Jahanshah Sadeghi

“What do I wish for?  I wish for a world without suffering.  I wish that peace in this world would replace my coughing, my wheezing vocal cords.  I wish that I could once again smell the aromas of all the beautiful flowers.  I wish for one night – just one night – when I can get a full night’s sleep.  Just one night of peaceful sleep for my wife and children.”

Jahanshah Sadeghi, a retired army medical corps Colonel, shares his story about the gas attacks during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988) and the responsibility he feels has fallen to him to publicize the horrors of chemical weapons.

When the war with Iraq broke out in 1980, Jahanshah had just graduated from medical school and was immediately sent to work in military hospitals in Kermanshah Province.Several months later he was sent to the war front, to Field Hospital 528 near Soomar, a small town a few kilometers away from the Iraqi border with Kermanshah.  

From 1980 to 1986, Jahanshah served in front-line field hospitals in Kermanshah Province as well as continuing his education at university in Tehran to become a laboratory and blood bank technician.

“I loved my job,” said Jahanshah, beaming with pride, “I really felt like I was making a difference.  My work and my colleagues were like family to me.  We were all eager to help the wounded soldiers survive.”

Confronted with horrible injuries and coping with life and death on a daily basis, Jahanshah is able to share many anecdotes of bravery.  Remembering a unique medical procedure carried out in the field, Jahanshah spoke with satisfactionabout how one courageous young soldier was kept alive by an ingenious chest specialist called Professor Riahi.  Jahanshah relates that he was part of a medical team on dutythat day.

“This young soldier’s lungs had been pierced by a piece of shrapnel.” said Jahanshah, “We could hear the air hissing out of his lungs.  He was brought to Professor Riahi who worked on his lungs to seal up the wounds with a plastic freezer bag.  The professorpacked the bag around the soldier’s lungs to stop the air being sucked from the wound.  He closed the chest wound so that the soldier could be evacuated to a hospital in Kermanshah for further surgery.”

Jahanshah was sent to accompany the young man in the helicopter evacuation.  He met the soldier’s family and explained what had happened.

“We were all so happy. “ remembered Jahanshah, “My colleagues and I were so proud of the fact that – despite the odds – we could work together to try anything to keep our men alive.”

A devoted family man, Jahanshah recalls the special day of his marriage to Batoul Tavakoli in 1984.  The following year they were blessed with the birth of their first son, Saman.

“My wife and I felt complete when Saman was born,” said Jahanshah, “there was so much disorder in the country at that time, but when my wife gave birth to our son, we felt that there was at least order in our own lives.”

Jahanshah spoke of the strength he drew from Batoul and Saman, who faithfully followed him to stay in the city of Kermanshah, close to the field hospitals.  However, by 1986 the Iraqi War of the Cities campaign of aerial bomb attacks caused Jahanshah to fear for the safety of his young family.  Batoul and Saman returned to their family home in Harsin – further away from the Iraqi border – while the war continued to rage all around Kermanshah.

In preparing for Operation 6th Karbala, Jahanshah joined specialist medical teams in Soomar.  That was in December 1986 and the field hospital was reinforced with medical experts called up from all over the country.

The Soomar field hospital, stocked with specialized medical equipment,was nestled into the foot of a hill, a mere 23km from the front line.

In normal circumstances, an army field hospital is required to be 60km from the front line.  “But it was decided to move the unit closer,” recalled Jahanshah, “so that we could assist the casualties faster.  We were prepared for any type of medical care from simple first aid to even brain surgery.”

Describing the field hospital, Jahanshah said, “There was no mistaking what we were.  We had an enormous capital H painted in red on the roof of the hospital.  Ambulances were parked across the road.  It was obvious we were a hospital unit”.

Towards the end of December 1986, as the Iranians completed their preparations for Operation 6th Karbala, Iraqi forces began a fierce artillery and aerial bombardment of the Soomar area, resulting in hundreds of soldiersbeing killed and seriously wounded.  Casualties inundated the field hospital.

On December 30th, Jahanshah remembered Iraqi planes flying overhead and dropping strange objects.

“It looked like balloons and bits of paper, even little smoke bombs,” he said, “and at the time, we had no idea why the Iraqis would drop such unusual things.  Of course, by the next day, we realized they were testing for wind direction.”

The following day, December 31st 1986, the Iraqi air force dropped chemical weapons on soldiers at the front line near Soomar.  They would also target Jahanshah’s hospital unit–hitting it directly with eight chemical bombs.

“The day of the chemical attack is one I will never forget,” said Jahanshah.  “It was 8 am and I heard our anti-aircraft guns start.  I saw six bombers overhead dropping conventional bombs.  There was also heavy shelling.  Our hospital unit had no air defence.  We were overwhelmed with wounded soldiers.  There were hundreds of them coming in to us.”

But, it was not until just after midday that the actual chemical weapons attack with mustard gas took place.  Four Iraqi aircraft dropped the eight bombs on and around the medical unit, instantly killing medical personnel and already wounded soldiers.  The entire medical unit was paralyzed.

Jahanshah’s soft poetic eyes filled with tears as he remembered that terrible day.

“For us, it was a different kind of attack,” he continued, “chemical weapons don’t explode like ordinary bombs because there is no explosive device.  When the bombs fell, something like white powder escaped, and there was smoke and droplets splashed everywhere with a garlic-like smell.  We were all exposed.  All of us.”

“One bomb landed at the entrance to the emergency room.  Everyone inside was trapped.  There were no survivors.  Another bomb hit the operating room where two surgeons were operating on a soldier.  They all died either the same day or later.  We were not prepared for this.  Why would anyone drop bombs on a hospital?”

As soon as the attack was over, and completely unaware of the consequences of such heinous weapons, Jahanshah and the surviving medical team surveyed the damage to the hospital.

“None of us were wearing gas masks,” said Jahanshah, “it wasn’t that we didn’t have any.  The masks were stored in our barracks.  It is just that none of us seriously expected a gas attack.  Hindsight tells us we should have gone to higher ground, but the hospital was bunkered under the hill.  We were trapped.  We were all exposed.”

The effects of chemical weapons do not normally start to appear until between one and two hours after the attack.  The first symptoms are usually constant vomiting, breathing difficulties and loss of vision.

“After about an hour,” Jahanshah recalled, “everyone started to vomit.  Violent, projectile vomiting.  I am not exaggerating when I tell you that people vomited so severely that they started to vomit their own faeces.”

Jahanshah’s memories are honest yet painful.

“People started to lose their sight,” he said.  “We all felt like we were suffocating.  At one point, I took a mask off one of the dead soldiers.  I washed it and tried to use it, but it was too late.  The suffering was intolerable and people started to die.  My body was burning and I was coughing so much.  I couldn’t really see, so I didn’t know what was going on.”

As the entire region was a war zone, the bombing had irreparably damaged hospitals in the nearest cities.  With the province in such chaos and with so little medical knowledge about how to treat chemical weapons victims, the casualties were transported by ambulance buses to Tehran.  Many were still wearing the clothes contaminated by the mustard gas.  What followed for Jahanshah was an 11-hour bus ride, covering 600km to the capital.

“It was 11 hours of nothing but suffering and pain,” said Jahanshah.  “On the way we made several stops to use the bathroom.  None of us could see properly, so we had to go to the bathroom and come back to the bus in one long line holding each other’s hands.  Tragically, one of the buses crashed and many died.”

On arrival in Tehran, Jahanshah and his comrades were transported to the city’s Azadi Sports Stadium.  The staff was overwhelmed by the number of casualties and, struggling with their limited knowledge of the injuries and chemical burns, often made unintentional mistakes.

“Their job at Azadi,” recalled Jahanshah, “was to change our clothes, gives us showers and send us to hospitals in Tehran.  The people there didn’t understand how to treat our skin burns so they gave us hot showers.  It was probably the worst thing they could have done.  I ran out of the shower, begging them to stop.”

Jahanshah was finally sent to the Khanevade (Family) Hospital, where he remained for 20 days.  “The doctors did their best,” said Jahanshah, “but they had little experience of these chemical injuries and were often unsure what to do.  I suppose no one expected this.”

Within 48 hours, Batoul, pregnant with their second child, arrived at the hospital demanding to see her husband.  The doctors were unwilling to let her near Jahanshah.  There was no certainty at that time that she would be free of contamination. But Batoul was determined.  Lying about her condition, she claimed she had already given birth and was permitted to visit Jahanshah.

With damp eyes, Jahanshah recalls that day, “Batoul was so worried and concerned that she was even prepared to pretend she wasn’t pregnant so that she could see me.  But when she finally did see me, she couldn’t recognize me.  My body was covered in severe burns.  My face was burned and my eyes were swollen.  I thought I was going to die.”

Jahanshah’s condition did not improve.  Almost four weeks after the attack, the High Medical Council assessed his case.  Declaring Jahanshah to be a critical emergency, he was sent overseas to Germany, where he spent one month in the Elizabeth Hospital in Recklinghausen, near to Cologne.

In Germany, doctors treated Jahanshah’s severe lung injuries and the grave damage to his eyes and skin.  Since then and to this day, Jahanshah has to make use of oxygen machines to stay alive and receives hospital treatment both in his hometown of Kermanshah and in Tehran.

“As a result of the chemical attacks,” said Jahanshah, “doctors have diagnosed that I only have 30% of normal lung capacity.  I am admitted to hospital between 8 and 10 times a year.  I have to use special sprays and inhalers.  I use a drug delivery device called a nebulizer.  It works by administering the medication in the form of a mist inhaled into my lungs.  At night I use a BiPAP machine for ventilation.”

Afflicted with this chronic lung disease, Jahanshah is one of many chemical weapons survivors who suffer from polycythemia, whereby the number or red blood cells rise in the body to compensate for the low level of oxygen in the blood.  The consequence for Jahanshah is fatigue, shortness of breath, difficulty breathing when lying down, blurred vision and joint pain.

“I have many problems with my eyes too,” said Jahanshah, “I will never have perfect vision and I see the world in blurred images.  I have had five operations on my eyes including stem cell and corneal transplants.  I have to use eye drops at least every hour to help me see better because the mustard gas destroyed my tear glands.”

And, although the scars on his skin have healed, Jahanshah has suffered from deeper, more emotional scarring.

“I have to admit,” he said quietly, “I have suffered from depression because of my inability to see properly.  I will never return to the healthy man I was before the war.”

Yet, despite the incredibly difficult life that Jahanshah has led since the chemical attacks, he is a deeply reflective man, who now feels it is his responsibility to educate the youth of Iran and others around the world about the value of peace and international cooperation.

“In Iranian culture,” Jahanshah said, “we have a saying:

Digaran kashtand o ma khordim
Ma bekarim o digaran bokhorand

Which means that the previous generations planted for us and we are now eating it.  Now it is our turn to plant for the next generation to eat.”

Humble and gentle are only two words describe the humanitarian outlook of Jahanshah, who has dedicated his life to teaching others about the consequences of chemical weapons.

“We need to educate our young people about the horrors of chemical weapons,” said Jahanshah, “and at the same time we need to encourage our children to love their neighbours.  Every peace activist in the world, no matter what his or her religion, should work hard to make sure nothing bad happens again in the world.  We should look to our Bibles, our Torah,and our Quran and find the good things written there, and live by those codes.  Then, I believe that the tension between countries and nations will just disappear.  That way people will be happy.  I will be happy.”

Jahanshah’s peace education campaign is driven by the desire that following generations should never suffer like him or his fellow survivors.  His inspiration leads him to volunteer at the Tehran Peace Museum whenever he is in Tehran.  He has travelled to The Hague in the Netherlands, to meet the ambassador and other delegates at the Organization for the Prevention of Chemical Weapons (OPCW).

This year, 2014, Jahanshah visited Hiroshima in Japan on the anniversary of the nuclear attacks during World War II as part of the peace exchange programme between the Tehran Peace Museum and the citizens of Hiroshima.  During the visit, Jahanshah met and shared experiences with survivors of the atomic bomb attacks.

Eliminating chemical weapons from this world is Jahanshah’s ultimate aim, but he also asks his fellow men to carefully considertheir responsibilityto seek the humanity within themselves, to work towards a more caring and loving world, a place where everyone can live in peace.

Jahanshah’s story ends with his recitation of a poem by the famous Persian poet Sa’di:

Of one essence is the human race,
Thusly has Creation put the base.
One limb impacted is sufficient,
For all others to feel the mace.
The unconcern’d with others’ plight,
Are but brutes with human face.

Oral reflection by: Jahanshah Sadeghi
Farsi to English translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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Hassan Hassani Sa’di

It was cold that morning in February.  Hassan Hassani Sa’di was 20 years old.  A volunteer soldier defending Iran in its war with Iraq, he could gaze westwards across the Arvand River and see the Iraqi defences on the other side of the water.  He was a mere 600 metres from the Iraqi port of Faw on the opposite river bank.  The year was 1986.
It was this morning that Iraq chose to launch a surprise chemical weapons attack.  The consequences of the attack would shape the rest of Hassan’s life.  

These days, almost 30 years later, Hassan reflects long and hard on all that has happened since then.  The patriotic fervour which moved him then and moves him still.  The damage to his body.  The years of endless medical treatment.  And his mission to rid the world of chemical weapons.

The Iran-Iraq War lasted from 1980 to 1988.  Most observers conclude that it was a conflict imposed on Iran by an aggressive neighbour seeking opportunistic territorial expansion.  But the war would mould the Iranian psyche – especially of the generation that fought it.  A generation that includes Hassan.  It created a rallying cry among young Iranian men to join up and defend their country.

Hassan Hassani Sa’di, was almost 18 when he joined up in 1984.  He became a volunteer soldier in the 416 Battalion of the Kerman Province Corps.

“When the war started,” said Hassan, “we felt it was our duty to defend our country, because we were the ones who were young and powerful.  I come from a farming village in Kerman Province and many men had joined the war.  When they returned and told us what was happening, young men like me felt this burning desire to go and defend our country.”

With his older brother, Mohammad, already serving in the regular army, Hassan joined up as a volunteer soldier.  He would serve for three years – from the beginning of 1984 to the end of 1986.

“After I joined the army and went to the front,” recollected Hassan, “I knew I couldn’t come back home.  I didn’t want to come back.  I wanted to be there.”

And so Hassan spent his military service moving around the whole of the southern front, serving as an infantryman, an assistant machine gunner and a scuba diver.  Seriously wounded by shrapnel in Operation Badr in 1985, Hassan later returned to the front to assist in the capture of the Iraqi port of Faw, which is where he was that cold February morning.

The night before, Hassan had been on reconnaissance duty on the Iraqi side of the river.  Now he was back on the eastern side of the river and was bunkered down with his comrades in a house evacuated by local people who had fled the war zone.  The men were preparing to return to the military base at Ahwaz – 100 kilometres to the northeast, well inside Iran.

But life took a different turn.

“It was the 13th of February,” said Hassan, “it was eight o’clock in the morning and we were eating breakfast inside when we heard our anti-aircraft guns firing.  We realized we were under an aerial attack.  I came out of the house and looked up at the sky and watched as the airplane launched the bomb.”

In fact, several bombs were dropped around Hassan’s military base.  One of them landed directly on the roof of the house where Hassan and his comrades were occupying.

“A wall of sandbags fell on top of me,” said Hassan, “I was in shock for a while but when I got up I could hear my comrades screaming for help inside.  The roof had fallen in on them.  There was so much smoke and a dark fluid spilled form the bomb and was splashing everywhere.”

Realizing that they had been victims of a chemical weapon attack, the men put on their gas masks and set about freeing their friends from the rubble with their masks on.

Unlike injuries inflicted by conventional weapons, the effects of a chemical attack can take some considerable time to show up on (or in) the body.  As much as two hours can pass before the physical effects begin to reveal themselves.

Believing that they were unhurt, Hassan and his colleagues returned to work, but within an hour of the attack they started to experience the telltale signs of a mustard gas attack – nausea, coughing, burning eyes and blistered skin.

“We were close to a field medical unit and things were getting progressively worse,” remembered Hassan,  “so we walked over there to get help.  We had to take off our uniforms and have cold showers.  Then we were loaded on to pickup trucks and driven to the nearest hospital.”

Unable to open his eyes and with his skin on fire, Hassan was taken to a field hospital.  Prizing his eyes open with his fingers he saw long queues of men with their hands on the shoulders of the man in front of them, waiting patiently for whatever help would come.

“There is a picture here in the Tehran Peace Museum,” Hassan said,  “it is from the gas attacks at Ypres in First World War.  It is called Gassed.  Whenever I look at it, I am reminded of that day.”

After a harrowing journey by bus-ambulance to Ahwaz, Hassan, along with many other wounded soldiers, were loaded onto C-130 Hercules military aircraft and medevac’d to hospitals in Tehran.  There, after many days of confusion, unconsciousness and pain, Hassan finally became aware of his surroundings.

“I think it was almost two weeks after the bombing,” said Hassan, “that I remember regaining consciousness.  My body was covered in blisters.  My hands, my back, my neck, even my feet were full of blisters.  I had a terrible fever and chills.  My lungs were in a bad way.”

None of us in Iran had anticipated that the Iraqi military would use chemical weapons, at least not on such a large scale. Consequently, the country’s medical infrastructure was unprepared for such a massive inundation of soldiers seriously wounded by the mustard gas attacks.

 
Yet, in these times of extreme hardship and stress, the professional and ordinary citizens of Iran rose to the challenge to help their fellow countrymen.

“One time,” said Hassan, “I heard the doctors talking about how very sad they felt.  There were too many casualties and not enough doctors.  One doctor said he felt there was no hope.  But there was hope.  And it came from the lady volunteer nurses from the Iranian Red Crescent Society.  Without these ladies, we wouldn’t have survived.”

Three months of hospitalization in Tehran involved critical but excruciatingly painful treatment for Hassan’s injuries.  Hassan’s older brother arrived to assist in the recovery process but the suffering continued.

“Where we were being treated, well, we called it Room Hell,” said Hassan, a dark shadow passing across his face as he recollected the pain of the recovery process.  “Because it was hell.  We were taken there to have our blisters treated and our dressings changed.  When the nurse called our name, we would cry like little kids.”

In a process, described in medical terms as debridement, Hassan was taken each day to Room Hell to have his skin washed and the tops of each blister cut off followed by silver sulfadiazine antibacterial ointment spread on the underlying wound.  Unable to wear any clothes during this process, Hassan’s body was covered with a simple white sheet, which would stick to his suppurating flesh and would need to be removed by a nurse every morning.

“Removing the sheet from my back was like torture,” sighed Hassan.  “Worse, it was a dreadful feeling to be helpless like this.  I couldn’t even control my bladder.  It was so embarrassing.”

Hassan endured the hell and within one month began to see gradual improvements in his skin.

“As my skin started to feel better,” said Hassan, “it became so itchy and I wanted to just scratch my body all the time.  My brother was a great help to me.  He even tied my hands to the bed so that I wouldn’t scratch my skin.”

But the blistered skin was not the only physical consequence Hassan had to bear.  His lungs were severely damaged and his larynx was so badly affected that he couldn’t speak properly and was unable to communicate effectively with his family.  Nightmares and delusions added mental stress to his physical pain.

“My mother came to see me six weeks after the attack,” said Hassan.  “My brother begged me to try to ‘look well’ for her.”

As Hassan sat quietly reflecting on this time, struggling to hold back his own tears, he added, “I didn’t do a very good job.  I feel so emotional when I remember how my mother looked at my burnt, weak body.”

And of course, severe damage had been inflicted on Hassan’s eyes.  With burned corneas, Hassan suffered from photophobia, a painful sensitivity to strong light.

“We all suffered from this,” said Hassan, “and all the hospital windows were covered to keep the place dark.  For two months I couldn’t make out people’s faces.  I just saw shapes moving in front of me.”

Three months after the attack, Hassan returned to his village, Saadi, near Kerman.  However, although his diminished sight made life difficult for him, he was about to embark on an ingenious homeopathic, traditional treatment plan designed by his own grandmother.

“My grandmother was instrumental in my recovery,” smiled a proud Hassan.  “She was very knowledgeable about herbal and traditional medicines.  When I told her that I was injured with a toxin, she set to work.”

Living on a farm was the ideal location for Hassan’s continued recovery.  Every day, after the cows were milked, Hassan’s grandmother prepared a warm milk bath for him.

“The milk bath would leave a fatty film on my body, which I would wash off in the afternoon with water,” said Hassan.  “Then, every night my grandmother gave me the cream off the top of the milk and I rubbed it all over my body.  My skin became really soft and started to heal in no time.  Thanks to my grandmother I have fewer scars than many of my comrades who were also gassed.”

Hassan’s grandmother also prepared beds of willow tree leaves, which would absorb the poisons from his body.  She prepared him a variety of herbal drinks and despite continued vision problems, within six months Hassan was well enough to be sent back to the battlefield.

This was an unwise decision.  Hassan experienced recurring illnesses and hospitalization.  Eventually he had to give up and was medically discharged from the army one year later.

“You see,” he reflected, “at the time the military doctors really did not know what were the effects of these chemical weapons.  They didn’t tell us what to do or what treatment to take, but I believe they just didn’t know.”

After his discharge from the military, Hassan returned to his village and started up his own series of small business such as pesticide and fertilizer distribution and pistachio farming.  Unfortunately, problems continued to arise, which were always related to his health.

“When I was in the fertilizer business,” Hassan said, “every winter I developed serious lung problems and would be sent to hospital.  Then when I went into pistachio farming, I had more lung problems and my eyes became so bad that I could no longer see to drive.”

The doctors in Kerman made no connections between Hassan’s deteriorating health and the consequences of the gas attack during his military service.  Their diagnosis was that the dry, dusty air of Kerman was the cause of Hassan’s problems.

In 1992, two major events occurred in Hassan’s life.  Hassan married Zahra, the sister of one of his army comrades.  And he met a scholarly ophthalmologist called Dr. Mohammad Ali Javadi.

Dr. Javadi was one of the first Iranian physicians to understand the nature of damage to the eyes caused by exposure to chemical weapons.  Upon examining Hassan, Dr. Javadi recommended that he leave the dry Kerman climate and move to the more humid, northern part of the country, next to the Caspian Sea.  Hassan and Zahra took his advice and relocated to Salmanshahr.

Although life for Hassan and Zahra improved and they were able to start their own cut flower business, Hassan continued to suffer difficulties with his sight.

“Every morning I would get up around 9 or 10 o’clock,” said Hassan, “and it was just so difficult to open my eyes.  I felt burning and pain in my eyes.  My head would hurt so much I thought someone was banging on my skull.”

Although two successive corneal transplants in 1995 and the following year did somewhat ease Hassan’s vision difficulties, he continued to be highly sensitive to light.  The result was hazy vision.  Frequent road trips to Tehran for a further six eye surgeries and treatment also made life difficult and uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, the consequences of the chemical attacks extended to Zahra.  The couple struggled to conceive a child and two miscarriages revealed congenital malformations in each fetus, most likely resulting from the chemical toxins in Hassan’s body.  After the successful birth of their daughter, Fatimeh, in 1998 and their son, Ali, in 2000, Hassan and Zahra decided not to have any more children because of the risk.

“I owe a lot to my wife,” Hassan said quite emphatically, “she has had a very painful life because of my health situation.  It isn’t easy for her, and she has had to go through so much stress because of me.  I appreciate everything she has done for me.”

In 2005, Hassan and his young family moved to Tehran, where he could have easier access to specialized doctors and hospitals.  And it was here in Tehran, where Hassan met and made friends with members of the Society for Chemical Weapons Victims Support (SCWVS) and the Tehran Peace Museum.

Finding support and friendship, Hassan’s medical and psychological condition improved dramatically.  Through his socialization with the SCWVS and the Tehran Peace Museum, Hassan’s knowledge and understanding of the nature of chemical weapons increased to such a high level that he soon became a volunteer and guide at the museum.

“When the war was over,” said Hassan, “I felt that I had done my duty and that I had served my country well.  I felt that my responsibilities to my country were over.  I had done my bit.  But when I started volunteering at the Tehran Peace Museum, I realized how wrong I was.  I have a huge responsibility now to share my experiences and let others know about the consequences of chemical weapons.  It is my duty to raise awareness against chemical weapons and to spread the word that war is not the answer.”

Hassan has been a volunteer now for seven years.  He says that his journey has only just begun.  His aim is to speak out about the horrors of chemical weapons.  It is his belief and his mission that sharing his own experiences and engaging in open dialogue are essential to creating a peaceful world - a world without war.  A world without chemical weapons.

This story is one part of his life’s work.

Oral reflection by: Hassan Hassani Sa’di
Farsi to English translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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Faride Shafa’i

 June 28th, 1987 – an ordinary summer day in the northwestern Iranian town of Sardasht.  The Iran-Iraq War – started seven years earlier – was still raging along Iran’s border.  But for residents, the summer was here.  Schools were out.  It was holiday time.  Despite the war, things were ok – good, even.

That was until 4:30 pm when Iraqi fighter jets flew overhead and dropped chemical bombs.  Life, for the town and its people, was never the same again.

The world has heard of the Iraqi town of Halabja – just over 100 km away – which was bombed by Saddam Hussein in March 1988.  Few have heard of the same horrors, which befell the Iranian citizens of Sardasht, all victims of the same weapons.

On the 27th anniversary of the gas attacks at Sardasht, Faride Shafa’i, a survivor, shares her experiences from a woman’s perspective.

Faride had lived in Sardasht all her life.  A mother of three girls, she was a schoolteacher in her home town.  She was 27.  On that day the sun was starting to set in the western sky.  

With her daughters Shabnam (7 years), Shahla (3) and Nahid (2), Faride was celebrating the end of term over tea at her sister’s house.  Her husband, Mohammad Rasoul, also a teacher, had gone off for a walk in the hills with his friends.  Life couldn’t have been better.

The people of Sardasht had been accustomed to the sounds of conventional warfare.  The sound of artillery and shelling from the war front, fewer than 10 kilometres away, was a constant reminder of the long-imposed war with Iraq.   

“There were rumours that Saddam was planning to use chemical weapons,” said Faride, “but no one took them seriously.  Why would he want to gas innocent people?  It didn’t make any sense.”

Then the bombs fell.  And the memories have never left her.

“There was so much panic when the bombs fell,” Faride said.  Accustomed to conventional bombing, the residents of Sardasht were not expecting a chemical weapons attack.  Instinct drove people to take cover and hide in their usual safe places, including basements.

“Government pamphlets had told us to seek high ground in a gas attack,” said Faride, “but we were paralyzed with fear.  We ran to what we thought was safety in the basement.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to do.  Mustard gas clings to the ground.  And it followed them into the basement.  Enveloped by a wall of garlic-smelling mustard gas, Faride and her children began to cough, their skin started to burn, their eyes became blurry.  Faride’s maternal instinct kicked in, and the survival of her children was her priority.  Struggling to find water, she wiped her daughters’ faces but it was too late, the damage had already been done.

Mohammad Rasoul rushed back to take his wife and children to the safety of their own home but their conditions grew worse by the minute.  The effects of the mustard gas usually take around two hours to develop when serious symptoms start to appear and gradually worsen.

“I couldn’t open my eyes,” remembered Faride, “it was as if they were burning from the inside.  The girls were in such pain and crying.  Little Nahid was the worst.  She was too little to understand what was going on.  She just kept crying and crying.  It broke my heart to hear them.”

They felt as if their skin was on fire.  Soon suppurating, painful blisters appeared on their bodies.  Breathing was difficult and then the uncontrollable vomiting started.  

After an initial visit to a local doctor provided no relief, Faride’s husband took her and the children to Tabriz, where their condition was considered too severe for the facilities there.  
On that afternoon, Sardasht – a city of 12,000 people – experienced the trauma of chemical attacks in two bombing runs.  Four chemical bombs, each containing 250 kg of sulfur mustard, hit the densely populated town centre.  Three more bombs detonated in gardens around the town.

More than 8,000 people were immediately exposed to mustard gas.  Within the first hours of the attack, 20 people died.  In the coming days over a hundred more fatalities were recorded.  Of the 4,500 victims requiring medical attention, 600 were evacuated by air to Tehran.  Faride and her children were amongst them.

 Not expecting civilians to be attacked by chemical weapons, the Iranian hospitals were simply not prepared for the onslaught of casualties with such horrific injuries.  On arrival in Tehran, the Shafa’i family was taken to the airport’s triage post where their injuries were assessed and hospitals were assigned according to the needs of each victim.  Faride and her two older daughters were taken to the city’s Baghiatallah Hospital.  However, Nahid’s condition was considered to be the most critical.  And so, accompanied by her father, she went to the Imam Khomeini Hospital.  

In constant, searing pain, Faride and her two older daughters underwent skin treatment for the burns and blisters.

“I can’t describe the sounds of Shahla’s screaming as the doctors treated her burns,” said Faride, “I lay in the bed next to her, unable to see, and listened to her scream in pain.  I felt useless.  I couldn’t do anything to help.  Can you imagine what that is like for a mother?”

The following days were to bring more suffering to this small, humble woman.  Four days after they arrived in Tehran, Mohammad Rasoul arrived at the Baghiatallah Hospital to help his wife and daughters.  Faride was surprised to see her husband at the hospital and repeatedly asked him what had happened to Nahid.  Mohammad Rasoul evaded all his wife’s questions.

Stress levels increased even more for Faride when she was told that Shahla needed to be moved immediately to another hospital with more appropriate equipment for her needs.  Faride initially refused to have another daughter taken from her and strongly objected to Shahla’s transfer from Baghiatallah.  Mohammad Rasoul stepped in and persuaded Faride that moving Shahla was the best thing and she must cooperate to save her daughter’s life.  Faride relented and Shahla was taken to the city’s Mofid Hospital.

After Saddam Hussein’s attacks at Sardasht, many of Iran’s friends rallied to help them in their hour of need.  Doctors from a number of countries offered help and many victims were evacuated to European countries including Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium and Spain.  Faride was told that she and her daughters were to be evacuated to Spain for medical treatment.  

“I told the doctors I was not getting on any plane to go anywhere without all my daughters,” said Faride.  Although reassured by medical staff that Shahla would meet Faride and Shabnam at Mehrabad Airport, Faride was still suspicious and upset.

“I was very adamant,” she said, “if Shahla was not there at the airport to meet us, then I was not boarding that plane.”  Fortunately, Shahla did meet her mother and sister and together they left for Spain.

With still no word about Nahid, Faride asked if she was coming to Spain too.

“My husband told me that Nahid was in a very bad condition and the doctors could not take her off the life-support machines,” said Faride.  “I was very suspicious.  I had had some disturbing dreams about Nahid, but I was still hopeful for her recovery.”

Now in a different country, Faride says she remembers the looks of shock and horror when she and her family arrived at Spain’s military hospital, Gomez Ulla.  The medical staff was expecting wounded soldiers from the front, not women and children.  Overcoming their horror, the Spanish doctors and nurses got to work and began a remarkable recovery process, treating their patients with respect and kindness.

“It was so much easier for us women and children in Spain,” said Faride, “the nurses were so caring and affectionate to the children.  They would play with them, sing to them and some would even buy toys with their own money to make them feel happy.  I cannot thank them enough.”  

After two months of intense but effective treatment, Faride and her daughters returned to Iran to finish their recovery in Tehran.  

Arriving at Iran’s Mehrabad Airport, Faride and her daughters were met by her aunt and uncle, who took them to their home to rest.  That same night, Faride’s uncle asked to have a word with her in private.

“He told me that I should be grateful and thank God that Shabnam, Shahla and myself were fine,” remembered Faride.  “I asked my uncle about Nahid and he told me that she was dead and it would be better for me now to forget her.”

Revealing her broken spirit, Faride lowered her head and wept silent tears.  She took a long time to suppress the emotional pain.  She then wiped her eyes and continued with her heartbreaking story.

Four months after the attack Faride had her first cornea transplant on her left eye.  Several months later, a second transplant on her right eye was less successful, causing permanent impaired vision.  It was three years after this second cornea transplant, when Faride was scheduled to undergo another eye operation, that she discovered that she was pregnant.

“The doctors were very worried about my pregnancy,” said Faride, “they tried to persuade me to abort the baby.  They said that all the medication and the anesthesia would not be good for the baby.  I refused to lose another child and said no.”

After months of close medical supervision, Faride gave birth to a daughter, Parisa.  The cornea transplant operation was more successful and everyone seemed happy.  

Two years after the gas attacks, German lung specialist, Professor Lutz Freitag, carried out a laser surgery operation to remove a blockage in Faride’s lungs, a consequence of the gas attack.

“When I was told that this famous professor was coming to do this operation on a number of chemical weapons victims, “ smiled Faride, “I thought he must have been a really old man.  But he was so young!  However, the operation did help.”

The procedure succeeded in easing her breathing difficulties, but Faride has had to grow accustomed to a life of constant coughing and dependence on nebulizers and oxygen machines.  

But Faride’s medical problems never seemed to end.  Recently, diagnosed with breast cancer, Faride had a mastectomy on her left breast a year ago and has just completed chemotherapy.

“Strong women like me don’t like to be sick,” said Faride, “we would give anything to be well again.  However, the hardest thing for women like me to bear is not just the injuries, but the stigma.”

Constant coughing and skin discoloration from the burns have brought about soul destroying social stigma.  Unable to attend social gatherings because of the persistent coughing, Faride slumped in her chair as she described how she, formerly a very socially active woman, was forced to become a near recluse.

“The worst thing for me,” she said, “was the lack of support from my own family.  They would look at me sometimes as if I were contagious.  They didn’t want me to come to their parties because the coughing up of phlegm disgusted them.  I understand it made them feel uncomfortable but it made life so depressing for me and for my own family.  We couldn’t go out anywhere.  I was always very lonely.”

Faride sat pensively for a few moments, then continued, “It is not easy for women gas victims here.  For men, it is different.  They chose to go to war, so they knew the risks.  We didn’t ask for this.”

The cultural expectations for married women in Iran made recovery even more difficult for female survivors.  Faride says that the network for male victims and war veterans is vast and supportive, but very few support outlets exist for women.  Tradition expects women in Iran to have the important role of keeping the family together, educating the children, cooking, shopping and cleaning.  As a gas attack victim, these were things she often did not have the strength to do.  

“When I am at home,” said Faride, “it seems that I have to do everything a healthy wife does.  But I believe if a man is injured, the family don’t expect of him the same responsibilities they expect of a healthy man.”

But the social expectations were there.  As a result there was little sympathy for women – they were simply expected to get on with their duties and not complain.  

“Even my husband,” Faride said quietly, “had very little sympathy for my illness and hospitalization.  It has been very difficult.”

After the long process of treatment and recovery, Faride and her family chose not to return to Sardasht to live, but to the nearby city of Orumieh.  She tried to resume her teaching career, but was given very little consideration or sympathy for her injuries.

“The district authority wanted to send me to some very remote city in Anzal,” she said bitterly.  “I had to ask them if they cared about my problems or not.”  After months of negotiation, the district authorities accepted her doctor’s recommendation to stay in Urumieh.  

“It was so difficult, but my teaching colleagues at least were supportive,” she said.  “They would help me with the paperwork and allow me to work as a substitute teacher.”  With the support of her colleagues she continued teaching until the statutory retirement age.

Faride’s voice speaks for the many silent women, who suffer from the consequences of chemical attacks and who feel ignored by society.

“Women need more support than men,” she said, “especially psychological support.”  Explaining that women are vulnerable to oppression and strict social expectations, Faride suggested that authorities need to find a way for such women to live comfortable and independent lives.

“Maybe the government can made some centres or facilities so that these women can live together in peace,” Faride explained.  “I’m not talking about a fancy, equipped centre.  Just somewhere safe.  Somewhere that is happy.”

Despite suffering from depression, Faride speaks out on her experiences in the hope that future generations will learn from the suffering of war and chemical weapons.

“I want to tell the people in government and politics to think about the consequences of their actions,” she said, “we need to live in a peaceful world.”

Today Faride continues to raise awareness about the atrocities of chemical weapons attacks.  And the strength of this diminutive woman – and the power of her voice – speaks out to us from her heart for a world free from chemical weapons.

Oral reflection by: Faride Shafa’i
Farsi to English translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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ALI REZA

Ali Reza Yazdanpanah was 15 years old when he volunteered to join the front.  The year was 1987 and Iraq was at war with Iran.  But that single act of patriotism would change his life forever.

Ali Reza would serve at the front for only a few months and would witness bitter fighting at Khoramshahr and at Shalamcheh.  In Shalamcheh he would be gassed in a chemical weapons attack.  The effects of the mustard gas would forever shape his life.  

Now a volunteer at the Tehran Peace Museum, aged 42, Ali Reza invites visitors to look back on his war experiences.

Many young men throughout history have answered the call to serve their country during times of conflict.  And like many others, Ali Reza was under-age when he served towards the end of the Iran-Iraq War, which lasted a full eight years.  It was through sheer grit and determination that he succeeded in joining up to defend his country.

“I was only seven when the Iranian Revolution occurred in 1979,” said Ali Reza.  “The war started one year later in 1980 when Saddam’s army invaded Iran, and so, by 1987, we thought the war might be coming to an end.  I was worried that I would never get a chance to serve my country.”

The war with Iraq had been raging for seven years, and Ali Reza had watched friends and family members leave home to defend Iran.  It tore at the young man’s heart that he would miss the opportunity to fulfill what he considered his duty.  So he set out to join the volunteer soldier unit – the Basij.  But his father found out and – unexpectedly for Ali Reza – turned up at the training camp where Ali Reza had enrolled. The camp commander was informed that Ali Reza was far too young to fight and ought to be completing his school.  Ali Reza was asked to return home.  His first attempt to enlist was foiled.

Undeterred by this initial setback, Ali Reza then used more creative means of subterfuge to achieve his goal.  

“Anyone can forge an ID card,” smiled Ali Reza.  “Of course, the authorities can spot a fake easily, so I decided to present the correct papers.  My dad was a Gendarme who patrolled outlying areas.  I waited until he had gone off on duty, rushed up to my mum and breathlessly told her she had to sign some papers for school right away or I would get into serious trouble.  She signed the papers and I faked my dad’s signature.  It was as simple as that.  I was 15 years old.  I hadn’t even started to grow a beard!”

Coping with his family’s reaction proved much more difficult.  Although Ali Reza’s family was proud of their son, the fear of losing him drove his mother, he said, “to inconsolable tears”.  Ali Reza found it painful to watch the visible distress his mother felt at the possibility of losing her first-born son.  But it was his father’s angry words about his deception that swirled in his mind.  Refusing to say goodbye to his son as he marched off to war, Mr. Yazdanpanah said, “If anything happens to you, I won’t come for you.”

After two months of basic training, the young Ali Reza found himself carrying wounded soldiers as a stretcher-bearer in the 90-man-strong 21st Corps of Imam Reza.  At the beginning of April 1987, his unit was involved in Operation 8th Karbala at Shalamcheh, which turned out to be one of the bloodiest battles of the war.  The intense fighting at Shallamcheh was exhausting and, around April 6th, the entire unit was sent to the port town of Khorramshahr to rest.  By a twist of fate, the gas attacks came down – shortly after lunch on April 10th – exactly on top of Khorramshahr.

It was a day, said Ali Reza, which he will never forget.

“All of a sudden, we heard the unmistakable sound of jet engines.  Some of us younger men ran outside and looked up to the sky.  There were more than ten Iraqi fighter jets circling up above us,” Ali Reza remembered.

In the confusion that followed this reconnaissance flight, some of the older veterans chastised the “young pups” for exposing themselves and giving away their location.  

Sure enough, within five minutes, five Iraqi jets returned and circled overhead.  Two flew off, and the three remaining jets flew low over the encampment.

“There was a deafening roar,” said Ali Reza, “and the ground began to shake.  The planes were flying so low over us that we could read all the markings on them.  We were unprepared for any attack, let alone a gas attack.  We were scared.”

Minutes later, the jets each dropped a bomb on what appeared to be random, non-strategic locations.  The bombs all landed with a dull thud.  There was none of the usual explosion with conventional bombs.  Hindsight would reveal to Ali Reza that chemical weapons do not contain an ordinary explosive detonator.  The gas simply leaks out and then comes a strange smell of garlic in the air.  There did not seem to be any massive damage to their surroundings.  This left the men of Imam Reza Corps confused and even more frightened.

“You know,” said Ali Reza, “we were all a little scared and shocked.  We really didn’t know what had just happened.  Some of us even made jokes about the pilots.  I mean what kind of idiot drops bombs without choosing a proper target?”

Unaware of the extreme danger they were in, the men returned to work.  The communication lines had been damaged and wires were cut.  The repairs and the cleaning up process were a priority for the unit, and they went back to work completely unaware of how their lives were about to change – irreparably – and forever.

Within two hours, a medical team from Khorramshahr, aware of the chemical attack, arrived at the camp to evacuate the men to the nearest hospitals.  “We had no idea we were injured,” said Ali Reza unaware that he had been exposed to mustard gas.  “We were starting to feel strange.  Our skin and our eyes started to itch and burn.  We were coughing a little.  We figured we would just go along with these guys to the hospital, get some pills and all would be fine.”

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

As Ali Reza was moved from the military field hospital to the city hospital in Ahvaz, the effects of the mustard gas intensified.  The sensation of severe burning, the inability to breathe properly, burning eyes and vomiting took over.  

“It was when I was transferred to hospital, two hours after the attack that the effects of the chemical bomb started to show on my body,” recollected Ali Reza.  “My whole body was burning.  My face, my eyes all felt like they were on fire and even my voice had changed to a rough, rasping sound.  My throat and mouth were burning.  When I got to the hospital, the medics took off my clothes and burned them.  My body was washed with soap and water and I was taken to a hospital ward.”

The Iranian military had not expected such large-scale gas attacks and found themselves in an impossible situation.  Without the necessary medical support and infrastructure, the army and civilian doctors improvised to cope with this emergency.

Buses, with the seats removed, were used as large ambulances ferrying wounded soldiers to any available hospital.  Men were packed into military cargo planes and taken to Tehran.  In a mass humanitarian rallying of support for the gas victims, military personnel, civilian doctors, volunteers of the Iranian Red Crescent and ordinary people cooperated to help the sick and wounded.

“It was on the flight to Mehrabad in Tehran, “ said Ali Reza “that I just couldn’t stop vomiting.  The vomit was green and smelled of the fish I had eaten for lunch.  I was taken to a hospital in Tehran, but I don’t remember much.  I got off the bus at the hospital and fell to the ground.”

Ali Reza was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit in the Loghmaniddoleh hospital.  He was to spend three months in this hospital, where he was treated for skin burns, incapacitated lungs and loss of vision.  During his stay here, Ali Reza was visited by a United Nations team of experts lead by Dr. Manuel Dominguez, involved in an investigation into Iraq’s then-alleged use of chemical weapons against Iran.  Part of the UN team’s mandate was to interview victims in order to ultimately prove the use of chemical weapons in the conflict.  Ali Reza is mentioned in the final report.

Before the attack, Ali Reza was an athletic young man, a keen football player and weighed a muscular 60 kilograms.  Within days of being gassed, the young soldier was reduced to 43 kilograms, struggling with a voice that had changed completely as he gasped for breath.  His skin, darkened by the gas, was covered in excruciatingly painful burns.  His vision had gone.

Taking pity on the young man, one of the nurses spoke to him about his family.  The nurse wanted his family to know what had happened to him and to come and see him.

Ali Reza remembered with a deep sense of gratitude this angel of mercy who helped reach out to his family.  “Nurse Maryam was very kind to me,” he said, “she asked for my parents’ telephone number.  I had to tell her that in my village there were no telephones.  She used her own money to send a telegraph to one of my relatives to tell them I had been injured in a chemical weapons attack and to please come and see me.”

Two days later, Ali Reza’s father and his uncle arrived in Tehran.  His father had no knowledge of chemical weapons and didn’t know what to expect.  Nurse Maryam led him into the Intensive Care Unit, where Ali Reza was lying covered in an oxygen tent, a burnt shadow of his former self.

“This is your son,” said the nurse.

Mr. Yazdanpanah took one look at Ali Reza and said, “That’s impossible.  This is not my son.”

“I heard my father’s voice,” Ali Reza said, “then I called his name.  I heard him fall to the floor and start to cry.”

There followed months of hospitalization and treatment, which continues even to this day.  Ali Reza has endured four cornea transplants and is on the waiting list for a lung transplant.  Every day is a struggle with breathing.  Between the time of the attack and today, Ali Reza has spent twelve years living near the Caspian Sea where the climate was considered better for his health.  But this no longer helps him and he has to live somewhere with easier access to a well-equipped hospital in case of emergency.  So he has returned full time to Tehran.

Life for Ali Reza is centred around daily medication intake and reliance on oxygen concentrator machines.  He carries a portable oxygen maker and at night uses a BiPAP machine to prevent his lungs from collapsing while he sleeps.  For Ali Reza, there is never such a thing as a good night’s sleep.  

Although the scars from the burns have healed, Ali Reza has had to come to terms with deeper, emotional pain.  “At first, I thought I would return to my old self,” he said.  “But the days of being a strong young man disappeared the day of the gas attack.  Those days will never return and I have accepted that now.”

Life was, indeed, never the same.  Chronic illness and repeated hospitalization have prevented Ali Reza from being able to hold down a permanent job.  Because of the embarrassment of continuous coughing in classes, he was unable to take advantage of the educational opportunities offered to war veterans.

“I admit I was a bit of a lazy student,” he said, “but I really liked going to school.  The problem was that I was always coughing in class.  I couldn’t help it, and each coughing bout went on for a long time.  It disturbed the other students and they didn’t like it.  Once I was coughing so badly, I was sent away from school in an ambulance.”

Without a job, Ali Reza sank into depression and loneliness.  His condition meant that he had to rely on family members to help him complete basic every day tasks.  “The pressures of being an invalid in the family made life difficult and distressing for everyone,” he recalled.  

“For a long time,” he said, “my mother had to wash me.  I felt so ashamed.”

Now, Ali Reza is a new man, full of confidence, restored dignity and with a purpose to live.  At the Tehran Peace Museum, he has found support for chemical weapons victims and made new friends.  He has travelled to Japan and visited Hiroshima and shared his story with others who have had similar experiences.

“My medical condition is a part of me now,” he explained, “it has shaped me to become who I am.  I am a poster for my country.  I want to show myself to the world, to show the effects of these horrible weapons.  It is my wish that this will stop people from fighting, stop people’s first instinct to reach for weapons.  It is my mission, until my last breath, to share my story and hope people will understand it is important to live a life of peace.”

Ali Reza is a man on a mission.  His mission is to contribute in some way to achieving peace in this world.

Oral reflection by: Alireza Yazdanpanah
Farsi to English translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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From now on, you can read the memories of the victims of CW here. These victims share their experiences as a victim of CW after being exposed to CW. But they also have message for people around the world, which is Peace and Friendship. They wish a world of in which, nobody suffers from the use of a prohibited weapon.

The oral history of these victims is not only a first-hand source of understanding the inhuman characteristic of CW, violence of war and its consequences, but they also can help the interested people, researches and students in their researches.

You can send us your feedback and ask your questions from these victims through our email address: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. .

Although chemical weapons have been described in ancient historic texts, it was during the First World War from 1914-1918 that they were used deliberately in conflict.  At Ypres, in 1915, gas attacks took place in the trenches leading to many painful deaths and to horrendous casualties.  It was at the end of the Great War that politicians and international organizations collaborated to see an end to the use of such weapons in combat.

In 1925, the Geneva Protocol was signed under the auspices of the League of Nations.  This Protocol was a significant step forward in prohibiting the use of asphyxiating, poisonous and other gases as well as other bacteriological forms of warfare.  Over 130 countries, including Iran and Iraq, signed the Geneva Protocol.  Unfortunately, the protocol had a limited effect, as it did not prohibit the stockpiling of either chemical or biological weapons.

In World War II, there is evidence that both the Allies and the Axis powers possessed chemical weapons.  The war came to an end with the dropping of the nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945.  In the post-war period, a number of countries have continued to stockpile chemical and biological weapons.

In Iran’ recent history, it was during the war with Iraq from 1980-1988, that military personnel and civilians alike were exposed to chemical weapons used by Iraqi forces.  Although the first gas attack was recorded in 1983, most attacks occurred during the last two years of the Iran-Iraq War.

According to a report by UNMOVIC, Iraq deployed almost 1,800 tonnes of mustard gas, 140 tonnes of tabun, and 600 tonnes of sarin.  Of the approximately one million people exposed to mustard gas, 100,000 required medical care and today 75,000 continue to be chronically ill.

In 1992, after 12 years of negotiations in the so-called “Disarming Conference”, participating states delegations finally agreed on the text for inclusion in the Convention of Chemical Weapons.  In 1993, more than 130 countries signed the convention, which finally came into force on April 29th, 1997.

Sadly, chemical weapons continue to be used and stockpiled today.  But, here at the Tehran Peace Museum, you will find committed peace activists campaigning for an end to chemical weapons.

 Eyewitness Accounts

War Veterans	Women
Professionals	Youth

 Eyewitness Accounts

War Veterans	Women
Professionals	Youth

Ali Asgaari

“In war, if a bullet hits you, it will either kill you or wound you.  The physical effects normally don’t last forever.  But the effects of chemical weapons cause problems for generations.  The world needs to know more about these weapons.”

Wounded in a chemical weapons attack in 1988 on Iran’s western front during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988), Ali Asgaari talks about his injuries, his medical treatment and the social stigma incurred by his wounds.

Ali Asgaari at the Tehran Peace Museum,   April 2014

Driven by pride in his country and a sense of responsibility to his fellow Iranians, Ali Asgaari joined up as a volunteer soldier to fight in the Iran-Iraq War.  The year was 1983.  He was 17 years old.  After five years of loyal service, during which he received some brutal injuries, Ali had recovered and found himself in the mountainous region of Suleymania Province, south of Halabja, on Iran’s western border.

It was shortly after the Iranian New Year festival of Now Ruz, early in the morning on the 25th of March 1988.  It was the day Iraqi fighter jets dropped a mustard gas bomb within 10 metres of the position where he and his comrades were huddled.  It was a day Ali Asgaari will never forget.  

In less than two hours after the attack, Ali had been rushed to the decontamination zone at the Rajensi medical post.  With the exception of some slight burning on his skin, Ali was at this point still unaffected by the mustard gas.  When he saw the medical staff dressed in specialized suits and gas masks, he was amused by what he thought were strange and unnecessary outfits.

“We laughed at all those people,” Ali says, “to us they just looked crazy.  We shouted at them, ‘Look at us.  We just came from a chemical war zone.  We are all ok – see how we are dressed!’  We had no idea what had happened to us.”

It didn’t take long for the effects of the chemical weapons to start.  Severe vomiting, burning skin and blurred vision afflicted Ali, and he soon lost consciousness.  Suffering from third degree burns, Ali was again evacuated by air to the Feiz Hospital in Esfahan.

Ali as young volunteer soldier

“The treatment at Feiz was crude and painful,” Ali remembers.  “The doctors gave us baths and scrubbed us with rough exfoliating gloves.  Then they cut off our blisters with a surgical knife.  It was absolute torture.  It has left me with terrible scars on my body.”

At this point, Ali’s family in Tehran took matters into their own hands.  Ali’s brother hired a private ambulance and drove to Esfahan to collect Ali and bring him back to Tehran.

“My brother had no clear plan,” Ali says, “we arrived at Tehran’sLabbafiNejad hospital in the early hours of the morning without any referral papers… nothing.  But my brother begged the doctors to admit me and they did.”

In Tehran, Ali underwent two months of concentrated treatment for his burns.  Daily baths in sterilized water and antiseptic followed by careful application of silver sulfadiazine burn-ointment soon helped Ali’s skin to improve.  To maintain privacy, female nurses were not permitted to assist the soldiers in this process and Ali’s his childhood friends came from his village to help him.

One later bout of septicemia resulted in him being placed in an isolation room.  Even as he describes the torturous treatment, Ali manages to maintain his insuppressiblesense of humour.

Ali (bottom row, second from left) with comrades

“I was in the isolation room covered in a plastic tent,” Ali laughs, “when my family came to see me they had to look at me through a window.  I felt like a fish in an aquarium!”

Ali’s hands were severely burned and the debridement – the surgical removal of dead or damaged skin – and initial treatment was excruciatingly painful for him.

“My hands were in a really bad state,” he recalls with what seems like a misplaced grin, “and the treatment was excruciating.  There was this big, tough nurse helping me and I begged her to stop.  I am ashamed to say I even cursed in front of her.  She told me that if she stopped the doctors would have to amputate my hands.  I told her to cut off my hands.  You know what she did?  She got the doctors to send for my father to lay down the law!”

Map of Suleymania Province, courtesy of Google Maps.  The red dot marks where the chemical bomb was dropped near Ali.

There followed two years of complex skin-grafting procedures and plastic surgery to heal Ali’s hands.

“The doctors grafted skin from my leg,” says Ali, “and stitched this skin onto the wounds on my hands, covering them with layers of dressings.  It was complicated and very painful.  I couldn’t bend or stretch my hands or fingers.  For a long time, my hands were in splints.  My hands felt like large pieces of leather.”

Describing the discomfort of his wounds Ali tells us how difficult life was for the first few years after the chemical attack.

Ali (right) with comrades in Suleymania Province

“I hardly ever left the house,” Ali recalls, “and sat in front of the air conditioner in nothing but my underwear.  Clothes would cause my skin to itch and I would scratch and cause more scarring.  For the first six months of being at home, I couldn’t use my hands for risk of infection.  I had to get help to go to the bathroom.  It was so embarrassing.  No grown man should have to do that.”

In the immediate aftermath of the chemical attacks, doctors focused almost exclusively on Ali’s burns and the damage to his lungs and eyes were left largely ignored.

Ali has severe breathing problems and any kind of physical exertion is difficult.  A walk of more than 100 metres exhausts him and he has a constant heavy cough.

“I cough all the time,” Ali says, “and I have trouble with a lot of phlegm.  I have to cough it up all the time.  It is most unpleasant, especially for people around me.  But my eyes have given me more trouble than my lungs.”

Ali suffered from typical temporary blindness after the attacks, but it was only after he was discharged from hospital after his skin treatment that Ali and the doctors noticed that the sclera – the white part of the eye – began to change colour to yellow and grey.  His eyes were red and inflamed and he began to feel pain and burning.

Ali being treated for chemical weapons burns, 1988

Ali visited a number of ophthalmologists in the years following the gas attacks, but none of them made any connections between his eye problems and the mustard gas.  It was not, in fact, until 1992, when Ali enrolled in the ShahidBeheshti University in Tehran to study economics that his eye problems worsened considerably and he was introduced to a doctor who understood the consequences of chemical weapons on the eye.

“I finally found the doctor I really needed in Professor Mohammad Ali Javadi,” Ali says with a great sense of pride.  “Professor Javadi treated me for two years and operated on my eyes to cauterize the tear ducts to keep the water inside my eyes. It helped a little, but I still had problems.”

Professor Javadifinally recommended Alito go and see Dr. KhosroJadidi, the pioneering eye surgeon who had already carried out stem cell transplants on many chemical weapons survivors.  In the year 2000, Ali underwent stem cell surgery to improve his vision.

“Dr. Jadidi took some healthy conjunctiva tissue from my brother’s eye,” Ali says, “and transplanted it into my eyes.  For gas attack victims, stem cells do not function properly and so they cannot regenerate.  For my brother, it was no problem at all.”

The success of the stem cell surgery meant that Ali could become a candidate for corneal transplants.  He has already had one successful cornea transplant on his left eye and is on the waiting list for a cornea transplant to his right eye.

While Ali continues to struggle with lung and eye problems, he relates that one of the most difficult challenges for recovering chemical weapons victims is the social stigma brought about by public ignorance of their injuries.

“Not everyone looks at you and sees a war hero,” says Ali.

With shoulders drooped and a sense of despondency, Ali continues to relate the perspectives of soldiers wounded on active duty by mustard gas.

Ali being treated with silver sulfadiazine burn ointment,   April 1988

“I cough a lot because of my lung injures,” says Ali, “and so it is really difficult to be in public places like cinemas or theatres or at speeches.  Once I start to cough, it is difficult to stop and people in public have no patience for it.  People are disgusted by my need to spit up phlegm and ask me to leave.  It is embarrassing for me, and of course for my wife and family.”

Ali’s constant train-like coughing was one of the reasons he dropped out of university.  

“The other students in the classhad no patience with my coughing,” Ali recalls.  “It was especially difficult in the wintertime.  My chest would hurt and I would need to cough.  Usually, I had to get up and leave the class.”

So, reluctantly, Ali left university.  He then found a job at the Ministry of Economy, but the daily drive to work by motorbike and the city’s pollution caused more problems for his already overstrained eyes.  Pain and headaches would mean that on his return home from work each day, Ali would have to lie down in a dark room for several hours to relieve the stress.

Ali’s discoloured and scarred skin has also caused him much public humiliation.

“I have friends,” he says, “and members of my own family who won’t even shake my hand.  They are repulsed by my injuries.  People don’t understand what I’ve been through.  I once drank from a public water fountain.  I washed the cup and put it back, but the person next to me looked disgusted and refused to drink from the same glass.”

Ali explains that the public does not know what has happened to chemical weapons survivors, which results in little or no sympathy and disappointing prejudice.

“I have had to learn to cope with my appearance,” Ali says, “but the problem is how do I communicate with people about the way I look.  When I was going through my skin-grafting treatment my hands were in splints.  I got into a taxi and the woman next to me asked what had happened to my hands.  I told her a dog bit me!  How could I explain to her everything that had happened to me?”

Ali shows the burns to his skin, April 1988

The holy month of Ramazan is a particularly difficult time for all chemical weapons victims.  Unable to fast due to their physical condition and the need to take constant medication, many survivors facethe unkind judgmental behavior of others, causing severe embarrassment and a loss of self-respect.

“Once, during Ramazan,” remembers Ali, “I was visiting a graveyard and began to feel ill.  I needed to drink some water, so went off somewhere discreet where I thought I wouldn’t be seen.  The mother of one of the soldiers killed in action saw me.  She was very angry and began to curse me for not fasting during Ramazan when all these other men had died for my freedom.  It was a very troubling experience.”

Ali now feels it is his responsibility to raise awareness about the medical treatment for chemical weapons victims.  Having suffered terribly and undergone extensive medical treatment himself, he is passionate about the need to share information about the treatment of gas attack survivors with the medical community at large.

“Survivors can’t just see a normal doctor when they get sick,” Ali explains.  “We have to see specialists for our lung, our eyes, and our skin.  If we go to an ordinary doctor when we have a cold or another illness, they do not understand our war injuries.  It is not that they are bad doctors.  Not at all!  Their lack of awareness of the needs of chemical weapons survivors causes them to prescribe the wrong medication and treatment.”

Finding the correct medication is a serious problem for chemical weapons survivors in Iran.  The UN Security Council Resolution 1696 has imposed crippling sanctions on the Iranian economy.  For chemical weapons survivors this means the inability to access necessary medication and equipment and when medicine is available, the price is often prohibitive.

“Some of our medication is manufactured in Iran,” Ali says, “but a lot of it is imported and because of the sanctions it is difficult to find and, of course, it is expensive.”

Ali is also convinced that not enough credence is given to the role of traditional medicine in helping survivors.  He feels that doctors should take herbal medicines into account when treating the whole patient, not just the symptoms of their injuries.

Ali at Hiroshima Memorial Park in August 2014

“The whole body needs to be treated,” says Ali, “not just one part.  Everyone is unique and needs their particular prescription to suit their specific needs.  Traditional medicine practitioners look at a person’s whole body and treat the problem accordingly.  More people should adopt this approach.”

While Ali wishes to share his story with people outside of Iran to aid understanding of the plight of chemical weapons victims, he also stresses the need for Iranians to share their vast medical expertise with others.

“I think it is important,” Ali says, “that we in Iran share the medical knowledge and experience we have gained from treating gas attack victims.  We can share our understanding with other countries so that they can help to save the lives of other people too, no matter what country they live in.”

Ali ends his interview with a strong message.

“I want doctors and the medical community to understand that when you see a chemical weapons victim, you need a holistic approach to solving their medical problems.  It is not enough to just look at one organ in the body.  Doctors must heal the whole body, because after exposure to mustard gas, the whole body is damaged.”

Oral reflection by: Ali Asgaari
Farsi to English translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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Young Reporters at The Tehran Peace Museum

The Tehran Peace Museum’s new Young Reporters project brings the city’s teenagers to ask questions about war and chemical weapons, and also to write about peace.

With Iran’s school children getting a full three months for their summer vacation, many parents struggle to find things to keep their young people busy.  Part of the answer may be found in what a group of young teenagers from eight of Tehran’s public schools may have the answer.

Young Reporters Group at Tehran Peace Museum. Standing   (from left):Ms. Saidian, Ms. Gilani, Ali, Aryan, Ali Khateri,   Ms Rashid (Saghar's mother), Ms. Babai.  Kneeling (from left):   Mohammad Mahdi, Ms Pooyandeh, Saghar, Zahra, Yas

At the beginning of the summer holidays, the Tehran Peace Museum, in association with a number of teachers from local schools, began a pilot project called Young Reporters.

The main objective of the project is to encourage Iran’s younger generation to discover their history through interviewing those veterans who served in the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988) – some of whom were victims of chemical weapons attacks.

Ms. Kuniko Yamamura Babaei, supervisor of the museum’s Iran-Japan Cultural Exchange Project, initiated the idea for the youth programme following a similar example she witnessed at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum.

“If it is only the old people who talk about their own stories,” says Ms. Babaei, “this will never be the answer for the younger generation.  They have their own questions to ask.  We can help young people to understand about peace by teaching them about war.”

As a result of the collaboration, a group of students have become actively involved in in the work of the Tehran Peace Museum and are interacting with the museum’s extended community of friends.

Overcoming stereotypical perceptions of how war veterans are perceived was the first step in “humanizing” this brutal and “imposed” war.

“Before I came to the museum,” says a young Mohammad Mahdi, “I had always thought that all war veterans were very religious – stern– unhappy people.  I got this image from watching movies and from what adults I know used to tell me.  But when I met the survivors, they were really friendly and laugh and joke just like ordinary people.  I now share their stories with my own family.”

The young students spend their time voluntarily at the museum and interview chemical weapons survivors from the war period.  They learn about the medical consequences of the attacks and become much more knowledgeable about the horrors of chemical weapons.  They report on the survivors’ dedication to creating a culture of positive peace.

Young Reporters inspired by Mahatma Gandhi

“After I visited to the museum and after I met the guides,” says Aryan, “I think I really came to understand what the consequences of chemical weapons were and why these weapons should be forbidden.  I came to feel powerfully that it has to be a crime to use them.”

For the chemical weapons survivors it has also been a challenging project, which has brought them into greater contact with the youth of today.

 Hassan HassanSa’di, a war veteran who was the victim of a chemical weapons attack near Faw in 1986, is now a volunteer guide at the museum and an eager peace activist.

“You know, the young people ask us really difficult questions,” says Hassan, “things we had never really thought about before.  But we respect their perspectives and we have to think about what is important for them to know.”

“The young people change a lot after coming to the museum,” continues Hassan, “they are frightened of us at first.  But they soon overcome this and find out that we are friendly, after all.  They also realize we are a first hand source for vital information about chemical weapons.”

The students all agree that their perception of war and the veterans has changed entirely though spending time at the museum and their eager faces reflect a determination to share ideas about peace.

“After my first day here,” says Yas, “I explained everything to my parents.  We talked about war and how the absence of war is the first step to peace.”

As well as learning to become volunteer guides, the students have made video presentations about the museum and plan to write information leaflets specifically targeted towards the younger generation.  Following the Learning-by-Doing method of understanding, the students are implementing quizzes for young visitors to learn about peace.

Young Reporters and chemical weapons survivors   at entrance to the Tehran Peace Museum

“When you spend time here at the Tehran Peace Museum,” says 16 year old Ali Khateri, “you start not liking the images of war.  You learn that people here – those who have actually lived through war – are more interested in the concept of peace.”

The Young Reporters are an enthusiastic group of young people, keen to get involved and share their ideas about peace with others.  The project, although only in its early days of existence, has proved to be successful in raising awareness against weapons of mass destruction and listening to the young voices of peace.

Farsi to English translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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Hassan Hassan Tabar

Burnt, blistered skin.  Blindness.  Chronic lung disease.  Depression.  These are but a few of the effects on Iranian survivors of the chemical weapons attacks during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988).

Hassan Hassan Tabar, an army commander, shares his experiences of the chemical attacks in Khorramshahr in 1986 and how he has found the strength to survive.  

Hassan Hassan Tabar was born in Babol, near the Caspian Sea, in November 1965.  He was a high school student majoring in economics in 1980, when Iraq invaded Iran over a territorial dispute.  This series of events caused Hassan to make a choice that would change the course of his own life forever.

“The year was 1980,” says Hassan, “and I enlisted as a volunteer soldier.  I didn’t have my parent’s permission of course.  But I was big for my age and I was quite fit, so no one suspected that I was not really 18 years old.”

Hassan then embarked upon a military career that saw him serve three years as a volunteer soldier until 1983 before he joined the regular army.  In 1985 he returned to Babol to his young wife and family but only stayed a brief six months before returning to the front.

“I wanted to get back to the front,” Hassan says, “I even asked the army to send me back.  In fact, I was sent back to the front with two of my brothers-in-law.  We were stationed in Ahvaz.  I was one of five commanding officers in our corps.”

On the 9th of February 1986, Hassan was involved in the operation known as the 8th Valfajr, when the Iranian army succeeded in capturing the strategic port of Faw from Iraq.  After the successful operation had been completed, Hassan crossed back over to the Iranian side of the Arvand River separating Iran from Iraq, and went to visit his brother-in-law, Mohammad-Ali.

On arrival at the military base, Hassan remembered hearing the sound of Iraqi fighter planes overhead.  Spotting close to 20 airplanes, Hassan, his brother-in-law and five other comrades, took cover near some sandbags as Iraqi aircraft began aerial bombing.  Iraqi ground forces also started pounding the Iranians with artillery from across the river.

Hassan (left) with fellow volunteers, November 1980

“We were being hit from across and from above,” recalls Hassan, “so my comrades and I took cover near a wall of sandbags.  One of the airplanes dropped a bomb about six metres away from us.  We heard the bomb sort-of explode.  But it was not like a normal explosion.  The bomb just opened up.  So we hid under cover of the sandbags.  Of course, we now realize that was the worst thing we could’ve possibly done.”

Within 15 minutes, the entire area was permeated with a strange garlic-smelling gas.  Hassan and his colleagues ran to put on their gas masks.

But, it was too late.

Map of Attacks, courtesy of the Centre for Iran-Iraq War Studies

Half an hour later, the effects of the mustard gas began – weeping, burning eyes followed by itching and burning skin. Fortunately, the men had access to a military vehicle and all seven drove as fast as they possibly could to the medical emergency unit, where doctors sent them to the already overcrowded field hospital at Al-Zahra.

After initial treatment of cool showers and the removal of their contaminated clothes, Hassan and his brother-in-law were sent by ambulance bus to Ahvaz.  Their symptoms worsened and were compounded by violent vomiting.

“At the beginning of the journey,” says Hassan, “Mohammad-Ali didn’t appear to have symptoms like me.  He sat next to me, stroking my arm and saying comforting words.  But in no time at all, Mohammad-Ali began to vomit until all he was throwing up was blood.”

Hassan’s memories of his hospital treatment in Ahvaz tell of a time of confusion and pain. The mustard gas had caused the blood to stop circulating regularly, and after receiving an injection of some medicine from a doctor, he soon lost consciousness.

“I don’t remember anything after that,” says Hassan, “I really don’t.  About 20 days later, I regained consciousness.  I was in a dark room in some hospital.  I couldn’t even pick out images one metre from my face.  When I came round, there was a nurse sitting near me.  She was wearing a strange uniform, different from anything I had ever seen in Iran.  When I regained consciousness, she shouted to a doctor in a language I didn’t understand.”

Hassan had been evacuated to Belgium and was being treated in the University Hospital of Ghent under the supervision of Professor Aubin Heyndrickx, the renowned toxicology expert.  Professor Heyndrickx and his team of colleagues were responsible for the treatment and recovery of many Iranians who fell victim to the most severe effects of chemical weapons during the Iran-Iraq War.

Suffering from terrible lung injuries, Hassan was placed in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) of the hospital for more than three weeks.

 He was only able to breathe by means of a ventilator.  The doctors kept him under permanent sedation during this period to alleviate the excruciating pain.  The medical staff took extreme precautions to protect the blisters on his skin to prevent scarring.  His eyes, also severely damaged, were treated daily and covered with bandages.  Hassan could see little or nothing.

“I have no idea how long I stayed like this,” says Hassan, “after a while my condition began to improve and the doctors removed the ventilator tubes.  I was able to breathe using an oxygen mask and was sent to another room where the treatment for my burned skin started.”

As Hassan describes the painful skin treatment, the memories are clearly reflected in his weary eyes.

“I couldn’t wear any clothes or even a hospital gown,” remembers Hassan.  “I had to be naked and doctors spread the ointment on bandages.  Then they draped the bandages carefully over my body.  The ointment was so cold that, even though the room was warm, I would shake uncontrollably for about 10 minutes.  I was in so much pain all the time.  I couldn’t think about anything, not even my family.”

During this period, Hassan’s pain and suffering absorbed his whole attention and he spoke regretfully that neither his wife nor family entered his thoughts.  Far away from home in an unfamiliar country, Hassan found, however, that he was not alone.  Staff from the Iranian Embassy in Belgium, including the chargé d’affaires, came to visit Hassan and other survivors being cared for at the university hospital.

Iranian students living in Belgium volunteered to come to the hospital and, operating in a roster of three shifts, they acted as interpreters for the patients and the medical staff.

Hassan (left) in Kurdistan Province, July 1982

It was, in fact, through the intervention of the Iranian chargé d’affaires in Belgium that Hassan’s family finally found out where he was and that he was still alive and recovering.  About two weeks before his return to Iran, the chargé d’affaires arranged for Hassan’s family to speak to him by telephone.

“My family knew I had been sent to Belgium,” Hassan says, “but my wife didn’t know if I was dead or still alive.”

At the same time, the chargé d’affaires arranged for Hassan to speak to his brother-in-law, Mohammad-Ali, who had been sent to a hospital in The Netherlands.

“It was the last time I spoke to him,” says Hassan sadly.  “Mohammad-Ali never returned to Iran.  He died seven months later.  He was only 18.”

During his time in hospital in Belgium, Hassan, through the help of one of the Iranian volunteer students, began to listen to the inspirational tapes of one of Iran’s renowned clerics, Haji-Kafi.  Hassan’s faith began to give him the strength to recover quickly in order to return home to Iran and his family.

“I was determined to go home,” reflects Hassan with pride, “but the doctors said that I must stay in Belgium as I was not ready.  I told them that I would take full responsibility for my decision.  I didn’t mind what the consequences were.  I just wanted to go home.”

When Hassan returned to Iran, however, his appearance had changed so drastically that his own father couldn’t recognize him.  An athletic young man weighing 73kgs before the attacks, he returned to Iran as a 40kg invalid with burned and discolored skin.

“I was standing one metre in front of my father,” says Hassan, “but he couldn’t pick me out from the crowd.  When he saw it was really me, my father broke down and cried.”

Although Hassan was expected to go immediately to hospital in Tehran to continue his treatment, his father insisted that he return home to Babol first and see his wife and family.  Hassan’s father secured medication and sedatives from doctors at the airport and then took his son home by private car on the long and winding road through the Alborz Mountains to Babol.

“I arrived after sunset,” Hassan remembers, “and when my family saw me they all started to cry.  My older son ran away from me.  He couldn’t recognize me as my skin was so very dark.”

Unable to tolerate light and the touch of his wife and relatives, his homecoming was a sad affair.

Hassan (left) with comrade near Ahvaz, February 1983

“I had been wounded before,” says Hassan, “but it was not the same as this.  My family looked at me differently.  They couldn’t believe what they saw and they all found it very difficult to take it in.  But they were happy I was home.”

Afterwards, Hassan embarked on a long treatment process for his eye and lung injuries.  One of the consequences of a mustard gas attack on the eyes is permanent damage to the tear ducts, which naturally lubricate the eyes.  In one operation, surgeons stitched Hassan’s eyelids together at the corners to keep the eyes moist and protect the cornea.

“If you look closely at my eyes,” says Hassan, “you can see where they are still stitched at the corner edge.  I still can’t open my eyes completely.  I have had so many operations.  In fact, in 1989 I went completely blind.”

Hassan’s chronic lung problems have resulted in low functioning lung capacity.  After an angiography sealed a leak in one of his veins, Hassan’s breathing difficulties have improved although he still coughs up blood clots and a common cold can cause severe breathing difficulties.

But, perhaps, the most difficult wounds to heal were the unseen ones.  

“There was a heavy toll too on my psychological state of mind,” says Hassan.  “I would get very sad and depressed and of course that just worsened my physical condition.”

One unfortunate consequence of mustard gas exposure in men is sexual dysfunction and the loss of libido.  The sense of impotence has adverse psychological effects on survivors, particularly those like Hassan who have chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.  Often, during sexual activity, these men suffer panic attacks from shortness of breath and indigestion resulting in periods of self-doubt about their manhood.

Hassan near Faw in December 1985

“I usually don’t say this because I am ashamed,” Hassan says, “but shortly after I returned to Iran I felt that I wasn’t a real man.  I felt emasculated.  I would tell my doctors that I had this problem that I couldn’t make love with my wife, but they said this was the effect of the gas and it would go after a while.”

After months in hospital, when Hassan returned to his hometown, he was also faced with cruel social stigma, resulting from ignorance over the cause of his coughing and his awkward bumping into things caused by his blindness.  It brought more depression and seclusion from friends and society.

“The social stigma was – and still is – hurtful,” says Hassan, “and has made life difficult for me and my immediate family members.  I was blind and clumsy.  My coughing would irritate people at parties.  There was very little sympathy or understanding for my condition.  So I stopped attending social events.  Can you imagine how difficult this was for my wife and children?”

But, in 1999, Hassan was given an opportunity that would start turning his life around.  Hassan met Dr. Khosro Jadidi, an ophthalmologist who has specialized in restorative surgery for chemical weapons survivors.  During their consultation, Dr. Jadidi explained to Hassan that he could help to restore his sight with a relatively new surgery involving stem cell transplants.  Dr. Jadidi explained that if Hassan agreed, it would be the first time such a procedure would take place in Iran.

“Dr. Jadidi sounded very positive,” says Hassan, “and explained how simple the operation was.  I needed a family member between the ages of 18 to 40 to volunteer to have some healthy tissue removed from their eye and transplanted on to mine.”

For Hassan, however, the possibility of a successful operation to regain his sight was coupled with the dilemma of asking someone in his family to volunteer.

“I had learned to live with my blindness,” explains Hassan, “but I didn’t want to put any of my family members at risk to save my eyesight.”

Sensing his son’s distress, Hassan’s father asked what was wrong and when he discovered there was a possibility for Hassan to see again, he called a family meeting to discuss the matter.  Hassan’s younger brother volunteered and the two brothers left for Tehran to the Baghiatallah Hospital.

Hassan’s brother donated the tissue and was well enough to leave the hospital the following day.  For Hassan, however, it was much more difficult.

Hassan (right) with oxygen machine and sunglasses to   protect his eyes from light photophobia, a complication   related to mustard gas exposure.  Hassan is being interviewed   by a local television station (Mazandaran Channel) in 1999.

Due to the chronic state of Hassan’s lungs, the operation proved to be rather complicated.  After seven hours, and using special instruments to help Hassan breathe, Dr. Jadidi completed this groundbreaking procedure on Hassan’s eyes.  After six months of recovery with weekly visits to Tehran to have the dressings changed and his eyes checked, Hassan went for one last visit to have the final dressings removed.

“I was quite nervous,” remembers Hassan, “but as soon as the bandages were removed, I felt the light and I realized the operation had been successful.  I could finally see the difference between day and night and slowly, slowly, I could see first one metre then two metres in front of me.”

The success of the stem cell transplant meant that Hassan was now a candidate for a corneal transplant.  One year later a successful cornea transplant brought positive changes to his life and started to lift his depression.

“It was a blessing,” he said, “to see the faces of my wife and children after almost eight years of blindness.  I could help my wife again.  I could do things for myself and start to exercise.  I could even begin to drive during the day.  Every man likes to do things for himself.  It was an amazing feeling.”

Hassan (centre) with his son, Mahmoud (left), and nephew   Ali (right), December 1998

With renewed sight and energy, Hassan resumed a regular exercise programme and immediately began to see an improvement in his mental health.  Discussing the importance for him of a healthy mind in a healthy body, Hassan felt that his renewed ability to get involved in sport gave him the strength and motivation to live a happy and full life.  A keen football fan, Hassan now coaches a local second league team as well as coaching rifle shooting.

This was not so, unfortunately, for many of his comrades.

“I tried not to think of myself as an invalid,” he says.  “All my other friends who were exposed to chemical weapons in the same operation – they are all dead now.  They saw themselves as really sick people.  I kept pleading with them to get outside and do something, to be more active.  But my friends never left their homes, staying close to their oxygen, and the psychological pressures of their illnesses overwhelmed them.  I am sad about that.”

Hassan (left) at the Hiroshima Nuclear Bomb Memorial, August 2014

Hassan’s positive energy along with the devotion of his wife and family has helped to give him an optimistic outlook on life despite his difficulties.  He is now a peace activist with a powerful message.

“As a victim of chemical weapons myself,” he concluded, I want to share this message that we need to eliminate all wars.  We must open the doors of dialogue and negotiation.  We must abolish chemical weapons.”

Oral reflection by: Hassan Hassan Tabar
Farsi to English translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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The half-day Workshop and exhibition "Peace counts" was held on June 18th, 2017 in Herat University Peace Center for 25 participants from 5 faculties of this university (law and Political Science; Social Sciences; Islamic Law and Science; Journalism; Public Relations and Education ), which included discussions on conflict resolution and conflict transformation.

The Peace Counts workshop was held in the Saravan, the capital of Saravan County in Sistan and Baluchestan Province, on December 17th, 2016. This workshop was held in Islamic Azad university of Saravan, with 13 participants from students, lecturers and staffs. Some lawyers and officials of Saravan were among the participants as well. 

During the workshop different concepts of peace as well as conflict escalation levels were discussed. The posters with the central point of local mediators specially "New Life for an Old Tradition" was the subject of discussions since the participants thought it can be an acceptable way of de-escalation in their region too.

The Peace Counts workshop was held in Shiraz University on December 14th, 2016. This workshop was held in Shiraz University with 8 participants, students of law and psychology, were among them. Participants were members of AIESEC (International Association of Students in Economic and Commercial Sciences).

During the workshop participants got familiar with different concepts of peace after reading the Peace Counts Posters. Different aspects of peace as well as Galtung triangle on peace and violence were discussed in this workshop. After a role play based on Peace Counts posters, the participants talked in the groups on nine level of conflict escalation and the role of a mediator in each level.

The "Professional Course on Peace Education" was held at Tehran Peace Museum (TPM) as a joint project with Berghof Foundation from 7th to 11th, November 2016. 

The Peace Counts workshop was held in the Tehran Peace Museum on February 2nd, 2016. 15 participants from 6 member organization of the Council for Promoting the Culture of Peace for Children were present in this workshop.

Faculty of Law and Political Sciences of Allameh Tabatabai University in Tehran hosted the "Peace Counts" exhibition on 13-20 December, 2015. The exhibition was organized in collaboration with the Tehran Peace Museum on the occasion of the National Research Week. 

The Peace Counts Exhibition and related workshops were held in the Tehran Peace Museum (TPM) from 20th to 24th July 2015 with the presence of representatives from the Berghof Foundation from Germany.

The second “Peace Counts” workshop was held in Tehran Peace Museum on January 7th. In this workshop in which some of the volunteers of “The Council of Promoting the Culture of Peace for Children” were present, the participants learnt about different definitions of peace and the conflict escalation.
The Council of Promoting the Culture of Peace for Children is consisted of different NGOs including TPM which work to promote the culture of peace with a focus on working for the children.

To see the photos of this event, please click here.