- Posted October 16, 2013 by
the darkest day of my life
My memories with them from the time I had seen them a year ago when I was forced to leave them in Ashraf crossed my mind.
In the early 1980s when the arrest, torture and execution of PMOI members at the hands of the mullahs began, my mother and father were forced to leave Iran and so I was left alone. I stayed at my grandfather's home and grew up without the love and affection of a mother and father. At that time I was a year old and had no memories of my mother and father. I didn’t even know who my real parents were. Yet when I grew up and came to know who they were, I thought of them all the time and awaited the day that I would see them.
Since 1998, agents of the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and Security (MOIS) interrogated and persecuted me so that they could use me to defect my parents.
In 2000, despite the fact that I was accepted in university in the field of construction, yet due to the intensifying pressures and death threats of MOIS agents on one hand and the distance of my parents on the other, I was forced to depart Iran and after 19 years met my mother and father.
All of these memories crossed my mind and also the last moments when I wanted to come to Camp Liberty when I hugged my father and told him that it is hard for me to go to Liberty without you and I am concerned about you. Yet he told me that the US and UN had given assurances and our protection is provided and there is nothing to worry about and you should go to Liberty with no concerns.
I wish that if I had only known it was going to be our last meeting then I would have hugged him tighter and kissed him so that I could be filled with his love.
These thoughts were crossing my mind when I heard the breaking news from INTV. The presenter was reading out the names of the martyrs one by one. I felt as if my heart was pounding at my chest and I couldn’t breathe. My body was shaking. "Abbas Garmabi" was the last name read out by the presenter. My body went cold and I put my head between my knees and I was in shock. I couldn’t even cry. My friends, one by one, said their condolences but I could neither hear nor see them. I was floating in the air like a lifeless body. The memories of my father and mother passed before my eyes. I was thinking that how would I cope with such a great pain. I thought to myself: thank God that my mother is alive.
The number of martyrs grew by the hour and reached 52. In another breaking news the anchorman announced the names of the hostages. When I heard the name of my mother being among the hostages I felt that my heart stopped beating. I didn’t have the strength to walk and I was shouting inside myself saying: look people! Look at what these cold-blooded armed men have done to these innocent people. What was my father and mother's crime?
After seeing the photos of the martyrs and the photo of my martyred father lying on a hospital bed while shot in the head, I felt I was burning from the inside; all this cruelty and not even sparing the wounded.
Where are the awakened consciences? Is there anybody to hear the innocence of my voice? Where are those who speak of human rights yet in practice only turn their backs in betrayal and only do the body count after? Why didn’t they do anything to prevent this massacre? Didn’t the U.N. and U.S. promise my father protection?
Truly, what was my father and mother's crime? Was it anything but the fact that in fear of arrest and execution, they departed Iran?
I will never forget Black Sunday. Now, I have knocked on every door and turned to everyone to help me free my mother from the hands of Maliki's forces. Yet the U.S. and U.N., through their shameful and deafening silence, push my mother and 6 other hostages closer to death every second.
Didn’t they promise us protection? And now they are responsible for the blood of my father and the safety of my mother.
And if there is a bit of conscience and humanity left in them, they must take immediate action to free my mother and 6 other hostages.