Felicity Pain

By Habib Emami

Mohammad Ghodsieh’s cousin, along with his mother came to the city where Ghodsieh lived and stayed there for ten days. Mohammad’s mother brought up the marriage proposal on the spot. During their stay, Mohammad was able to win everybody’s heart. She was educated, but Mohammad had to leave school. She accepted to get married to Mohammad since he was kind, warm, and wore a sweet smile. A couple of months later when they could hardly hold a wedding ceremony and buy a house in Tehran, the revolution was in its infancy and Mohammad was one of the revolutionaries.
They had two children when the war broke out. Mohammad headed for the battlefield and soon he raised to the rank of the commander of the logistics units; if he were not there for a day, many would be left hungry or shelterless.They had two children when the war broke out. Mohammad headed for the battlefield and soon he raised to the rank of the commander of the logistics units; if he were not there for a day, many would be left hungry or shelterless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781794828797

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Felicity Pain

Habib Emami

icdi

Felicity Pain

This is a work of nonfiction. Names, charac- ters, places, and incidents are based upon a true story and were obtained by a face-to-face interview. In this book no pseudonyms have been used.

Published by arrangement with the Translator All rights reserved.

Copyright© 2017 by Islamic Civilization Discourse Institute

Translation © 2019 by Sadegh Ramezanian Editing © 2019 by Ehsan Abbaspour

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information contact: Islamic Civilization Discourse Institute

Translation Group

13 Rasht Street, Hafez Street, Tehran, I.R.Iran ICDI Publishing House website address is http://www.icdi.ir

Cover and Design: Mohammad Hasan Moradof

Electronic edition: October 2019

Originally published by Ravayat-e Fath © 2003 ISBN 978-1-79482-879-7

Author: Laya Razzagh Zadeh © 1999

In the voluminous book of history, there is  a chapter called Islamic Revolution written in the name of humanity. This chapter resembles spring, but is written in red and followed by no fall. This chapter deals with human’s reunion in the last days of history. That is why it is claimed to have been written with blood and tears; blood that spilled on the soil one day, and tears that were once concealed in the corner of a veil at the moment of bidding farewell, the same tears that poured over the grave another day. In the same vein, those tears are running anew to wash away the inevitable dust of time from the face of the commanders of the waiting days.

In the voluminous book of history, a new in- credibly romantic chapter has been inscribed.

Have you not seen people who live with their spouse for 30 years and cannot compose more than two lines about the story of their life,

all of which remains stuck in an insincere cere- monious veil? However, sometimes it can take  a lifetime to describe merely one single look.  Sometimes it can take an entire year to review a single day. The quality overcomes quantity. This is apparent in a life shared with a man who has been in the battlefield or one can say at least in the lives of the majority of fighters. Ebādiān was no exception to this general rule. War has been everything to him. To him, war meant guarding his country. To him, war meant keeping his love for his country dear to the heart. To him, war meant not to surrender to the enemy. To him, war meant dying like a man; voiceless, sleepless, smokeless, in silence, while trying, like a flame.

And his wife, who  has  been  his  spouse  as well as a help to the other women. And all these women had husbands, and a friend whom they never called by her first name. These ladies called her Mrs. Ebādiān. It was as if she had never had a first name, as if she had been Mrs. Ebādiān from the time she had been born and not Miss. Bahrāmi.

Mohammad Ebadian

Mohammad! Hamidreza left last night. He got on a plane and departed. He left to forget you that you were his father. In his own words, he left to claim what he deserved in life. Mohammad, I’m exhausted. Be- lieve me, I cannot stand up anymore. What if Hamid is right? Maybe all these years of torment and hardship have been futile, useless. Maybe, it was wrong for me and the kids to follow you from one house to the other through all those years. As long as you were in this world, we used to wander from one town to another, and when you left us, we got homeless and lonely. Mo- hammad, we still don’t have a house of our own. Why didn’t you come yourself to answer Hamid? Where were you the day he asked me why we had wasted all his childhood under the shadow of bombs and rockets? To tell you the truth, I had no answer to his question. You and I had personally decided to choose the course of life we did, but what about the kids? They had no other choice but to live like us.

Do you know that Hamid never forgave you? Your absence broke Hamid’s back. He is a proud man

just like you were. He never let anyone caress him out of pity. He stood up to everyone and said, No. You departed and so did he. Fatemeh and Ahmad are leaving too. I will be left with my loneliness to live. Mohammad, believe me, I’m exhausted. Let’s finish this game. Aren’t all these years of running after you and never being able to catch up with you enough? So, when will my turn come? Isn’t it the right time yet? I want to join you. I miss you; I miss you… I miss you.

I was at work. They called from the school saying that my son had worn short-sleeves to school. They also said his hair had been too long. At night when I started speaking with him about it, he said, I won’t go to school anymore. He was in his 3rd year of high school. He attend- ed Shāhed¹ school. When I had registered him at this school, I had showed his dossier to the principal and said, Please take this into atten- tion that my son has changed his school several times, as we have moved from one town to an- other. Be a little more flexible with him. He has spent his entire childhood living under the fear of bombs and rockets. He’s become very sensi- tive.

They didn’t understand what these words

1. Shahed School: Especial school for martyrs’ children in Iran.

truly meant. They hadn’t spent a single night with their wives and children in Dezfūl city during the war, and so they couldn’t understand what I was talking about.

He insisted, I don’t want to continue my education anymore. He stayed at