worked long hours in the vineyard to make ends meet. Although my mother was only thirty-five years old and my father only forty, their faces and hands showed the marks of a harsh life of labor for our survival, just to put food on the table. Unlike Farhad Ramjar, my mother was a gentle woman, who despite an occasional outburst from my father, never lost hope that someday life would be better, especially for her children. Sometimes, when he was working in the field alone, and came home to see that his wife had his meager meal not ready, he would beat her then go straight to his bed. She later wept when nobody was watching. Shanar and Ronak, witnessing this anger my father had, would just cry and run out of the house, while I confronted him and begged him to stop this cruelty. However, he would push me aside and continue with his abuse. The outbursts didn’t last long, maybe only minutes, but after he was done, he left several bruises all over Rojan's body. I was so outraged by his senseless anger that I said:

If you continue beating my mother, I will call the police. Of course I said this only after I asked him to stop this beating to no avail. My father, on the other hand, got mad at me and also gave me a whipping, but I never cried because I had to be strong for the rest of the family. The problem with my father was that he had a bad temper and was very authoritarian and didn't want my mother or the children to question him. But he could be very gentle with us. Once in a while he would even buy us sweets and treats and tell us children’s stories. Maybe he had a split personality, who knows?

On the other hand, I had a mind of my own, and I questioned everything, including his irrational behavior. When he couldn't accept my way of thinking and gave me a beating, instead of crying, I would leave the house and not come back home until late in the evening. I ran as fast as I could to the waterfalls, my favorite place, and would cool my frustration and anger at my father by writing in my journal:

I felt that unmistakable, gut-wrenching rush of dread and anguish, a mix of emotions that doesn’t really have a name, but then I would rationalize that my father had a bad day today. He was tired of all the hard work, knowing that he could not provide adequately for his family. So I, Hiwa Ramyar, forgive his outbursts and ask God to give him patience and health.

Fortunately, these outbursts didn't happen that often, and they only lasted for a moment. One time my father came to me with tears in his eyes and apologized to me for his outburst. He even bought my mother flowers and kissed her. With tears in his eyes and a regretful voice, he promised her he’d never do it again. Those promises, however, were short lived and the cycle of outburst and regret continued again and again.

I thought to myself, maybe my father is suffering from some sort of disorder. Later, under the pressure of his family and friends, he finally agreed to see a doctor. He was diagnosed with a mild to moderate schizophrenia. The medication the doctor gave him was not a total cure; it just made him a little less aggressive and more stable.

There was a time when both of my parents were so sick over a period of two months with a viral infection that even the doctors had given up all hope for their recovery. I had to work in the vineyard just to support my family. It was at this time that I realized how hard they had to labor for a miserly amount, just to stay alive, and I decided that it was not fair. I vowed to change that situation when I grew up, not only for my parents, but for others, too, who live at substandard levels throughout the world.

Then there came that dreadful day when the birds stopped singing and the cats and dogs didn’t rejoice in the early summer, awakening from the previous deep slumber of winter. On that day my life changed forever.

Iraqi aircrafts came suddenly out of nowhere during mid-afternoon, when everyone was going about their own business, and those planes dropped bombs that contained mustard gas; dreaded pieces of metal from hell.

It was during the Iran-Iraq war (1980-88) that a prolonged military conflict between Iran and Iraq took place. Open warfare began on September 22, 1980, when Iraqi armed forces invaded western Iran along the countries’ joint border. The fighting was ended by a cease-fire agreement, though the resumption of normal diplomatic relations and the withdrawal of troops did not take place until the signing of a formal peace agreement on August 16, 1990. The roots of the war lay in a number of territorial and political disputes between Iraq and Iran. Iraq wanted to seize control of the rich oil-producing Iranian border of Khuzestan, a territory occupied largely by ethnic Arabs over which Iraq sought to extend some autonomy. Iraqi president Saddam Hussein wanted to reassert his country’s sovereignty over both banks of the Shatt al-Arab, a river formed by the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers that was historically the border between the two countries. Saddam was also concerned over attempts by Iran’s Islamic revolutionary government to incite rebellion among Iraqi’s Shiite majority. By attacking when it did, Iraq took advantage of the apparent disorder and isolation of Iran’s new government—then at loggerheads with the United States over the seizure of the US embassy in Tehran by Iranian militants—and of the demora-lization and dissolution of Iran’s regular armed forces. The total number of combatants on both sides is unclear; but both countries were fully mobilized, and most men of military age were under arms. The number of causalities was enormous, but equally uncertain. Estimates of total causalities on both sides range from 1,000,000 to twice that number, with Iran suffering the greatest losses. It is estimated that between 50,000 and 100,000 Kurds were killed by Iraqi forces. Two of these causalities were also my parents.

My parents who were out in the fields died before they could get any help and I, who was playing in the schoolyard, suffered, as did other children, long-term damage to my lungs and skin. My two younger sisters who were inside the house and were not injured from the attacks were taken in by my aunt in Tabriz.

Tabriz is the fourth largest city and one of the historic capitals of Iran. Situated at an altitude of 1,350 meters, it was the second largest city in Iran until the late 1960s, and residence of the crown prince under the Qajar dynasty. Tabriz is the fourth most populous city in Iran after Tehran, Mashhad and Esfahan, and is also a major Iranian industrial and manufacturing center. With a rich history, Tabriz contains many historical monuments. Some monuments date back to the 12th and 13th century A.D. In addition, there is an excavation site and museum in the city center with a history that dates back 2500 years.

The Red Crescent, which is the equivalent of the Red Cross for Muslim countries, transported me and other severely affected people to the capital of Iran, Tehran. I was told that my parents had died in that attack. Orphaned and injured, with emotional and physical pain, I nevertheless tried to smile when the paramedics transported me to the capital of Iran, Tehran, on a helicopter. I had never been on an airplane or helicopter, and was so thrilled by the ride that I forgot my pain and the loss of my parents for a moment.

Under heavy sedation I still managed to say a few kind words to the people who were attending to me. I was very lucky, I thought, because I was able to ride on a helicopter, while the other children, whose injuries were not as severe, had to settle for a road trip by ambulance to Tabriz, the nearest big city. I had never been to a big city, especially the capital, Tehran. I glimpsed from the window vehicles moving in different directions like metallic robots on a distant planet, something like a scene out of a science fiction movie. I wasn’t sure if my mind was playing tricks on me, or if this was another reality of life.

The thrill didn’t last long, as I came to my senses when told again that my parents had perished in the attack, and I understood the dark future ahead awaiting me for the first time. I realized the pain of being an orphan with no one to call on for love and comfort. The survival instinct, coupled with hope and force of habit push desperate souls to hang on until the bitter end. I believed that someday I would wake up from this nightmare, come out stronger, and fulfill my destiny. As I contemplated my loss, two pearl-sized tears rolled down my cheek. I was too weak to wipe them