When I Was 19 Years Old

War is hell and the only way to overcome violation. The war between Iran and Iraq was imposed to Iran in 1980, and this unequal battle lasted 8 years. Military forces and ordinary people were headed to the war front. When I entered Abadan I was 19. There was war, war, and only war! The soil smelled blood! The rain of enemy's bullets and mortar shrapnel shells became floods that swept away the helpmates. Trenches and embankments were replete with epic and homeland. The South (cities in south of Iran) will remain an eternal evidence to homeland love and departure. Thirty-four years ago I traveled abroad to continue my studies and I started a new life. There was no trace of my peers. Rainy and cloudy days had covered most of images carved in my mind. The silence and cold of that geography was a huge volume of fall; a colorful autumn at the length of my youth! I am 56 years old now, and I have come back to my motherland. The war ended years ago. Many things are changed. I found the city, our alley, and my father's house, but I am still thinking about the remaining part of me in this land. To remember the memories of those days I went to war regions. Heat of the South burned my face. Despite the passage of time, the wounds of the cities are still fresh. The old, young and children are walking around; I am walking among the people like a stranger; but, this faraway land, these beheaded palm trees, rivers, canebrakes, and this burning sun are familiar. A greeting floating in the silence is calling me; yes, it is calling me! I am an amateur photographer, and being full of the memories of those days, I took photos wherever I get; I took photos of embankments, rusty iron pieces, collapsed trenches, and the people who were like me and are gone! I photographed my memories; perhaps, this is the remained part of me in the South of my country.