In My Flight Suit Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

In my flight suit

With Iran at the top
Of news, I am kebab.

I read and receive calls
Exposing: "Brave Girls,
Losing lives, sacrifice."

Some take it as news,
Some read the slogans,
See writings on the wall.

I shiver and recall
Rebels of old revolts.

I remember bullets,
I observed men, women
I saw the mosque, crowds
And saw deaths and injured.

I miss my classmate,
Bahardoost disappeared
When we were children.

I saw the innocent,
I talked with unaware
During, after shah.

To record all of them
Or to write about them
I may need the forests
And many, many birds
To make tons of paper
As well as quills to pen.

One of them is Ebi,
Friend of many years.

We met at Air Force Base
Then, became officers,
And flew Hercules
And became good friends.
One morning, in Tehran,
Went to squadron…

Everyone was silent,
I said hi, no answer.

I became suspicious
Till kind of overheard
Ebi's name, a whisper.

Soon after discovered
That was shot by rangers,
Puppets of government.

Asked about whereabouts
Nobody knew, talked…

Someone said hospital,
I jumped into my car.

Drove fast, non-stop,
A foot in, a foot out
Was among a crowd.

Everyone was searching
For their loss, were worried.

Each had lost somebody
To the guns and shooting
Of the monsters, Sepahis!

Wearing my flight suit
Most people respected
And led me to a nurse.

On the pole nearby
A list had many names
Ebi was among them…

I spoke with one nurse,
Politely, and questioned
About what had happened
To my old, old friend…

He made it clear
That Ebi was killed, dead.

His body with corpses
Was sent to the coroner.

He would be buried as
Apostate and worthless!

Promptly, thought in mind,
Had to rush and decide.

Called Mansoor Khotami
The head of personnel
And told him that Ebi,
Has been shot; is a victim.

Smart and clever
My friend, the major,
Helped us like an angel.

He sent the ambulance,
Removed and transferred
The cold body of my friend
To the Air Force headquarter.

I shifted direction
To face the collision
With Ebi's co-thinkers.

He was a communist,
Had gone to raise a fist
To help the mullahs end,
But we said something else.

"He went there to buy milk
For the daughter, baby,
And was aimed by mistake,
So, he is a martyr…"

His uncles, brothers
Kissed me and accepted.

Tavarishes and comrades,
Scolded me and cursed.

We arranged many to
Follow him to the grave.

I broke, raised my voice,
Shouted at the murderers.

Mohammad, our friend
Took me to the distance
Far from the earth, grave.

I saw the hands and legs,
Not buried, no owners,
The bodies were butchered!

Can ever write all these?
Will ever? Shall I? Will?

Many things, for too long,
During, after shah,
World around, in Iran,
During peace and war…

To do so need ocean
For the ink and all birds
For quills, and forests
For making the papers!

I saw my classmate
Go away, disappear,
And remember teacher
Insulted as the suspect
And I saw that the bricks
Were taken, broken
Then thrown at gunners.

Then, police with the guns
Using their firearms,
Shot people to the ground,
Killed, injured, and in blood.