When the Sparrowhawk Fell

By Laya Razzagh Zadeh

Hamide was the second child of a military man and was raised in a modern and wealthy family. A military man raises his children to be principled and hardworking. Hamide was no different; she stood on her own feet from the beginning. She was not a girl who stays at home and has everything brought to her. Against the common beliefs of the society in those days, she soon found a job and started to teach at high school. The day she married Mansour, her financial status was much better than his. Mansour was a penniless students at the Officers’ Academy. It took them a few years to be able to move to their own home.
Mansour was a religious person, but not a short-minded one.
This book is the memoir of Hamide Piahor during her 25 years of living with Mansour Sattari, the Commander of IRIAF

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387947041

Book preview

When the Sparrowhawk Fell

When the Sparrowhawk Fell

Laya Razzagh Zadeh

Translated by

Ehsan Abbaspour

In the name of the Generous Answerer,

Who puts you to the test,

Day and night

When the Sparrowhawk Fell

This is a work of nonfiction. Names, characters, 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 © 2016 by Ehsan Abbaspour Editing © 2017 by Saeed Salari

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 address:

Islamic Civilization Discourse Institute, Translation Group 13 Rasht Street, Hafez Street, Tehran, I.R.Iran. ICDI Publishing House Web site address is http://www.icdi.ir

Cover and Design: Mohammad Hasan Moradof Persian Reviser: Alireza Fattah Omid

ISBN: 978-1-387-94704-1

Electronic edition: November 2017

Originally published by Ravayat-e Fath © 2003

ISBN: 978-600-5182-76-7

Author: Laya Razzagh Zadeh © 1999

Prologue

In the voluminous book of history, there is a chapter called age of resistance written in the Name of Man. This chapter is made of spring but is written in red and followed by no fall. This chapter of the story is about the renewal of Man's vow in the last days of the history. That is why it is written by drops of blood and tear; drops of blood that were one day spilled on soil, and tears that were one day concealed in the corner of a veil while saying farewell and fell on the soil of a grave on another day. Today, those drops of tear are flowing again to wash away the inevitable dust of time from the faces of the commanders of the waiting days.

In the voluminous book of history, a new chapter has been written; an unbelievably romantic one.

Life is a puzzle of scattered pieces; the pieces of contentment, anguish, consolation and loneliness. If you do not arrange these pieces in their proper positions, you won't be able to observe their underlying beauty. Only when you set the entire picture in proper order, you'll understand how valuable each individual piece is.

The pieces of loneliness in Hamideh and Mansoor's lives might be fewer than the ones in which they were together; however, when you know the secret of the affectionate looks and realize the energy in a fresh greeting, and when you understand the absolute determination to live a perfect life, and identify all these aspects jointly, then only, you are able to partly feel the unceasing tenderness of this life. The love between Hamideh and Mansoor was not limited to words or romantic phrases. It lay in their astounding looks, supports, confirmations, no-expectations and tolerance. A love that has kept Hamideh so satisfied that after all these years, she is still proud of her choice.

Mansoor Sattari Khavas

•     Birth: May 19, 1950

•     Marriage with Hamideh Piahoor:

March 6, 1970

•     Commander in Chief of Air Force:

February, 1987

•     Martyrdom: January 5, 1995

The Memoir

I was in the fourth grade of elementary school. Every morning, when I woke up, I would skip breakfast and run to sit on the stairs. I would hide my head behind Geranium flower pots and gaze at the door. We had a tenant who was an air force officer. I liked his uniform. Whenever he came out through the door and tied his shoelace, I used to close my eyes and immerse myself in my ongoing childish daydreams. I pictured myself in a bride’s gown being accompanied by a groom with willowy stature in military uniform. The first time Mansoor came to our home I smelled the same Geranium flowers again and was overwhelmed by my childhood mood. The love I felt towards him was not that of cousins anymore. I came to a new sense.

Mansoor had been admitted to the Military School and had moved to Tehran. Their home was in Vali-Abad, near Varamin. So, he visited our house on the weekends, from Thursday noon to Friday evening. He was shy and had nothing to do with others. Being embarrassed by my sisters’ presence, he would keep himself busy reading books.

I had just got my diploma and had been admitted in Teacher’s Training College that year. I got happy anytime he visited us. Whenever he talked to my father, I sat near them, for any reason, to listen to them. Mansoor was three years my junior; that is why I felt more comfortable with him. However, in the traditional families back then, we couldn’t talk with each other a lot.

In the year 1966, I graduated from Teacher’s Training College and started teaching. Mansoor got admitted to the Military Academy in the same year. I had always yearned to become a teacher. As a child, I would play the role of a teacher in our childish games. My parents were also very happy about it. My father used to say that a girl had to be independent and make her own living. My mother was very proud of me. She constantly said, My daughter is the only female teacher among the relatives and neighbors.

I was waiting for my first payday. I had many plans for it. They paid us every six months for the first year. The basic pay was 490 Tomans. I also taught evening classes to root out illiteracy. I earned a hundred Tomans for it. I was paid for the first time on the eve of the New Year. It was three thousand Tomans. I went to the fruit market and did a lot of shopping. I entered the house with the bags of fruits. My father saw me at the door. He asked, What are these? I happily replied, Agha, I bought them with my first salary. I thought he would become happy about it; instead, he got angry. He took the bags, opened the door, and threw them all in the alley. There were fruits all over the lane. I gazed at them. Tears fell down my face as they were rolling down along the slope of the alley. My father’s voice met my ears, Didn’t I tell you to save your money at the bank? I have a plan for it. Am I unable to do shopping for the house? This must be the last time you did such a thing. Did you get it?

It was always me who prepared my father’s tobacco hookah. I used to soak it in water for a while, before he came. I would change its water several times to smooth its taste. When he arrived, I used to put a backrest for him and during the time he was drinking his tea, I would set the charcoals alight and made the hookah ready to be used. After the day he got angry with me, I didn’t approach him for several days; he didn’t ask about me, either. One day, however, he couldn’t tolerate it. He asked, Who made this hookah? Why on earth does it taste so bitter? Didn’t Hamideh make it? My mother said, No, did you forget what you did to her the other day? I was in my bedroom studying the next day’s lesson. He came to the door, put his hands on the door frame and said kindly, Baba, why are you sad? I said those words for your own sake. Now come and give me a glass of tea. Don’t frown anymore.

My father was a very serious man. He worked for the army. He was a tanks-and-armored-cars technician. He had a hand in construction, too. He used to buy land, build houses, and sell them. When we were kids, he would take me, my sisters and brothers to the construction site. With a shovel, he would pour mud into brick frames and tell us, Let’s see who can make more bricks. We would keep ourselves busy there for a couple of hours. He wanted to prepare us for the ups and downs of life. He knew we couldn’t do anything. At the end, he