Rasoul Moarek Nejad
February, 2014
It is challenging to articulate a clear memory when one’s thoughts are perpetually drifting. The year was 1983, a period marked by war, air raids, piercing sirens, bomb shelters, and rationed goods. I contemplated the idea of leaving school. At that time, I worked in construction for my brother, laying bricks. Our family did not receive any government assistance, and my father had passed away when I was three years old. My mother was a weaver, and my older brother balanced work with his studies.
One summer morning in 1983, around ten o’clock, amidst my labor, I resolved to continue my education. Photography had always captivated me. I inquired at the Department of Education about photography programs, only to be directed to Montasari High School in the fourth district of Isfahan for a degree in architectural drafting—a field I found somewhat intriguing, particularly in technical drawing and art history. The year 1983 marked a turning point, much like my tenth year when the revolution had thrust my generation into adulthood.
The subsequent Iran-Iraq War reflected the turmoil of those early years. Our classrooms were filled with military training, and our minds were inundated with ideological and religious texts. Although I was too young to fully comprehend the complexities of these worldviews, I found myself envisioning an ideal society. My brother was on the front lines, and each day we would gather around the television, hoping for news of another liberated territory.
Before the revolution, our family did not own a television. To watch programs or movies, we would visit our neighbors or grandparents. In 1983, I lived with my grandparents and grew up listening to my grandmother’s folktales, such as and Tarang and She also shared her interpretations of the Quran, asserting that reciting certain verses could fill a room with chairs and tables to deter burglars. Every night, I would hear noises beneath my pillow, convinced they were thieves, and I would recite these verses.
In our Persian literature class in 1983, our gaunt, tall teacher, Mr. Abbasi, often shared stories of his life’s struggles. One day, in a moment of frustration with the education system, he repeatedly asked, “Why?” In a fit of impulsiveness, I retorted, which resulted in my suspension for a week. Mr. Abbasi was not only a lover of literature but also a writer himself. He once read to us a beautifully crafted piece in which every word ended with the letter ‘shin.’ Inspired by his work, I purchased a notebook and began jotting down words. For an entire week, words became my companions, filling the void of loneliness.
During the war years, when schools were frequently closed and funeral processions were a common sight, I found solace in writing. One day, in our literature class, I read my piece aloud and received a round of applause. It wasn’t for me, but for the words themselves, which seemed to take on a life of their own. This was a revelation.
My uncle, a wrestler, taught me various wrestling moves. He was killed in combat, and I remember assisting with the preparations for his memorial service.
Years later, I participated in wrestling tournaments and even secured third place in a national competition. However, it was my passion for words that truly endured. Although my wrestling career was curtailed by injuries, my love for language persisted.
In 1969, I began my university studies. My literature professor, Mr. Azhar, assigned us weekly reimaginings of classical texts. I would immerse myself in these works, captivated by the language. Mr. Vatan-khah, another gifted poet and educator, introduced me to a new dimension of poetry.
These experiences culminated in my first poetry collection, “Hands in the Mirror’s Hair, published in 2004.
Martyr Montazeri High School (District Four Education – Ahmadabad Street) – Isfahan – March 12 ,1987
Standing, from right to left: Alireza Jebeli, Gholamreza Kuhestani, Mr. Abbasi (Literature Teacher), Saeed Nafari, and ?.
Seated: Mohammadreza Peyravi, Badrian and Rasoul Moarak Nezhad
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Published in the book *And This Was Our Essay* by Hossein Farokhmehr, Neveshteh Press, Isfahan, 2015 (condensed to a few lines in the book, pp. 181 and 182).