I was 15 years old, during the second world war. Allies had occupied
had deposed Reza Shah. With no central government, the country was in chaos.
We lived in Ahwaz, in the southwest of Iran, where the Persian-Arab conflicts
had also been inflamed. My brother Ali was an officer in the army, and in
that particular night he was in the barracks, on a night shift, but Ahmad, his
orderly soldier stayed with us.
About 1:00 AM, several thieves had broken into our house. I was
the shrieks of my mother. I jumped out of the bed and sleepily charged into
the yard. I saw my mother with her hair standing up, shouting at the thieves
and pointing to one of the room where the thieves were rummaging, while Ahmad
was hiding behind her! I went forward to the room and immediately was hit, I
believe by a sword, on my forehead, and fell back into her arms.
As a result of my mother's bravery and persistence, the thieves ran
without to take much.
Now, whenever I feel the scar on my forehead, I imagine my mother standing
ground with her hair standing up like a lioness protecting her cubs.