The Warning Shot
A Jam of Jar - The Warning Shot
Those days, we had a routine Dua Tawassul1 sessions on Tuesdays, each week held at the home of a martyr. We participated to keep in touch with the families of martyrs. The management was often on the shoulders of either martyr Akrami’s mother or martyr Abbasi’s. One of the interesting incidents of these sessions was the noise among women at the end of each session where everyone was insisting that the next session should be held in their place. The tension would escalate. But, that week, what happened for the decision of the next week’s session was quite different. Among the noise and tension of the women who were rejecting and insisting, one stood up. A young woman who sometimes participated in the meetings and sat somewhere quietly and cried. “Next week, my place”, she said while holding the hand of her child. It shocked everyone like a warning shot. Suddenly, silence roamed the room and no one spoke a word. My glaze full of She is .question fell upon Mrs. Akrami Martyr Gholami’s widow”, Mrs. Akrami said with tearful eyes. The few moments it took to wipe her tears was enough for me to understand the reason of the silence. “She has four children from her late martyr husband and her children have coped with the absence of their father and the loneliness of the mother, except this little one who still misses her father at nights. She cries so much until I show her dad’s picture. She attaches her face to the picture, speaks to him and cries until she falls asleep. That’s what she does every night”, Mrs. Akrami continued. No one objected knowing what she was going .through The thought of the child’s lump was bothering me. I didn’t continue the conversation. the following week, Dua Tawassul session took place at the exact martyr’s home. I was focusing on the child. Martyr Akrami’s mother and I were waiting for Mr. Akrami after the session. I leaned the tableau of the martyr which I had brought from the office on the wall. Something interesting happened. Martyr Akrami’s father got face to face with his son’s tableau as he was passing by us. He changed his direction towards the tableau, paying no attention to us. He stopped and looked at the picture and caressed the face of the Martyr. He turned towards us with eyes full of tear. “It was him. It’s him!”, he said while looking at his wife. Both of them had their faces full of big drops of tear. I was on the verge of crying for no reason. “What happened? Explain to me, please”, I asked. Martyr Akrami’s mother knew how to control herself. “You remember the chaos among the ladies three weeks ago?”, she asked. I confirmed. “I explained the situation and the difficulties of Martyr’s widow and her little child’s fussiness and she kissing the picture of her father and her cries to Haj Agha1 . He cried for the little child. Both of us cried until we fell asleep. I was sleeping when my husband’s voice woke me up. He was hasty and anxious. His face was red as a tomato. I was scared. I asked him if he was ok. He said he was starting to dream when he heard the door getting knocked on. he opened the door. It was a young man with a glowing face. he asked him what he wanted. He said he only came over to deliver his appreciation and he didn’t give him time to ask the reason. “Tonight, I saw how you and Haj Khanoom2 cried for the depression of my children. Thank you”, he continued. Then he left. When he did so, all the stairway and the area around the door went black .and he woke up”, she said When she finished, I looked at the Martyr’s face and now my face was full of tears, too. I turned towards Mr. Akrami. He nodded .his head confirming the quote I returned Martyr Akrami’s tableau that day, but I always remembered he is .watching us
