Surviving Chemical Weapons: A Partner’s Story

Part One

 

“I was 22 years old, determined to educate myself and marriage was the last thing on my mind. Then I met Ahmad Zangiabadi and my whole life changed.”

 

Marzieh Tahmasebi met and married Ahmad Zangiabadi in 1991 – six years after he had been exposed to chemical weapons during the war. As she tells it, the match was made in heaven. But it was a life together that ended too soon with Ahmad’s death on 18 November 2014. From respiratory failure.

 

Marzieh Tahmasebi in June 2015

Ahmad was a survivor of chemical weapons used during the Iran-Iraq War from 1980-1988 and his increasingly debilitated condition shaped the course of their married life.

 

“When I was 21, I was still a bit reluctant to get married,” said Marzieh. “I had two sisters who went to university but didn’t complete their studies. They left to get married. My father wanted me to do the same, but I wasn’t having any of that. I wanted to get out and work. I wanted to study.”

 

So, while Marzieh’s family invited – and entertained – a large number of suitors for her to consider, the determined young woman rejected them all. She continued her work and accountancy studies in her hometown of Kerman.

 

In traditional and religious Iranian families, it is the family’s responsibility to arrange a marriage and match couples. For young women especially, there are certain cities where it was (and remains) difficult to go out in public alone and parents of daughters are anxious to see their girls married off to suitable young men.

 

Pressure also comes from siblings. “My older brother was very anxious that I get married,” Marzieh recalled, “and I really wasn’t interested. Actually, we once had quite a big argument about it.”

 

But, when the arguing was over, Marzieh realized that her brother only had her welfare at heart, and so she reluctantly agreed – to his face – to let him find a suitable husband for her.

 

“Of course,” Marzieh added with a smile, “I didn’t tell him that I planned to reject every man he brought to the house.”

 

Ahmad as a volunteer soldier, 1984

The matchmaking went on at a feverish pace with all the customary drama and intrigue. Eventually, a certain Ahmad Zangiabadi entered her life. Ahmad was considered to be an eligible match and was invited, along with his family, to Marzieh’s home. On the day of the visit, with the guests seated in the front room of the house, Marzieh’s younger brother decided to make some fun and pulled the curtain back dividing the front room and the kitchen, where Marzieh was busily making the tea.

 

“I was so annoyed with him,” Marzieh said, “it was an impolite thing to do and the visitors would think I was some bold young woman with no manners desperate to see the young man.”

 

But, as the fuss died down and Marzieh pulled the curtain back, she caught her first glimpse of her future husband and life started to take on a different perspective for this determined young woman.

 

“Ahmad was sitting with his back to me,” Marzieh remembered, “and all I saw were these strong, firm, proud hands.”

 

“My heart skipped a beat.”

 

And so it was, that much to her family’s surprise, Marzieh – who had rejected one suitor after another – told her father that this was the man she wanted to marry.

 

“I don’t know what it was,” she said, “I couldn’t even look at him but my heart was racing. I knew it was just meant to be.”

 

The engagement was announced, the wedding plans started to unfold. This is when discussions also started about Ahmad’s war wounds. Ahmad had been a young volunteer soldier during the Iran-Iraq War. In fact, he was only 19 years old when Iraqi forces dropped a sulphur mustard gas bomb near his brigade in the Tala’ie area of the Majnoon Islands on 12 April 1985. Ahmad suffered severe skin burns, as well as permanent damage to his lungs and his corneas. He had recovered from the initial injuries but the medical consequences of chemical weapons were still largely unknown at that time.

 

Marzieh and Ahmad on their honeymoon in  Mashhad, April 1991

Ahmad’s parents were honest with Marzieh’s family about their son’s injuries and met with the family to discuss what had happened and what kind of future might lie in store for the young couple.

 

“Ahmad’s father said to us,” recalled Marzieh, “that his son had been exposed to chemical weapons and that none of us really knew what this was or what might happen in the future but that Ahmad was in good health at that time.”

 

Marzieh’s father also had a heart-to-heart talk with his daughter, asking her if she was really sure that she wanted to marry a man who had been so damaged by chemical weapons.

 

“My father knew that I really wanted to marry Ahmad,” Marzieh said, “but he wanted me to think about what might happen because of Ahmad’s exposure to mustard gas. He was worried that we might not be able to have children or if we did have children that they might develop problems. He told me to think about what it might be like if Ahmad’s first symptoms returned.

 

And, Marzieh did think about it. She thought long and hard about what the future might hold and gave her father her answer.

 

“You can decide my future,” Marzieh told her father, “and I will accept it. But I will not say no to this man. If you want to say no, then you have to do it – not me.”

 

Ahmad and Marzieh were married on 18 April 1991 and moved into their own apartment in Kerman to begin their future together.

 

However, from the first days of their married life, the consequences of the chemical weapons began to slowly reveal themselves. En route to their honeymoon in the holy city of Mashhad, the couple had to stop off to visit Ahmad’s doctor in Tehran.

 

Ahmad constantly had problems with coughing and shortness of breath. Attributing this to seasonal colds and infections, the newlyweds didn’t think much of it at the time and waited for the symptoms to go away.

 

But the coughing didn’t go away.

 

“We had only been married for seven months,” Marzieh said, “when our landlord, who lived in the apartment beneath us, came to ask me one day why Ahmad was always coughing and what was wrong with him.”

 

Marzieh explained that her husband had been exposed to chemical weapons during the war and the coughing was a result of the damage to his lungs.

 

“You may want to sacrifice your lives,” the landlord said, “but I don’t want my family to get sick, so you will need to pack up and leave.”

 

Marzieh and Ahmad had no choice but to move in with Ahmad’s family and, in the dry dusty air of Kerman, Ahmad’s condition deteriorated even further.

 

Hesam at about 8 months old

The following year after their marriage, Marzieh gave birth to a healthy boy, Hesam. Sadly for Ahmad, his health prevented him from doing things that fathers normally do with their children.

 

“Ahmad couldn’t carry Hesam for very long,” Marzieh said, “and when Hesam started to walk and run, his father couldn’t run with him. He couldn’t even toss him up in the air and catch him.”

 

By the time their son was six years old, Ahmad’s condition was in such a dreadful state that the family feared that he would not live long. Ahmad’s lungs deteriorated and he struggled to breathe and started to cough up blood. The old sores on his skin began to reappear and his eyesight was appallingly poor.

 

“Around that time,” Marzieh said, “our doctor in Kerman said that there was nothing much he could do to save Ahmad’s eyesight and the doctor suggested surgically removing his eyes.”

 

Pinning his hopes on new scientific discoveries that he had been hearing about, Ahmad flatly refused to do this and his eyesight improved for a short time after a conjunctiva transplant donated by his own brother.

 

“Ahmad’s brother’s eyes were healthy,” said Marzieh, “so donating his conjunctiva was a very simple procedure and his brother’s conjunctiva grew back very quickly.”

 

By 1998, Ahmad’s health went very rapidly from bad to worse. He developed osteoporosis and his lung condition worsened so much that he needed

Ahmad in hospital after chemical    weapons attack, 1985

to continually use oxygen tanks to help him breathe. Many chemical weapons victims have to use cortisone medication and this caused Ahmad to gain weight and his body started to bloat. Consequently, as his body began to swell, his heart could not pump enough oxygen to the rest of his body and he began to have severe problems with his heart.

 

“The doctor in Kerman told me that we had to leave if Ahmad was to survive,” Marzieh said. “We didn’t want to leave our families but we had no choice, so in 1999, we moved to Tonekabon City in Mazandaran Province in northern Iran.”

 

Northern Iran was the destination for many chemical-weapons victims forced to leave their homes for a more humid climate and less polluted air that would help them to breathe more easily.

 

“When we reached Mazandaran,” Marzieh recalled, “Ahmad felt like a bird released from a cage. New life slowly crept into him and he could breathe again.”

 

This initial freedom was short lived however, when shortly after their arrival Ahmad drove their car to the market to do some shopping. His war wounds had caused his reflexes to slow down and he got into a car accident on the way to the shops which sent him into a coma for two months.

 

It was at this point that their local doctor in Tonekabon insisted that Marzieh learn some basic first-aid and nursing skills if she was to help her husband to survive.

 

“I borrowed nursing books from the Tonekabon University,” said Marzieh, “and I also went for two weeks’ training at the local medical centre, where they taught me how to give injections, take blood pressure and monitor heart rate. I was really nervous at first, but with all this help, I soon became more confident in nursing.”

 

Marzieh's carpet weaving she started with Ahmad in 2014

In time, Ahmad recovered and after overcoming the culture shock of living in a strange place with new people, Ahmad, Marzieh and Hesam began to enjoy a more normal life. They made friends with other chemical weapons survivors and other more open-minded people in their community. Ahmad and other veterans started their own taxi company and Marzieh began to work on her carpet weaving and embroidery, teaching the craft as well as practicing it.

 

“During this period,” said Marzieh, “we tasted the sweet life. We built a family atmosphere around ourselves with our friends. We were accepted into our local community and were not lonely anymore.”

 

But, sadly, this sweet life didn’t last long and, by 2008, Ahmad’s condition had become once again so bad that, in order to be closer to bigger and better hospitals, the couple were forced to move to Tehran.

 

To be continued…

 

Based on interviews with Marzieh Tahmasebi (May to June 2015)
Written by Elizabeth Lewis
Persian Translation by Elaheh Pooyandeh

 

 

{jcomments on}

 

Saeid Sadeghi

Professor Mahdi Balali-Mood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

Young Reporters at The TPM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 .

 

Marzyeh Tahmasebi Part 2	Marzyeh Tahmasebi Part 1
Faride Shafe'i

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 .

 

 

Hamid Salehi: A Journey from War to Peace

 

Dr. Hamid Salehi at the Tehran Peace Museum, May 2015

“My friends who died in the war, they went on an express train with no return ticket. I was on an ordinary train, and I came home.” Dr. Hamid Salehi, Iranian veteran and chemical weapons survivor of the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988), spoke these words as he reflected on how his war experiences have transformed him.

 

Once a starry-eyed teenager, he is now wizened by life’s trials. An academic, he has risen to become a respected international relations professor and board member of the Tehran Peace Museum.

 

“I don’t really know why I wanted to join the army,” Hamid said, “but I decided to defend my country. I wanted to go to the front and fight.”

 

In the winter of 1982, Hamid was barely 15 years old with a heart pumped full of patriotism and passion to defend his country – already two years into a long and bloody war with its neighbour. Knowing full well that he was underage, he needed to find a way to get himself to the front.

 

“I used my older brother’s birth certificate,” Hamid confessed, “and the Basij (volunteer soldiers) recruitment officers didn’t really take notice. When I turned up for my training, I just told them they had made a mistake with the name. They changed it and my dream came true.”

 

From that day on until the end of the war in August 1988, Hamid served in the army. Undeterred by bullet and shrapnel wounds, he found himself, time after time, back at the front in the southern sector of the war around the disputed waters of the Shatt-al Arab – or Arvand Rud as it is known in Iran.

 

“I didn’t finish my schooling before going to war,” Hamid said, “but in war no-one tells you that you are a child anymore. I had no idea how to manage at that young age, but I had chosen this path and I learned quickly how to become a soldier.”

 

By the winter of 1986, young Hamid had grown up fast. His school was the battleground and his teachers were his officers. At this time, Hamid was playing his part in the preparations for the major military operation, known as Valfajr 8.

 

Hamid stationed in southern sector of the war, near Talaie, Majnoon Islands, December 1984

“Valfajr 8 began on 9 February 1986,” Hamid said, “and at that time we were billeted in a disused school building in a town called Arvand Kenar. We were almost directly opposite the Iraqi port of Al Faw and our mission was to cut off Iraq from its access to the Persian Gulf and international waterways.”

 

Hamid’s job was to operate the heavy anti-tank artillery. In the morning, he would move his rocket firing machinery to the front line. Then, in the evening, he would bring it to the rear in preparation for the following day’s offensive. “The heavy artillery was of no use to anyone after dark,” Hamid said, “so we had to transport it to the back line every night.”

 

Hamid and his comrades had just returned to their billet on the fifth day of the offensive. It was around 5 o’clock in the afternoon on 15 February. “I was sweeping our room in the old schoolhouse,” Hamid said, “when we heard Iraqi jets flying overhead. We always went out to watch when the planes came, so I dropped what I was doing and ran outside.”

 

With about 20 of his fellow soldiers, Hamid watched as three Iraqi jets thundered overhead. The men watched in awe as one jet started to nosedive. “We thought it was about to crash. We started to cheer and clap,” recalled Hamid, “as we were convinced this plane was heading straight for the ground.”

 

But the jet didn’t crash. With a dramatic turn to pull out of the dive the jet released a number of bombs – including a combination of both conventional and chemical bombs - and then flew off, leaving chaos, carnage and insufferable bloodshed.

 

Chemical bombs are not like conventional bombs. Conventional bombs require an explosive device to detonate their particular brand of horror. Chemical bombs do not need an explosive device. When the bomb hits the ground it breaks open and releases its contents slowly and insidiously.

 

Hamid with his commanding officer in the southern sector of the war, Autumn 1984

While  Hamid and his friends were struggling to cope with the mayhem brought about by the conventional bombs, they were oblivious to the chemical bomb that had been simultaneously dropped behind the school building – adding an unseen layer of evil to this devastating scene.

 

“It was a horrific scene.” Hamid paused as he recollected the memory of that bloody afternoon. “There were dead bodies all over the place. Some of my friends had died. One of my friends had his body severed in two.”

 

Shortly after the attack, specialist units dealing with chemical and biological weapons appeared and found the chemical bomb at the back of the bombed out school – seeping a dark liquid into the air.

 

“The specialists told us that there was a chemical bomb here,” recalled Hamid, “and they told us that we were all exposed to chemical weapons and we had to go immediately for treatment at the special hospital units.”

“I was terrified.”

 

Hamid and his comrades were immediately taken to a temporary medical unit, dug into the ground, where chemical weapons victims were given first aid treatment before being sent to the main cities for the necessary medical care.

 

“We had to take off all our clothes,” Hamid remembered, “and then the medics injected a serum into us to force us to vomit.”

 

The usual symptoms that follow exposure to sulphur mustard gas – burning skin, eyes and lungs – do not show immediately. It is only slowly that they begin to reveal their sinister and permanent nature.

 

“The first sign that I had been exposed to chemicals,” Hamid said, “was about three or four hours after the attack when I couldn’t open my eyes without prizing them open with my fingers.”

 

After a long and traumatizing train ride to Tehran, Hamid was eventually taken to Tehran’s Labbafinejad Hospital, which had become one of the main medical hubs for treating chemical weapons victims during the war.

 

Due to the severity of his injuries and a dangerously low white blood cell count, Hamid was immediately put into an isolation ward, where he was to spend most of the following four months.

 

Hamid receiving visitors while in Labbafinejad Hospital, May 1986

“Some of my friends died in the hospital,” Hamid remembered, “but I was determined to survive and I remained positive that I would live through this.”

 

Hamid’s resolve succeeded and once his blistered skin had healed, he made his way back to the battlefield.

 

“I just had to get back to the front,” Hamid said, “I didn’t realize that I only had about 50% lung capacity but it didn’t stop me so I just took medication for the coughing. Both corneas were burnt, but I just wore special dark glasses to protect my eyes.”

 

By the time the war had ended in a bitter stalemate in August 1988, Hamid had risen to the rank of Farmandeh in the volunteer army, commanding an anti-armour batallion of around 200 to 300 men. At this crucial time in his life, Hamid set himself three goals: to complete his education, to find a wife and start a family and to seek medical treatment for his chemical weapons injuries.

 

The medical treatment – in retrospect - was the easiest part. Yet, even that continues to be constant and painful. There is no cure for anyone who is exposed to sulphur mustard gas. The consequences live with the survivors forever.

Hamid's damaged cornea, June 2010

 

Hamid’s scars have healed, but his lungs and eyes are constantly treated but never cured. Hamid spent the early years of his married life in Arak, one of Iran’s most polluted cities. The damage to his lungs was such that, despite four months of treatment in hospitals in London in the 1990s, he was forced to move to Tehran, where there is marginally less pollution but immediate access to specialized hospitals and doctors. His most recent hospitalization for lung disease was in March of this year.

 

Mustard gas burns the corneas and there is no possibility for repair. Hamid has had several cornea transplants and continues to suffer from poor eyesight.

 

And yet, as if Hamid’s medical problems were not stressful enough, he still had more challenges to overcome. Completing his education and settling back into society were to prove much more difficult than Hamid had ever imagined.

 

Hamid took advantage of the post-war educational facilities offered to veteran soldiers. With a fixed purpose to succeed and get into university, he completed his high school education and eventually passed the entrance exams to gain entry to the prestigious University of Tehran.

 

Reflecting on his past struggles, Hamid said, “It was not easy to complete my education after so many years away fighting in the war. I prayed to God to help me to please be a useful man and He has helped me in this.”

 

“There was a lot of discrimination against veterans like me,” Hamid continued. “The other students at university who hadn’t gone to war did not consider me to be anything like a war hero. Some said that without the government privileges someone like me from my humble background would never have made it into the University of Tehran.”

 

Hamid attending a conference at OPCW in The Hague, December 2013

“That hurt me,” Hamid said.

 

This overt discrimination did not deter Hamid from pursuing his dreams. Rather, he was determined more than ever to prove himself to be a useful and worthy man. Hamid completed his doctorate in international relations, and now holds the position of assistant professor in the Faculty of Law and Political Science in Tehran University of Allameh Tabatabaei.

 

But Hamid’s learning journey was not yet over. He was to face even more stigma in trying to reintegrate himself back into ordinary society. His exposure to chemical weapons had created a poisonous atmosphere in his own village, where he struggled to be accepted.

 

“After the war, when I was about 21,” Hamid recalled, “I really wanted to get married but it became such a problem for me.”

 

In recounting this part of his story for the interview, telling of the negativity coming from his own neighbours, he lowered his head and said, “Everyone knew that I had been caught in a chemical attack. None of the families wanted me to marry their daughters. They thought I might die soon or that if we had children, they would also have medical problems.”

 

Hamid did eventually propose to a local girl. But the love story was short lived and his heart was cruelly broken.

 

“I had gone to propose to this girl,” Hamid said with a faint smile, “and I had offered her a ring and given pastries to the family. But after I left, someone from the village went to the family and told them that I was very sick from the chemical attack and that I would die soon.”

 

“The next day,” Hamid said with a sigh, “the family returned the ring to me and broke off the engagement.”

 

Hamid (4th from right standing) joins Tehran Peace Museum delegation at Hiroshima Peace Memorial Ceremony, August 2014

Unable to settle back into life in his own village, Hamid was forced to move on. With the help of a friend, he met and married a young lady from another town and after their marriage in 1989, they settled down in Arak. Happily married and now living in Tehran, Hamid and his wife have a loving family of three healthy and exuberant children.

 

As Hamid reflected on how his life’s journey had brought him to where he is now, he stated that he would not change the path that he had chosen. Hamid continues to deal with stigma and discrimination, even from his own university students, intolerant of his constant coughing.

 

“My job now,” Hamid concluded, “is not only to teach young people about politics. The war has made me what I am now. And I bring my students to the Tehran Peace Museum to get a different type of education. They learn, I hope, from the experiences of people like me, to be more tolerant, more understanding and to learn about peace.”

 

 

Interview with Dr. Hamid Salehi, 15 May 2015
Written by Elizabeth Lewis
Persian interpretation by Golmehr Kazari

 

{jcomments on}

 

 

Professor Mahdi Balali-Mood

 

Iran’s pioneering toxicologist – a man dedicated to helping chemical weapons victims

Professor Balali visiting Tehran Peace museum,   October 2014

Professor Mahdi Balali-Mood is a war hero of a different sort.  Although he bears no battle scars, Professor Balali has dedicated his professional career and his life to helping his fellow Iranians cope with the toxic effects of the chemical weapons used during the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988).

 

An award-winning chemist and physician, Professor Balali was the only toxicologist in Iran when the war started.  In fact, he had, at that time, already established the Medical Toxicology Centre at the University Hospital in his hometown of Mashhad.  

 

Shortly before the war started, he and his wife, Maryam, a pediatric dentist, had left Iran to further their studies at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland.

 

But by early 1983, Mahdi had completed his PhD in toxicology (specializing in therapeutics) and was teaching at Edinburgh University.  This was when he first heard the news that chemical weapons were being used against Iranians by Saddam Hussein’s forces.

 

“My wife and I were so upset about what was happening in our country,” he says, “that we felt it was our duty to come back and help.”

 

Although Saddam’s forces had experimented with mustard gas and nerve agents in the early years of the war, it was from August 1983 that sulphur mustard gas bombs were regularly being dropped on Iran.  By the end of the war in August 1988, approximately 1,800 tonnes of sulphur mustard  gas had been used against Iranian soldiers and civilians.

 

When he joined the war effort in 1983, Mahdi was immediately tasked, along with other medical professionals, to organize the mass treatment and care of Iran’s chemical weapons casualties.

 

No one had any prior experience of treating chemical weapons victims.  So Mahdi was not alone.  But Iran’s doctors and hospitals were able to rise to the occasion within the space of a few short months.

 

“My main task,” says Mahdi, “was to collaborate with the university hospital medical committee and write down some guidelines for the treatment of chemical weapons patients.”

 

Mahdi and his colleagues in Mashhad transformed the two large university hospitals – the Imam Reza and Ghaem hospitals – into units for the treatment of gassed soldiers.  

 

“When the heavy chemical attacks took place along our western border with Iraq,” remembers Mahdi, “the communications were really poor.  I was on call every night receiving telephone calls from the physicians in the field at all hours.  For the first gas bombings, a large number of the victims were brought straight to our hospital in Mashhad.”

 

Professor Balali (Front row, third from left) at Poisoning Treatment Centre   in Mashhad

The mass management of victims involved initial first aid treatment on or near the battlefield and then transportation to the closest hospitals for decontamination and treatment.

 

“Between 1983 and 1984,” says Mahdi, “C-130 military transport planes would arrive in Mashhad with more than 200 patients on board each time.  We only had 30 beds in our hospital, but we made room for all the emergency toxicology patients.”

 

Reacting to the emergency situation, Mahdi and his colleagues adapted their facilities to treat the chemical weapons victims.  Patients seeking elective surgery were turned away and medical emergencies were often sent to other hospitals.

 

“At first we had a lot of problems,” recounts Mahdi, “we were not really prepared for such a large number of gas victims.  We were not ready with suitable protective clothing.  As a result of this many of our own medical staff became susceptible to secondary contamination.  But the real problem was that our knowledge of first aid in the event of chemical attacks was simply not good at all.”

 

“What really caused us difficulty,” he adds, “is that sulphur mustard is a stable chemical.  So although the patients had taken showers and removed their clothing, the sulphur mustard was still present and doing damage.  So we made shower rooms in both hospitals to assist with additional decontamination of the patients.”

 

The fatality rate for those exposed to sulphur mustard gas can be as low as 1 per cent.   Indeed, most of the victims who succumbed to the gas did so at the blast site or as they were being transported to field or town hospitals.  However, sulphur mustard gas (for which there is no known antidote) delivers slow onset problems – affecting breathing, vision and the skin.  These plague the victims for the rest of their lives.

 

Through a process of trial and error, the Iranian medical services succeeded in organizing the mass management of the gas casualties and the subsequent treatment.  By 1985, Iranian medical professionals, with the help of the military medical corps, had organized a functioning system to cope with large numbers of victims.

 

Professor Balali receiving research award at Mashhad University   of Medical Sciences (MUMS ) in 2009

Between the years 1983 and 1985, Mahdi shared his knowledge of toxins and treatment by teaching his colleagues and travelling to the other major cities – Tehran, Shiraz and Isfahan – to train doctors in the necessary first aid and subsequent treatment of gas victims.

 

“In 1983,” says Mahdi, “even our Intensive Care Units (ICUs) were not designed for gas victims.  But by 1985 that had all changed.  We even had ICU poison centres.”

 

Mahdi continues, “We travelled the country to train doctors in how to treat gas victims.  Even interns – some of them in their last year in medical school – were trained in how to deal with chemical attacks.  Many then went to the front to help.”

 

In a time of such severe adversity, Iranian doctors appear to have collaborated admirably.  Many volunteered to go to the front and work in field hospitals.  “We had American-trained doctors as well as doctors from other disciplines,” says Mahdi, “who just turned themselves into toxicologists and did the best they could to help their fellow men.”

 

During the war and to this day, Mahdi is among a team of Iranian doctors who continue to treat long-term Iranian chemical weapons victims for their medical difficulties.

 

“The complications are vast,” he states, “the victims of sulphur mustard poisoning suffer for their whole lives because there is no effective treatment.  The main targets, of course, are the skin, eyes and respiratory system.  Sulphur mustard is an alkylating agent which affects the DNA and, to a lesser extent, the RNA and other proteins in the body.  As a result, this causes major dysfunction in both the respiratory and immune systems.”

 

Professor Balali receiving research award at MUMS in 2013

“But it is not only one organ that is involved,” Mahdi adds, “several organs are affected.  But in particular, the immune system.  This means that victims are highly susceptible to recurrent infections in the chest such as acute bronchitis and the possibility of developing cancer.”

 

According to Mahdi, because there is no antidote for sulphur mustard, the only medical response is to treat the victims’ symptoms.  For the rest of their days, chemical weapons victims have a lifestyle impeded by constant sickness and hospitalization.  Most victims suffer from respiratory diseases, which reduce the quality of their lifestyle, and many suffer from dyspnea – shortness of breath.  Consequently, a less active life-style leads to other complications such as diabetes myelitis, hypertension, high blood pressure, high cholesterol and obesity.  In severe cases, some victims fall prey to different forms of leukemia and lymphoma cancer.  Gastro intestinal problems are also common, especially resulting from the victims’ consumption of different life-saving medication.

 

In the post-war years, a number of clinics were established specifically to treat chemical weapons victims.  

 

“A few years after the war,” recalls Mahdi, “I was the first to make a special clinic in Mashhad for chemical weapons victims.  The clinic was called the Bonyad Janbazan, which is the support cooperative for war veterans.  Some colleagues and military physicians came to visit the clinic and copied the style in other cities in Iran.”

 

Sadly, as a result of government cutbacks and the effects of the multi-lateral and bi-lateral sanctions placed upon Iran, many of these clinics have been forced to close their doors.  The clinic in Mashhad closed and Tehran has only one special clinic open for gas victims.

 

“Nowadays,” Mahdi says, “chemical weapons victims are not treated in these clinics but are referred to specialists.  Many victims feel that they are being neglected as they no longer have access to the same facilities and benefits that they had received in the past.”

 

“The negative impact of sanctions has really been significant,” Mahdi says, “especially when it comes to buying medication.  Before the sanctions the medication was affordable but now it has increased to almost four times in price.  It is also difficult to access better quality foreign medication and many victims have to pay high prices on the black market.”

 

Yet, despite the difficulties faced by victims and doctors, Mahdi continues to dedicate his life to supporting the survivors, continuing his scientific research and raising awareness about the heinous nature of chemical weapons.

 

Mahdi has been involved – since its inception in 1997 – with the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons , the OPCW, which was awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace in 2013 for its efforts in working towards a world free of chemical weapons.

 

“In 2004,” recalls Mahdi, “I was elected to the Scientific Advisory Board (SAB) of the OPCW and served as vice-chairman from 2005 to 2012.  And, since 2012, I have been a member of OPCW’s Temporary Working Group focusing on education and outreach programmes and I have joined research projects concerning the immunological complications of patients with sulphur mustard poisoning.”

 

Traveling the world to share his expertise and to campaign against the use of chemical weapons, Mahdi has participated in many international conferences and driven scientific research in toxicology.  In addition to being a visiting professor in toxicology at the University of Newcastle in England, Mahdi has published a significant number of papers and books on his chosen subject and is currently focusing on the clinical toxicology of sulphur mustard compound as well as a youth project which seeks to explain toxicology to young chemistry students.

 

In collaboration with a number of Iranian colleagues, Mahdi established the Medical Toxicology Research Centre (MTRC)  at the Mashhad University of Medical Sciences (MUMS) in 2005, which was approved by the Ministry of Health and Medical Education in 2007.  Their research covers clinical toxicology, occupational and environment health.

 

Mahdi is a distinguished academic and physician, yet his humility and deep-seated desire to help others are among his most striking attributes.  

 

Professor Balali with Executive Director of the Tehran   Peace Museum, MohammadReza Taghipoor at Tehran   Peace Museum, October 2014

“During the gas attacks,” he recalls, “I would work day in and day out without a break.  My family criticized me and asked me to look after my own health more.  But I didn’t see what I was doing as “work”.  I thought I was helping to prevent people from dying and I felt as though I was making a difference.”

 

Still working after 42 years, Mahdi says he continues to be inspired by young medical professionals at the University Hospital in Mashhad who still give him the strength and the willpower to carry on.

 

“Nowadays,” he says, “I only see chemical weapons survivors.  I love to help these people with both their medical, psychological and family problems.  I am touched that they still seem to rely on me.”

 

When asked what message Mahdi would like to share with the world, he replies that more people should be made aware of the horrors of chemical weapons and should support the OPCW in its efforts to prevent future chemical warfare.

 

“We have to work on prevention,” he says firmly, “and we have to support chemical weapons victims.  Together, we can all cooperate to make a world free of chemical weapons.”

 

Oral reflection : Mahdi Balali-Mood
Written by Elizabeth Lewis

All Rights Reserved

{jcomments on}

 

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

 

{jcomments on}

 

 

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.

 

Jahanshah Sadeghi at Tehran Peace Museum

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

 

{jcomments on}

 

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

 

{jcomments on}