A Gift - Literature

The Gift

The scent of orange blossoms filled the air.
People were helping to load the Basiji (volunteer militia) supplies onto trucks.
Hamid leaned against the sidewalk, supporting himself against the mosque’s pillar.
As he heard the sound of the attack march, his heart rate intensified. He quietly murmured, "Just a few more days until I turn fifteen, and I'm going to the front."
A lump formed in his throat. He stamped his shoe against the sidewalk and told himself, "Will my mother allow it?"
Every morning, Hamid cleaned and wore the boots that belonged to his martyred cousin, parading around in them. One day, as he threaded the laces through the holes in his boots, a spark ignited in his mind. He abandoned his shoes, ran to his room, broke open his piggy bank, and crumpled the money in his pockets. He quickly went to the shop around the corner, panting, bought a Turkmen scarf and a gift wrapping paper. He searched the street and reached home, hiding his purchase from his mother, he began to write a letter. In the letter, he wrote his biggest wish for his mother. He folded the letter inside the scarf, wrapped the scarf as a gift, and prayed to God, hoping his plan would yield a good result.
He saw his mother busy washing dishes. He lowered his head and, despite his hesitation, couldn't hold back.
He placed the gift in front of his mother on the cabinet and left, shouting, "Happy Mother's Day!"
He picked up his school bag and headed to school.
On the way, he prayed that his mother would agree to let him go to the front. In class, his mind was preoccupied with the outcome of his letter.
As he walked home from school, he kept thinking, "Will my mother allow me to go to the front? What if she doesn't? What will I do?"
He hurried along the path from school to home, reaching the door.
He put his hand on the doorbell, thinking that Fatima, his sister, would open the door.
The door opened, and he saw his mother standing in the doorway.
He greeted his mother, and she replied and embraced him. Tears streamed down both their faces. Now, his mother knew what was in his son’s heart and what effort he had made for a year to go to the front. Fourteen days later was the date of the Basiji’s departure from the local mosque.
Hamid felt his heart pounding. His mother led Hamid under the Quran and entrusted her son to the Merciful God.
Days passed, and Hamid’s mother helped with behind-the-front activities to lessen the hardship of the absence.
At dawn, golden rays of sunlight illuminated the earth. During this time, Hamid’s mother’s heart churned like vinegar and salt, especially on days when the attack march was broadcast on the radio or the sound of ambulances carrying the wounded was heard in the street. Then, one day, Hamid’s father came home early from work and said, "Wife, I have something to tell you. Don't be upset. If you can bear it, I'm going to tell you. What happened?" His mother said, "No, what is it? Has something happened?" His father said, "I received a phone call that Hamid is hospitalized."
Upon hearing these words, Hamid’s mother’s face paled, and tears streamed down her face as she said, "Oh God, I ask you for my son’s health and patience."
Two hours passed before the sun began to sink. A queue of visitors waited in the hospital courtyard, anticipating the opening of the doors.
Hamid’s father said to his wife, "Wife, don't cry. Is our child’s blood more colorful than that of others? So many young men are sacrificing their lives in the front to defend our religion and our land."
His mother raised her hands and said, "Oh God, give my son patience." And she wiped her tears with a handkerchief.
The moment they were allowed to visit, it was as if Hamid had been returned to his family.
Hamid’s mother, ignoring those around her, reached his bed and embraced him with all her strength, saying, "My son, I forgive you, my mother forgives you."
Suddenly, she felt that his right hand was missing. She separated from her son, looking at him in bewilderment. She pointed to the empty space where his hand should have been and said, "What? What happened?"
Hamid, with a smile mixed with embarrassment, lowered his head and said, "Hazrat Abu al-Fazl only gave away his hand, but I only..." His mother, covering her face with tears of joy, cut off his words and said, "You have grown up so much, my dear son, Hamid." And she raised her hands to the sky and said, "Oh God, accept Hamid’s gift, my son’s martyrdom."

Gol Afshan Gol Mohammadi

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