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News ::
I Remember - We Remember (english)
02 Mar 2003
The Al-Sadr family remember Grand Ayatollah Mohammed Sadiq Al-Sadr and his two sons, Mustafa and Mu'ammal, murdered by saddam hussain in February of 1999.
The Al-Sadr family remember Grand Ayatollah Mohammed Sadiq Al-Sadr and his two sons, Mustafa and Mu'ammal, murdered by saddam hussain in February of 1999.
We also remember the martyrdom of Grand Ayatollah Mohammed Baqir Al-Sadr and his lumenary sister Amina Al-Sadr (known as Bint Al Huda) on their anniversary in April.

Welcome. I am Mohammed Hussain Al-Sadr.

This pic above is me around November-December of 1997. Since then, I have gained more weight, become more bald and my moustache has grown further!!

My family and I suffered for our democratic beliefs and defence of human rights, at the hands of Iraq's dictator saddam hussain. My late mother was imprisoned then killed. I wrote some essays about that period which I published on theIraqNet.

Also see:


By Dr. Mohammed H. Al-Sadr

Hammoudi was now 40. He was far away from home. He stood in his kitchen and gently thumbed through the old recipe book. The book was old and tattered. The spine was non existent; but there, amongst the pages, were pieces of headed paper; recipes that had been added to this tome. The headings said, "Dr. Fatima Al-Khirsan, Obstetrician and Gynaecologist, Rasheed Street, Bab al Agha, Baghdad". Hammoudi was transfixed to the handwriting below the headings. It was as if he had seen this handwriting in a long forgotten dream. One which he could not recall fully ..........

The house was small. A bungalow actually. Hammoudi's bedroom was at the end of a corridor. The bedroom was typical for a pre pubescent westernised boy. On the walls were his posters. The Pink Floyd Live. Jimi Hendrix's last gig. He shared the bedroom with his younger and only brother Allawi. A third bed was also present. This was used by Susan, their Nanny. An Armenian orphan who stayed with the family through good and bad times. Hammoudi looked at her as a second mother, and when Hammoudi's mother was murdered, she became his surrogate mother. Susan, many many years later, old and infirmed, walked the streets of Baghdad, a stranger, calling out for Hammoudi, Allawi, having lost the family she once had. He later found out that she had died of heart failure. Nursed by Armenian nuns. Buried in the Armenian cemetery. Hammoudi cried and cried. He went to churches, mosques, synagogues. He wanted to acknowledge her in every way. After all, he could not go to Baghdad any more. He could not put flowers on her grave. He remembered her little plastic Christmas tree, her Black Bible with that distinctive Armenian lettering. Oh Susan, if you only knew how much Hammoudi misses you.

Beside the bedroom was a bathroom, and next to that, a library. There, you could smell the old pages and parchment. Books in a variety of languages. Sources of learning, hand-written, the pages with diagonal references in the margins, careful scrawls, history, theology, philosophy and more. Mama had told him that they were written by generations of Al-Sadrs, who painstakingly sat there in the light of lamps and candles, carefully penning every letter, every word. The books are gone now. Some taken by the saddamites, some burned by a disturbed relation. History has to be re written all over again.

At the end of the corridor was the Diktora's room. Mama's room. He remembered the red wax sealing the door. It was not enough that they murdered her, they also entombed her bedroom, in her own house. There was a telephone extension in the bedroom. When the phone would ring, you would hear the extension echoing eerily in that room. Like the sound from a grave. It was many months before the amn, the secret police, would remove the wax. They had raped the room. Yes, raped it! Everything was strewn about the place, papers, clothes, personal belongings. Some things were never to be found, her engagement ring and more. They certainly left their mark, their disgusting prints. Hammoudi would lie in that second bed in the room and remember the barrel of the gun against his temple; that fateful night when they threatened to shoot him if Mama did not go w ith them. He would feel a hot fist clenching his heart, his throat. He felt like shouting at the heavens. His tears would roll down his cheeks, hot and angry. The man sang:

... The trees and I are shaken by

that same wind, but whereas

the trees would lose those withered leaves,

I just can't seem to let them loose.

And they can't refresh me,

those hot winds from the south.

I feel like an alien;

a stranger in an alien place ...

Every laboured breath that exited his lips was a hot wind from the south, from that deep dark place that you hate, that chokes you, that makes you so miserable.

Hajji Abdul Qadir, the saintly white heard man, drove the school bus. Bus D. He beeped the horn every morning outside the gate. Hammoudi and Allawi would run though the garage to the gate. But wait. I forgot to tell you about the tent. It was a single, peaked military tent. Almost like a teepee. Hammoudi saw such tents when the army came to help out in his school on sports day. When the out of tune bagpipes led the marching sporting students. This tent was different. The man who lived in that tent, that tent pitched in their front garden, was amn, secret police. He would sometimes play volleyball with Hammoudi and Allawi. They thought, 'Maybe he likes us. Maybe he feels sorry for us. Maybe he feels that Mama is really innocent; that she shouldn't be in the Abu Ghraib jail.' He would sometimes be joined by other friends from the amn. Hammoudi would hear them whisper, "hetho'la wild il kha'ina", those are the traitor's children. They would search Hammoudi and Allawi's school bags before they boarded bus D. What were they looking for? Machine guns? Two-way radios? Where would they be hidden? In the school books? Amidst the homework? What did their school friends think, sitting quietly in that bus; watching this strange scenario!

Hammoudi remembered the day he went to Abu Ghraib. He was 12. He had passed the baccalaureate exams allowing for his transition from primary to secondary school. His overall average was 94%. He was proud of his achievement. He was proud that he had obtained his grades, even though Mama was in prison. He showed Mama his grades. She cried and she cried. She cried for his little and innocent brave face; for his determination; for not being out there to celebrate with him.

He cried in the taxi all the way back home. Bibi, grandmother, Fatima's mother, could not comfort him. She kissed his red swollen cheeks and held him to her bosom. He remembers the black fabric of her abaya, and the smell of rose oil.

Back at home, the man came to read the electricity meter. Hammoudi showed him the box containing the electricity meter. He asked Hammoudi, "in'ta ibin il jasoosa", are you the son of the spy? Hammoudi at 40, in his kitchen, remembered another part of that song:

... Beware the fisherman

who's casting out his line

into a dried out river bed;

but don't try to tell him,

he won't believe you!

Throw some bread to the ducks instead,

it's easier that way ...
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