A Childhood Memory

My father, who passed away about 13 years ago, was once a government official in the city of Qom. He was a pious person and because of his strong religious beliefs, he would travel to religious sites and mausoleums every so often.
 Whenever he made a pilgrimage to Qom, he would visit some of his old friends. Nowadays for traveling from Tehran to Qom, where my father is presently buried, one would need to get in the car and drive through the freeway, visit the resting place and be back by noon. However, such trips were much more difficult those days, and due to lack of transportation facilities, people had to stay in the city of Qom over night. Whenever people could, they would schedule a trip with many relatives and friends, in order to pack a rented bus. They would also arrange ahead of time, a rental house at the destination. In May 1963, my father prepared such a trip for us, and one day we started early in the morning towards Qom. We had to wake up so early in the morning and even though traveling was exciting, all the children on the bus fell asleep immediately. I missed the whole trip dreaming about our new adventures. As soon as the golden dome of the Ma’soumeh sepulcher was seen in the horizon, I woke up with praying sounds of the pilgrims.

It is important to note that during the time when religion was not imposed on people so harshly as it is now, due to people’s lack of interest or education about the history of Islam and crimes committed under its rule, people were generally more observant of religious costumes. My children friends and I only knew that we were going to a mysterious and important place, which was so important that seeing its golden dome would bring tears to my rough father’s eyes while reciting some prayers. I learned later that Ma’soumeh and her relatives had migrated to Iran upon an invitation from Abbasid kings. Islam that started as a political system kept changing based on the politics of the time. Ma’soumeh’s brother, Reza, accepted the invitation and brought along his relatives to stay in Iran with the hope of ruling the kingdom sometimes in the future. Reza was never nominated as a king and he was killed for the same political reasons. By passage of time, his relatives scattered around the land, and upon ruling of Safavid dynasty, when Shiite was forced on people, their graves became sacred places.

Going back to our trip, it started everyday with the pilgrimage of Ma’soumeh and ended with touring landmarks and interesting places around the city. One day, we visited a candy store whose owner was my father’s old friend, after which we walked around town. We arrived at a bridge over a dried creek that was packed with a thick crowd. About half a mile from the creek and on its bank, there was a two story building that was perpendicular to the bridge in a way that we could see both front and back of the building. We entered the bridge and saw the crowd gazing towards the building. However, because of my height I could not see anything. So, I tried to find a space between onlookers, in order to look at the direction of their eyes. I kept pulling my mother’s hand towards the bridge’s railings, until I was able to see what was happening. At the front of the building, a regiment of soldiers were entering, brandishing their weapons. In the back of the building, some mullahs were jumping down from the windows of the second floor. First, they removed their gowns and then their turbans, and wrapped turbans in the gowns and dropped the bundle out of the window below, and then, they threw themselves out. After the passage of more than forty years, that scene is still vivid in my memory. Upon reaching the ground, some were limping and they would be helped by their friends towards the dried creek. I am not sure how long I was looking, fascinated with this scene, when I suddenly realized that I was not holding my mother’s hand any longer. I was confused and scared in the midst of turmoil and chaos, and started looking for my relatives while crying. In that confusion and disorder no one was paying attention to me. I put my thoughts together and decided to turn around and trace back to where we came from. Suddenly I saw the candy store we had visited earlier that day. I entered and saw my father’s old friend, who asked me about my father. I could not say anything but sobbing. He sat me on a stool and gave me a box of candies to calm me down, and promised to find my family. After a while he asked me where we lived, in which I was no help. Some people entered his business and he asked them if they knew where my family lived and asked for their help. After a while, he went out to the sidewalk and uttered my father’s name, who entered the store along with my brother. I started crying again, but this time I shed jubilant tears! They started hugging and kissing me in return with their wet and joyful eyes.

For years, the picture of young mullahs who threw themselves from the window, and the chaos of that day have been in my mind. I know today that the building was a seminary and that day was the ignition for the 1978 revolution. I am not sure how many kids lost their mothers that day and never got a chance to see them again. I am not sure how many students became crippled. I don’t know how many families cried like my family, but never got a chance to see each other again. But I know one thing, that a dictator enters the scene with the force of a gun, kills, rapes, plunders, brings misery to people, for a moment of power and wealth does not honor human dignity, and finally is forced out by the power of the same gun. Every page of the history is a testimony to this fact. History is filled with dictators who were born out of a society, and instead of assisting citizens, have ruined their lives. Sometimes, a despot ruler is removed and the replacement becomes a new dictator. But it is the trend of every society to shed blood until the tyranny is replaced by the rule of masses.