Ali Davari / A story by Hamed Saeedi
He woke up early in the morning. The night before, he had set his phone alarm to go to the bank first thing in the morning. He got dressed and rode his motorcycle. He wasn’t in the mood for breakfast, so he smoked a cigarette instead. When he arrived at the Sepah Bank branch, he parked his motorcycle and threw his cigarette butt in the trash. He took a number and sat alone in a corner. When the bank speaker announced his number, he went to the counter. He handed the employee his number and greeted them, but received no response.
The employee said, “National ID card.”
Ali said: “I don’t have it.”
Without a national ID card, it is not possible.
“I have a certificate.”
He showed it to the employee. He took a quick glance at the certificate.
“You must have a national ID card.”
“I don’t have much work. My card’s credit has run out. I came to replace it. That’s all.”
“Where is the national ID card?”
“I lost my bag. It was also in it.”
“Go to the police plus ten. Just bring my national ID card application form.”
“Where is the closest one?”
Next intersection. After the suspension bridge.
He had decided to insist more, but the bank employee pressed the button on the desk and announced the next number through the loudspeaker. He turned and immediately left. He sat behind the motorcycle and started his journey. He found the police station plus ten and entered. There was no need to wait for his turn. He waited for the previous person to finish. In honor of the 10th of February, the walls of the office were decorated and pictures of officials and revolutionaries were hanging from the ceiling and columns.
The office employee said, “Please come in.”
Ali said: “I lost my national ID card. I need a new one.”
Tell me your national ID number.
0557697433
The employee’s expression changed after entering the numbers.
What is your name, Ali Davari?
Yes
“Prohibited Services”
“What does it mean?”
This national number has been blocked.
“Why?”
“Are you a deserter soldier?”
“Yes”
“Exactly. You have to go to the military service.”
When he left the door, he remembered Hashemtiyeh. He got on his motorcycle and headed towards home. On the way, images of those days appeared in front of his eyes. Several years ago, after six months of absence, he was introduced to his service camp and taken to Hashemtiyeh prison. The first night, the new recruits were lined up by the guard. His weapon was shining behind them and he asked intimidating questions. He didn’t wait for an answer. One by one, he hit them on the back of their necks and started from the beginning. All the prisoners were gathered and laughing loudly at them. The guard harassed them so much that he finally got tired and fell asleep. His entire fine was five hundred thousand tomans, but he had no one to pay it for him to prevent him from going to prison. His mother and two sisters had forgotten about him.
On the last day of the barracks, the commander had started scolding from the moment of his arrival. From five o’clock until two o’clock when he went home, Ali washed his old desk twenty times. Every time the honorable Colonel saw Ali’s wet desk, he would shout, “It’s still dirty!” and order him to wash it again. After the commander left at two o’clock, the old soldiers beat up Ali. They had been ordered by the commander to leave him alone. He could no longer tolerate their orders and prohibitions. Their argument escalated and they beat him up. Two of them beat him badly, but his clothes and hat were torn. At five o’clock, he got his exit slip from the guardhouse and left. After that day, he never returned to the barracks.
When he arrived home, he saw a white bag behind the door. Only his mother had the key. His sisters had married and were unaware of him. His mother lived with them. It had been two months since his family had moved. His mother would visit him two or three times a week and buy things for him. Ali took out a cigarette and sat by the window. After being fired from the restaurant where he worked as a delivery boy, he would smoke with his back against the wall. He had smoked so much that his nails had turned dark and his teeth had become yellow. Cockroaches and ants crawled up from the furniture, but he struggled to clean his clothes and body and never had time to tidy up the house. He had to hand over the house to the landlord, but he had no money to rent another place.
One of us picked up a frying pan and washed it. He took out some eggs from the bag and made an omelette for himself. He turned on the TV so he wouldn’t have lunch in silence. The host of the show was talking excitedly. He said the king was thirsty for the blood of the youth and would imprison them for any excuse. Despite killing many people, he never stopped the massacre. The path to progress in the country was closed and no one had freedom. Savak was in control of all the affairs of the country and prevented young people from being more active. No one was able to move up the social ladder and everyone was stuck in the same place for years. The king ordered his opponents to get passports and leave Iran. Anyone who had the financial means would leave the country and the rest of the people lived with the desire to emigrate. The paths to reform the government were closed and the country was trapped in political deadlock. Even though he couldn’t
His eyes had just warmed up when he was awakened by a loud knocking. The real estate agent, who was also the homeowner, had come with three clients to visit the house. They quickly toured the 50 square meter building and left. Before leaving, the homeowner went to Ali and asked him to tidy up the house. He also asked when he would vacate and hand over the keys. After hearing the usual answers, he left. Half an hour after they left, his mother and Uncle Saeed entered. Uncle Saeed, who was a military doctor, said that he had arranged for Ali’s military service and had promised one of his friends that if Ali served in their barracks, his months of absence would be forgiven. He only needed to introduce himself. Uncle Saeed took care of the rest. After Ali accepted, they left him alone. He found his military uniform and washed it. He went to bed early that night to be ready for the next day.
The next day, he went to the barracks and waited outside the commander’s office for him to wake up. The new soldiers looked at him with surprise. The old ones laughed and made fun of him. They said that they had gotten rid of most of the higher-ranked officers and the situation for the soldiers had improved. The new commander finally woke up and spoke to him. Then he called the sergeant and told him that Ali was to be detained in the unit for ten days and was not allowed to leave the barracks. A few hours later, they called the commander and the paper was signed. The next day, he had to be present at the new barracks to spend the remaining year of his service there. As he was handing over his discharge paper to the guard, he remembered his previous period of absence. He had become addicted, taking a pill every day and two packs of tramadol every week. He was officially an addict. He would forget his words and lose his belongings. Those around
When he returned home, he saw his mother had taken on a labor job and was exhausted. All the furniture was packed up and there was electricity everywhere. He spent the night in the empty house and left the next morning. At the new barracks, he spoke gently with Ali and no one bothered him. He only went to the commander once in the morning for tea and once after lunch. He had a discharge paper, but in the evenings he would ride around the city on his motorcycle and return before dark. He spent his nights in the same barracks shelter with other soldiers. He had no hope for the future, but he also had no expectations. As long as the previous events didn’t repeat themselves, it was enough for him.
Three months passed in the same way. With the arrival of the month of Ramadan, they would attend religious classes every afternoon. Their teacher, who was also the prayer leader of the barracks, would spend two hours teaching soldiers about ablution, ritual purification, and other religious practices. In the third session, Haj Agha was telling a story about one of his old soldiers, when suddenly he became emotional and started crying. He then placed his fallen turban back on his head. His sparse hair was gray and white. His words were not clear and it was impossible to understand them. A few minutes later, he wiped away his tears and said, “He used to tell me about the defenseless shrine.” His voice was barely audible, but he continued, “A young man with honor is like this.”
The last words of Haj Agha remained in Ali’s mind. He didn’t go for a motorcycle ride that day. When he closed his eyes in the shelter that night, he was still thinking about them. He was tormented by poverty and lovelessness. He had no goal or hope. He carried the burden of his family and lived like a parasite. He felt surrounded from all sides and in unbearable pain. He had been looking for an easy way to commit suicide for a while. It seemed to him that Haj Agha had shown him a unique escape route. If he died, he would have fulfilled his wish and if he survived, he would take action himself. It was in this state that he fell asleep.
The next day, he attended the ideological session. After the class ended, he went to introduce himself to Haj Agha. He asked him to register for him. Haj Agha hugged Ali out of extreme happiness and kissed his forehead. Then he asked about the remaining time of his service. When their conversation was over, he took his hand and they went to the camp commander together. Without saying anything about it, he got a ten-day leave for Ali. During these ten days, he made peace with his sisters. Although his whole family was against his deployment to Syria, he insisted on his decision. When his leave was over, he returned to the camp and after saying goodbye to Haj Agha and the officers, he went to the airport with two other people he didn’t know. On the way, he thought for a moment to turn back and not go, but he remembered the past. Where was he going? What could he do? Who was he going to miss
45 Number 12345 Hamed Saeedi Short story پیمان صلح ماهنامه خط صلح ماهنامه خط صلح