Between snow and slogans - by Ramak Bamzar
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The Iran–Iraq War had just ended and everywhere the walls were covered with murals of martyrs and blood: Khomeini with a raised hand pointing to a bright point in the sky; a woman holding a blood-soaked martyr in her arms and crying; red tulips sprouting here and there from stains of blood on the ground.
That morning, Maman stood by the front door, just behind the mounds of snow. Her emerald wool shawl hung over her small shoulders, and she watched as Roya and I made our way through the drifts toward the bus stop. I turned and looked at her – wearing that familiar worried look – waving her hand slowly through the cold morning air. I adjusted the straps of my backpack, tugged my white headscarf forward, and kept walking.
The rickety minibus huffed its way up the gentle slope, pushing through snow and slush to reach us. Through its foggy windscreen, I could see Mammad Agha’s face. Even after all these years, Mammad Agha still sits there in my mind behind the wheel of that old minibus – mouth forever a little open, bright pinched eyes, a thin black moustache – as if he never plans to get up from that seat.
The minibus stopped and Roya and I hopped on. The girls in grey uniforms and white headscarves sat in rows on the seats and whispered to one another. Behind the steamed-up windows, we girls showed off the plastic hair ties and colourful plastic barrettes – trophies from our mums’ morning battles with our hair.
The minibus glided gently around the curve of the road, slipping slightly on the snow as Mammad Agha steered. We travelled down a steep street, past rows of new houses with brick walls and sliding aluminium windows. At the bottom of the hill, a tired-looking school appeared with a frozen flag barely moving in the breeze: The Primary School of the Nameless Martyrs of Islam.
Without turning his head, Mammad Agha called out, ‘Girls, put your headscarves on – we’re nearly there!’ That short stretch between home and school, amongst the cold leather seats covered in our innocent graffiti, was always our brief window of secret freedom.
The school’s iron gate stood wide open. Somewhere beneath the muddy slush were faded paintings of the American and Israeli flags, symbols of our ‘two mortal enemies’. And I still remember how we girls, with our small bodies and muddy shoes, stamped across the painted flags, one after another, to reach the schoolyard.
Our day began with the bell – a shrill, metallic clang. In the front courtyard, where the walls could hold no more murals, we lined up between the gaze of the Supreme Leader and the bloodied martyrs, shoulder to shoulder, right hand on the shoulder of the girl in front, like soldiers preparing for battle. Steam curled from our mouths into the air. Headscarves askew, scarves wrapped around ears, hands stiff with cold, we shouted slogans of death to our enemies. The words spun around our mouths – meaningless, repeated charms – slogans far older than we were.
That morning during assembly, Mrs Alavi, the moral officer in her all-black attire, called Roya’s name. Roya straightened her shoulders and stepped out from the year four line towards the platform, pushing her black hair back into her headscarf. Mrs Alavi came forward, adjusted the microphone stand to Roya’s small height, and stood there with her hands clasped. In the year two line the girls whispered, ‘Bamzar’s big sister… she came first in the district.’ I puffed up my chest and turned to Sara and Monireh behind me with a smug little grin.
The region contest was to complete the sentence, ‘If I had a gun…’ It wasn’t an essay or a poem, just a few short lines to be written with a ‘sense of responsibility’. Mrs Alavi leaned towards the microphone. ‘Right… quiet… quiet. For the health of the Leader and for the martyrs’ souls, send a salawat[i] so Bamzar can begin.’
‘O God, bless Muhammad and the family of Muhammad…’
Roya let out a breath. With a faint tremor her voice filled the loudspeaker and she began to read: ‘If I had a gun, I would fight global imperialism with every single one of its bullets… so that one day, I might sacrifice the last drop of my blood on this path… and… and proudly say to all the world… to the world, with pride: martyrdom is my honour.’
Now thoroughly delighted, Mrs Alavi looked at Roya – her national treasure – with pride and said, ‘Very well done, Bamzar! How beautiful!’ Then, smoothing her headscarf, she took a small gift-wrapped box from the table and placed it in Roya’s hands. ‘Here’s your prize Bamzar, for a piece that’s not only an honour to our school but worthy of the ideals of the Revolution as well!’ Roya raised her head and let her eyes run along the rows; she was smiling so broadly it reached her eyes. Mrs Alavi thrust her hand out from under her long black veil, raised a clenched fist into the air, and shouted. ‘The blood in our veins is a gift to our Leader!’
And our drained, monotonous voices echoed across the yard. ‘The blood in our veins is a gift to our Leader.’
Back home that afternoon, Roya pulled the crinkled sheet from her backpack, flopped onto the couch, and called out. ‘Maman! Listen, this is the piece I read, the one that won!’ Maman lifted the teapot off the kettle. Without turning around, she said, ‘Go ahead, darling. I’m listening.’
I came and sat beside Roya. She cleared her throat and began excitedly reading the words out loud, imitating the tone of the loudspeaker: ‘If I had a gun, I would fight global imperialism with every single one of its bullets…’
Maman stood there, frozen. Her hand was on the edge of the cupboard as if she’d been searching for something. Roya went on. ‘…so that one day, I might sacrifice the last drop of my blood on this path… and say to all the world with pride… martyrdom is my honour.’
Maman came out of the kitchen, the two lines between her eyebrows had deepened. She came closer and, as she gently took the headscarf off Roya’s head, said, ‘That was lovely… you read it with great feeling.’ Roya and I stared at her mouth. She paused for a moment and went on. ‘You read very well… just remember… you don’t ever really need to have a gun. You don’t need to kill anyone to be brave. You’re a clever, kind girl. Killing isn’t something kind people do.’
That day I didn’t understand why Maman wasn’t happy about Roya coming first, why she didn’t get excited like Mrs Alavi. I only remember there was no ‘Well done’. ▼
[i] Salawat: an Arabic benediction invoking blessings upon the Prophet Muhammad, recited aloud by a group to mark assent or devotion.
Image: hosein charbaghi - Unsplash
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