When Haj Ali Zahedi was martyred, it was essential to quickly introduce a replacement. The choice was Haj Abbas Nilforushan, who was a close companion, partner, and support of Seyed Hassan Nasrollah. When the Supreme Leader said, “Whatever Seyed Hassan Nasrollah’s opinion is,” Haj Abbas replied, “It is the command of the Master. I must go,” and he went. The lump in his throat gives weight to the beautiful words he speaks with his Isfahani accent as he says, “Since I was six years old, I have wished to destroy Israel.” He was hopeful for martyrdom in this cause, which was granted through God’s grace.
Far from home, he returned to his homeland
A buzz fills the terminal of Isfahan’s Shahid Beheshti Airport. A mother embraces her sorrow, and without asking for anyone’s help, she firmly places her cane on the ground and stands up. It doesn’t take long for her to reach the window. Now, her right hand rests on her black cane, and with her left hand, she pulls aside the cream-colored curtain. She narrows her eyes a little and leans toward the left, looking toward the corner of the sky. But the sky is silent, and not a bird flutters. I overhear some women nearby talking about her being the mother-in-law of the martyr Nilforushan. I stand next to her. Her eyes seem as though they have just returned from a long journey, a journey where one of the companions was left behind, stirring her heart. I once had a friend who said, “Longing is like bruising. At first, it doesn’t hurt, but suddenly it grabs hold of your whole being.” I see that longing has taken hold of the mother, struggling in her eyes. Tears lash out, and her eyes grow weary, and her words, now stuck in the mud, fall out as she says: “I’m still waiting for someone to come and say it was a mistake, that he hasn’t been martyred. Madam, I still can’t believe that Abbas is no longer here…”
On the morning of the farewell
A young man, likely no more than twenty-two, passes by with a tray of tea in paper cups. The steam rising from the freshly brewed tea seems like a test to me, especially at this early hour, for someone who is a lover of tea. One of his friends calls out in a somewhat loud voice to the others, saying, “Well done, everyone! God willing, we won’t let the martyr down. Bismillah, please help yourselves to tea.” One person organizes the military personnel, another keeps an eye on the plainclothes officers, and a third directs the regular people to the left and right of the platform. The clock shows it’s just past eight in the morning. A man dressed entirely in black is handing out red roses to the women, while young men distribute posters that read “I love fighting Zionism” along with pictures of Seyed Hassan and Haj Abbas. The market for mobile phone photos and selfies with posters of Seyed Hassan Nasrollah is bustling, and it is hard to believe that he is no longer with us, that we must now place “martyr” beside his name. The crowd grows with each passing moment, and the large square of Meydan-e-Bozorgmehr fills up completely.
For someone like me, who loves observing the moods of people and crafting stories in my mind, everything falls into place. I see a young woman standing by the fountain, staring intently at one of Haj Abbas’s pictures, and suddenly she starts crying. Her sobs grow louder, as if the clouds of her heart have become tightly tangled. I take a few photos with my camera. Just as the cameraman approaches to film her, she pulls her headscarf over her head, and her face disappears into the darkness of the cloth. Perhaps a knot has been tied in her life, maybe she is a relative of the martyr, or perhaps there are a thousand other possibilities. For a few minutes, the atmosphere has become more formal. The voice of General Salami fills the air, and the chatter dies down. The General speaks with his usual dignity. Power settles in his words, and his words soothe the fires in our hearts like water on a flame. Suddenly, I remember the words of Haj Abbas’s mother-in-law: the moment she recalled the grief of Abbas’s father, the sorrows he had endured, and with the mention of that sorrow, it seemed as though her own grief grew taller.
The caravan begins its journey
After the speeches and the eulogies come to an end, the caravan sets off. I wish I could speak with you more from here, Haj Abbas. I know you are paying attention, just as you have over these past years when you sacrificed yourself for us far from your homeland. Honestly, I speak from what I have witnessed, but may your great heart continue to watch over all of us. This morning, as I was coming here, the kind taxi driver, as soon as he realized I was heading to your ceremony, despite the road being blocked, took a detour through several alleyways, as if doing something himself to contribute. I’m sure if he weren’t tied up with bills and loans, he would have parked his car right there and made his way to the ceremony. I take a few steps in the name of Mr. Hossein Kiani; may you watch over him as well.
Haji Jan, many people here raised their shop shutters out of respect for you, and many others took time off just to say, “May I be sacrificed for you.” It’s true that you were far from home, and the sorrow of this has left a deep wound in the corner of our hearts, but we will stand by you until the very end, until we reach Haj Hossein and Haj Ahmad by your side. By the way, before I forget, I should tell you that many mothers are here, and their only wish from you is summed up in one word: intercession.
Haji, the fate of those who knew you is clear; even those who didn’t know you have gone above and beyond. I know you’re concerned about the crowd and whether anyone will be bothered, but rest assured, everything is proceeding with dignity and respect. The people of Isfahan have done an amazing job. The only thing is that the weather is starting to heat up, but the firefighters and Red Crescent are looking out for the people. Even the employees of a couple of banks along the route have made ice water to hand out to the people.
What wonderful people we have!
Haj Abbas, on the way, when sometimes the crowd becomes overwhelming and people cross the barriers or the garden paths along the street to ease the pressure of the crowd, I see a lady standing, removing the dry branches of a tree that might get damaged in the rush of people’s movement. Or a young girl who brought a marker with her and writes slogans on cardboard to hand out to the crowd. She beautifully gives a twist to the word «ح» in the message that we are the people of Imam Hussein. I approach her. Her name is Hananeh, and she studied graphic design.
She says, “Every time a martyr is brought, I come, and this is the only thing I can do.” Then she says something that really touches my heart: “Wherever the blood of a Shi’a is shed, that place becomes a nurturing ground for Shi’ism.” I also speak with another young man. He introduces himself as Hamid Asghari and says, “Israel should know that with every martyrdom of these dear ones, our people become more awake and courageous. We are not afraid of them because, as Martyr Qasem Soleimani said, we are the people of Imam Hussein, and we welcome martyrdom with open arms.”
A little girl catches my attention. She is busy being a mother to her knitted doll, and a father is carrying his tired daughter on his shoulders. With one hand, he cares for his daughter, and with the other, he chants slogans. An elderly man, holding his two-year-old granddaughter, is a retiree from the insurance sector. When I ask him to gift a sentence to you, he says, “I’m sorry for being left behind.” To be honest, Haj Abbas, the kids from our newspaper have also framed your photo and the picture of Seyed Hassan and are giving them to the people—people who have lovingly come to see you off for a few hours. Finally, you will reach your friends, and my words will come to an end. My final words are the same as a mother’s: “Take care of us before Imam Hussein (A.S.) and send our greetings to your friends.”
