I did not want to see Sardar’s photo on the walls / Folk narrative from the days of Hajj Qasim

Family group:Undoubtedly, the martyrdom of Sardar Soleimani was a bitter and heavy news for all the people of the country. What you read below is the narration of one of the Persian audiences about the feeling of their home after the martyrdom of Haj Qasem Soleimani.

The Fars News Agency respondent says: “I wanted to say, imagine your Friday morning starting with bad news, but for a moment I flipped myself. That morning started the same way for all of us. Bitter, cold and sad that was beyond our capacity.

It was about seven, seven-thirty in the morning when I woke up to the sound of the TV. I could not get out of bed, and on a holiday I wanted to rest more, I got up to turn down the TV and went back to sleep. I went out of my room asleep and awake. My father was sitting in front of the TV watching the news. I greeted him and said good morning. He did not answer or look at me. I thought maybe he did not hear me because of the loud TV. I said louder, “Dad, can you turn down the TV?” He said nothing again and did not look at me again. It was probably the first time I saw my father like that and how hard it is for a girl to have a father’s urgency!

I turned my head to see what had upset him so much, as soon as I saw the name of Hajj Qasim with the prefix of martyr, I was heartbroken. No more words were exchanged between us and only the voice of the newscaster could be heard.

“The glorious commander of Islam, Haj Qasem Soleimani, after a lifetime of struggle this morning by American helicopters …” Little by little, the rest of the family wakes up and the sound of hatred that breaks echoes in our sad home.

I had taken refuge in my room, I did not want to hear anything from the news or see a picture of Sardar’s martyrdom. To be honest, I could not stand it, I resisted and said that it was not a lie. I did not even touch my cell phone. The virtual networks were full of pictures of Sardar’s smile and what a picture; there was a fire on our burnt liver!

My friends were calling and crying but I could not! I’m used to being shocked when something bad happens and I can not cry. My mother kept walking and saying: Pity, pity! My father mourned just as I tried not to face him. If you are a girl, your father will be the refuge of your sad heart, but his sad face was not only a refuge but a fire on my soul!

I felt that day was not over, I was in trouble. The sound of praise came from our house until morning. My father broke down in a few minutes and cried loudly. No one felt anything, as if time had stopped at that hour.

I do not know why, but throughout the day, I was reminded of the tents of Aba Abdullah and the women and children who set up tents in the deserts of Karbala, and now the news of the martyrdom of Abbas (as) has been brought to them. Separated from the body, the leader Zulfiqar and the body that was martyred far from home, all this was a flip to take my heart to the shrine of Saqqa.

Finally that day ended with all its bitterness, and that night he saw the sad white of the morning. I was going to go out for work, I got up and put on a black dress, we finally lost dear, what a dear! The streets were full of pictures of Sardar’s smile and I still resisted accepting this bitter news.

All the way, I would look at Haj Qasim’s photos and say in my heart: “Now, could not they not use this photo of Sardar? They posted a picture with a frown and seriousness, not with this soothing laugh, this enchanting laugh and this pleasant laugh!

I was thinking that I did not realize when I got to the subway station. The subway was not in the mood as usual, people’s faces showed sadness, and their silence spoke bitterly these days. I entertained myself with everything I could to forget those moments that weighed more than I could bear. The train arrived. It was probably the first time I was so happy when the train arrived that I felt it had come to save me from the bitter weather at the station.

I had not yet set foot on the train when the chant of “O killed far from home” by Mahmoud Karimi was played at the station. My legs were locked and I could not move. A woman called me: Madam, are you not riding?

I pulled myself back with all my might. Praise was broadcast and I could no longer resist, I could not deny. I sat in a corner of the station on the floor and pulled my tent over my head. Eventually the hatred that had remained in my throat since the day before was suffocating me. I was crying loudly, how much could I do ?!

What a resemblance there was between this eulogy of Hajj Qasim, I whispered to myself: “I sat down and cried and then returned home. I did not even want to go anywhere!”

End of message /

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