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Thursday Ultimate sacrifice I don't know what to say! Reading "Gasping for air" and "Nothing but a name" blew my mind. Old memories buried deep in my brain under millions of neurons and neurological path links filled with C, C++, MFC, MSDEV, real time, DSP, HARVARD and Intel architecture -- all these gibberish -- just gushed up to the surface of the melting pot of my mind. It felt just like heartburn. One of those heartburns that brings tears to your eyes after a greasy, spicy Mexican meal. But the tears in my eyes were not tears of spice, nor pain, nor joy, but realization! Realizing how much I had grown in a short, very short, period of my life. I too joined the army in 1983 during Iran-Iraq war. I ignored my mother, who was pleading me to escape from Iran, and my father who was begging me to forget about the army. He said he would pay for me for the rest of my life and I could stay at home forever. All I thought about was that I am not going to degrade myself and jump on a donkey's back and cross the mountains to Turkey, nor was I to put a sheep skin on my back and hide among a herd and cross into Pakistan. I argued that I want to leave from Mehrabad with my passport. Don't get me wrong, I was also thinking that as soon as my military service is over I will get the hell out of this god forsaken country and go to the land of SHEYTAAN-E BOZORG. I wanted to pay my dues to my country, and I truly believed that by spending two precious years of my youth, fighting with the enemy, I can get even with my homeland. Shahram, a friend of mine, was from Khoramshahr. He had blond hair and blue eyes and we always used to make fun of him that: "How did your mother manage to get you blond hair and blue eyes?" and other nasty jokes like that. He would always shyly smile and ignore us. We were stationed south of Sanandaj among some of the most beautiful, glorious mountains I have ever seen. The last six months of our service was specially harsh and we were constantly under attack by Iraqi Kurds, and Mojahedin-e Khalgh. May their soul rot in hell! The last thing I can remember from Shahram, three months before our discharge, was the morning when the Toyota medic truck swirled like a maniac into our base and stopped in the middle of the barracks. That morning I was supposed to go on leave. A barrack-mate and I ran to the truck where a medic was working on something. There he was. In a pool of blood with hands blown away. A hand grenade had exploded in his hands by mistake. His body was punctured by hundreds of little bullets. The medic was preparing to give him a CPR and as soon as he pressed his hands on Shahram's chest, a shower of blood shot up from all those holes in his body. He made a sound, I don't know what it was, but it sounded like a sigh and that was it. The only thing that could tell me it was him was his blue eyes in an undistinguished black and red face. I never forget Shahram, his last request from me, which I am so glad I did for him, was to draw a logo of Super Tramp in the shape of a space ship. How can I forget Shahram? How can I forget Bagheri, whose first name I can not remember in spite of the fact that I used to write his TA'MIN schedule twice a week? He was shot in the head when we were attacked by Mojahedin one month before our discharge? The only thing I saw was his helmet with a hole in it and dark dried blood and pieces of some stuff inside the helmet. How can I forget the gut wrenching cries of Bagheri's father who was clinching the blanket his son used to cover himself the night before his death? The army was generous enough to let him keep it! The fact is that, right there and then I realized how naïve and simple minded I was to think that by spending two precious years of my life I will pay my dues to my homeland. How can I even compare myself with somebody like Shahram, Bagheri, or Arman's friend Ali, or Yasaman's father and many, many, many other young and old people who defended our country with the ultimate sacrifice, THEIR LIFE! It is easy to say, but believe me it is very hard to do. And even very hard to witness. Maybe one of these days like Arman, I too will kick myself in the butt and share my experiences with you. These experiences should not ever be forgotten. The sacrifice that these people made, regardless of their religion, faith, and affiliations is the ultimate price one can pay. Dear Yasaman, Never ever think about what could have been. Take life as it is and live it. Live it in full and enjoy every moment of it. Be proud of your father, I know I am. I think this is a poem from Shamlu but I am not sure: FORSAT KOOTAAH BOOD O SAFAR JAAN KAAH AMMAA YEGAANEH BOOD O HICH KAM NADAASHT Peace!
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