Maryam Varasteh - GPC Student
I am always looking forward to go to my grandparents’ house and listen to the interesting stories of their pastime. Usually, after dinner we sit by the fireplace waiting for my grandmother or grandfather to recollect one of their fascinating stories. They tell us the stories of their courage, love and sacrifices; they make us laugh, cry or leave us speechless. One of their stories that I will never forget as long as I live happened eighty years ago.
In the summer of 1922, my grandparents’ hometown, located in the south part of Iran, faced the worst case of famine. Many people died and lost their families from starvation. At that time, my grandparents had four children ages, two, four, seven and ten which was very difficult to provide food for all of them. Fortunately, they had a supply of ground wheat that could last them for few months, but they had to use it scarcely and cautiously. My grandmother had to make only a small loaf of bread for the whole family, and she had to make it in the basement with the door closed so that nobody in the neighborhood could smell it; otherwise many people who were starving to death would surround the house. Sometimes my grandparents wouldn’t eat anything for few days, and they were still thankful that they could at least feed their children. Sadly, in spite of all of their sacrifices, the reserved wheat lasted only for four months challenging my grandparents to find other alternatives to feed the family.
It really broke my heart when my grandmother told us that they had to sell their wedding rings in order to buy a bag of wheat for the family, but my grandmother thought that compared to other unfortunate incidents that exchange was not important. After a month, every day my grandfather had to travel forty miles away to the neighboring town without any transportation to exchange a piece of furniture or a piece of grandmother’s jewelry for just a handful of wheat, corn, barley or any other grains that were available. On his way to the town, he had observed so many sorrowful scenes that he could never forget in his lifetime. He had seen many unfortunate people on every corner of filthy streets of the gloomy town taking their last breath or begging for a piece of bread or a sip of water. In tears, he even told us the stories of his friends who had to kill their own pets to feed their children.
Although my grandparents did their best to provide food for their family, a few months after the tragic disaster they lost their youngest son because of the lack of nutrition. While grandmother was wiping her tears with her white brocaded handkerchief, she told us how the death of her son deeply wounded her soul and his death is the main reason that she could never forget the depressing demoralizing summer of 1922.
Nowadays this story may seem cruel and farfetched to many young people, but to my grandparents it is the real story of survival. I hope that in my lifetime I never face such a tragedy, but I would like to have a chance to experience their bravery, devotion and strength and to be able to share them with my grandchildren.