Ahmad Zangiabadi

Chemical Weapons Victim from the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988)

1965-2014

Ahmad Zangiabadi in January 2014. (Photo courtesy of   Time Magazine)

 Ahmad Zangiabadi died two weeks ago.  The day was Tuesday, the 18th of November 2014.  He was 49 years old.  The cause of his death was respiratory collapse.

Ahmad was born in Kerman on the 9th of April 1965, into an ordinary Iranian family.  But when the Iran-Iraq war started in 1980 over a territorial dispute, he followed the well-trodden path chosen by patriotic young men from across the ages.  He volunteered to join the army and went off to defend Iran.

Ahmad spent his military career on the southern front defending Iran’s control of the Arvand River – the Shatt al-Arab – where he was a member of the volunteer army’s logistics unit.

“In 1984,” said Ahmad in an interview before his death, “Iraq was dropping chemical bombs on our troops.  We didn’t even know what chemical bombs were.”

Map of Iran, courtesy Atlas of Mustard Gas    Injuries (2012)

On the 12th of April 1985, Ahmad was positioned with his unit in the Tala’ie region of the Majnoon Island when Iraq dropped a sulphur mustard gas bomb on his position.  He was then only 19 years old.

When people are exposed to sulphur mustard gas, in more than 95 per cent of cases they don’t die.  Most associated deaths occur either as a result of the explosive blast itself or when the patients – in a condition of vulnerability and exposed to liquid chemicals – are being transported to medical facilities.  The real trauma and tragedy come afterwards.  The symptoms of mustard gas are slow-onset.  Many veterans have told of feeling quite well for some time even after the explosion.  Ahmad was no different, and it was not until several hours after the attack that he began to feel unwell.

“It was about 10pm in the evening,” Ahmad recalled, “when I first realized that something was wrong.  I guessed that I had been exposed to chemicals.  I asked someone to replace me at the front so that I could go to the medical centre.”

Ahmad’s condition rapidly worsened.  His eyes were severely burned and he started vomiting violently.  His entire body began to break out in burns and blisters.

“I was taken to Tehran to a hospital,” said Ahmad, “and I lay unconscious for about 40 days.”

Ahmad as a young volunteer soldier in 1982.    (Photo courtesy of Tehran Peace Museum)

Ahmad slowly began to understand that his lungs had been damaged permanently and for the next 30 years his life would be dependent on medication, hospitalization and a series of oxygen machines.  After the war, Ahmad got married.  In time, Ahmad’s wife, Marzieh, would be his loyal and dedicated nurse, administering his medication, helping him with his oxygen machines and making life as comfortable as possible for him.

After the war, Ahmad tried to further his education and enrolled at a local university to study English literature.  However, the sulphur mustard had burned his cornea and his eyesight had rapidly deteriorated.  His lung condition worsened and after falling into a coma and being hospitalized, he was forced to give up any hope of continuing his studies.

Ahmad guiding school children around the Tehran Peace   Museum, June 2012. (Photo courtesy of Tehran Peace   Museum)

As one of over 100,000 survivors of chemical warfare in Iran from the war with Iraq, Ahmad sought for himself a role in helping other survivors.  He joined a non-governmental organization, the Society for Chemical Weapons Victims Support (SCWVS) later becoming a board member.

In 2007, Ahmad began a career as a volunteer guide at The Tehran Peace Museum.  As an eyewitness and survivor, Ahmad escorted visitors around the museum and gave first hand accounts of the terrible consequences of chemical weapons.  He served as living testimony to the open wounds – both literal and metaphorical – still troubling war veterans, civilians and many people who continue to be affected by secondary contamination from sulphur mustard.

A committed campaigner for peace, Ahmad travelled with delegates from the Tehran Peace Museum to The Hague in April 2013.  The group attended the Third Review Conference of the Chemical Weapons Convention at the Organization for the Prevention of Chemical Weapons (OPCW).  While moving around with his portable oxygen machine, Ahmad was honoured to meet the Secretary General of the United Nations, Mr. Ban Ki Moon, and the OPCW’s Director General, Mr. Ahmed Üzümcü and asked them to double their efforts to make a world free of chemical weapons.

Ahmad Zangiabadi at the OPCW Conference in The Hague,   April 2013 (Photo courtesy of Tehran Peace Museum)

With each laboured breath, Ahmad described his role at the Tehran Peace Museum and shared the experiences of survivors like him.  Sadly, within the last year of his life, Ahmad’s respiratory condition worsened.

“I am a candidate for a lung transplant,” he said, “my lungs were burnt so badly that they can’t provide my body with the oxygen it needs.”

Ahmad did not live long enough to receive the lung transplant.  His dream of taking deep breaths would not come true.

Ahmad Zangiabadi is survived by his widow, Marzieh, and his only son, Hesam.

But through his work and the lives he touched, Ahmad’s story will live on and his tireless campaigning to see a world free of chemical weapons will be remembered.

Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

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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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