Excerpt for I Miss Chamran by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

In the name of the Generous Answerer,

Who puts you to the test,

Day and night

I Miss Chamran

Narrated by His Wife

Habibeh Jafarian

I Miss Chamran

This is a work of nonfiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are based upon a true story and were obtained by a face-to-face interview. In this book, no pseudonyms have been used.

Published by arrangement with the Translator All rights reserved.

Copyright© 2017 by Islamic Civilization Discourse Institute

Translation © 2015 by Vahid Mardani

Editing © 2017 by Saeed Salari

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

Islamic Civilization Discourse Institute,

Translation Group 13

Rasht Street, Hafez Street, Tehran, I.R.Iran.

ICDI Publishing House Web site address is

ISBN: 978-1-387-92947-4

Electronic edition: July 2018

Originally published by Ravayat-e Fath © 2003

ISBN-13: 978-0-964-90935-2-9

Author: Jafarian-Habibeh © 1999


The vaster a man's vision, the greater his character. This vision can either be bound to the earthly life or free itself from the earth and head for the heavens. Chamran, a hero and a revolutionary, as well as an artist, whom we get to know in these pages through the words of an awakened girl shows us the reason why and how we have to prepare ourselves and, with pious thinking, take a step forward toward the realm of God-seekers and afterlife believers.

As for Chamran, this well-advised step led him into the sun of truth and the eternity world, from an earthy life and a worldly mind. Due to the nature of the sun that is unassuming munificence, he transcended himself yearning to gain this capability. Having become aware of the unpleasant and painful hours of the Lebanese people and the Palestinians, the Iranian professor, who is passing pleasant years and days in the land of Hollywood heroes, bypassed all those short-lived and mundane pleasures to spread the life-giving and luminous light on the life of Lebanese orphans and oppressed Palestinians.

In the land of Lebanon and in the midst of the chaos of chaos-mongers, he encountered a talented and willing rosebud named Ghada, whom he brings toward himself with a bright and pure love. In this way, Chamran with his spiritual experiences, makes the rungs of a ladder to fly Ghada's bird of soul and love, from the tempting dirt of the petty and fleeting world. When Ghada's candle flames and engulfs her soul, she grasps that in contrast to other men and women who bound themselves to this worldly world and are struggling for their slight wills, she must prize the light-giving existence and helpful hand of Chamran and run after him everywhere he steps and assist him to triumph over oppression and injustice and to relieve social pain and political seditions.

When these two lovers like Abraham, Moses, Mary, Jesus and Muhammad called themselves the servants of the infinite God perceived that to amplify their ability and to aid the suffering creatures should not fasten their souls to the small things. They understand if the destination is the eternal paradise, why so floundering in the temporal ground! Chamran shows that the wealth and asset of people for their afterlife is their longevity. Then, there is no time for hesitancy, failure, and frivolities. Chamran asks himself if God exists and His Encounter is undeniable truth, so what is sweeter and more glorious? He seeks perfection no matter whether for earning knowledge and fighting against the darkness or for offering kindness to the creatures, reaching its ideal as the ultimate goal.

Chamran, alongside his spiritual growth, committed himself in order to transcending and strengthening Ghada's spirit gradually and with small pains, and thus making her ready for the eternal flight. Chamran's Vision and life have become so pleasant for her to the point that she decides to prepare herself after Chamran's Martyrdom to accompany him in Eternal Garden....

...and this is the path of the candle to becoming an eternal illuminating Sun.

Saeed Salari

May 15, 2017

Many years have passed since Chamran passed away. The days of endeavors, jumping over cliffs, taking shelters, and decisive battles are all over. Now, in such seemingly calm days, "Ghada Chamran" is narrating a story with a grieving tone; the story of a heavenly breeze, whispered in her ears the word of love, and went toward eternity.

This is an unusual story; still after all this time, Ghada's astonishment during her first encounter with the painter of that candle and the poet of that poem must not be underestimated. And those who seek the light, however small that light might be, it will grow in their hearts. That astonishment is still there, along with the question, "Who is Chamran?", though there will be no clear answer to this question. No container has enough capacity for the word "infinity."

Many years have passed since the day on which Chamran passed away. And this time, Ghada is narrating a story about the history of this land; the story of a righteous man who one day walked sincerely on this land.

Mustafa Chamran

  • Birth: March 9, 1933

  • Entering Lebanon: 1971

  • Marriage to Ghada Jaber (Born in 1952):1977

  • Return to Iran: 1979

  • Martyrdom:June,21,1981

The girl rolled the pen between her fingers, and finally, wrote the following sentence on a piece of paper she had been staring at all night long: "I hate war." She burst into laughter; though, her heart was full of sorrow; is there anyone who might like war? How should she know that? She was a journalist and a poet. She had even written a book. But she was not much of a globetrotter. She knew Lagos in Africa because that was where she was born. She also knew some European cities because she had traveled there. Dad traded pearl between Africa and Japan, and they would indulge recklessly. Nevertheless, she was Lebanese enough to know that Lebanon was a fertile land for war as it was for olive and palm; though she didn't know why.

I couldn't understand why people should kill each other. I couldn't even understand how it could be changed. I was just sad about the civil war1 and disaster. We had a beautiful house in Sur (Tyre); a house with two floors, a yard, and a balcony facing the sea, which was later destroyed by Israel. I would sit on this balcony at nights, cry, and write. I talked to the sea, the fish, and the sky about the war. These conversations were published as poems and articles in newspapers. Mustafa had seen my name below these writings. I had heard his name, too. But that was it. I didn't know anything about him. I hadn't seen him. However, I thought him to be a tough fighter who contributed to this war.

It all began when Sayyid Muhammad Ghoravi, the clergyman of our city, came to me and said that Mr. Sadr1 would like to see me. I wasn't mentally ready to see anyone at that time, especially when it came to that name. But Sayyid Ghoravi insistently asked me to see Mr. Mousa Sadr, who was described as a man who loved books. Finally, Sayyid Ghoravi's insistence made me accept it, though reluctantly. One day, I went to the Supreme Islamic Shia Council to see Imam Mousa Sadr. He welcomed me warmly and complimented me on my writings and that how good I wrote about Wilayat1 and Imam2 Hussain3 (a.s)4, the man I loved. "What are you up to now? Universities are closed," he asked. "I teach at a girls' high school," I replied. "Leave your job and come work with us," he said. "What kind of work?" I asked. "You are a great writer, you can write beautifully about Imam Hussain, Lebanon, and many other things. Well, why don't you come and write about them?" he said. "I can't leave the high school, I mean, I don't want to," I said. "We will give you more money, just come work with us," he said. That remark really upset me. "I don't work for money, I love people. I wouldn't do that if my feelings didn't tempt me to be with these young girls. But if I know that someone wants to pay me more money to write for them, then my feelings will die away. I don't write for money," I said. Then I angrily left the place. He was an honorable man. He followed me and apologized. Then, unexpectedly, he asked me if I knew Chamran. I said I had heard his name. He said I should definitely see him. "I am mad at this war, all this bloodshed and turmoil. I don't want to see those involved in this war," I said. Imam Mousa assured me that Chamran was not like that. "He was looking for you. We have an orphanage. I think this job suits you. I want you to go there and get acquainted with Chamran," he said while assuring me. He insistently asked me to go there. He didn't allow me to return until he made me promise that I would go there.

Six or seven months had passed since I made that promise, and I hadn't gone there. Wherever Sayyid Ghoravi saw me, he asked me why I hadn't, and that Mr. Sadr had asked about me. But I wasn't ready at the time. Chamran's name reminded me of war. I thought I was unable to see him. On the other hand, my father had a heart disease, and I was very upset. One night, Sayyid Ghoravi came to our home to visit my father. While he was leaving, he gave me a calendar of Amal organization1. He said that it was a gift. I didn't notice it, but at night and while I was writing, I suddenly saw it. It had twelve paintings for the twelve months; all beautiful. But there wasn't any name or signature below them. One of the paintings had a completely dark background, in the middle of which, there was a candle burning with a weak flame. Its flame wasn't strong enough to lit up that darkness. Below this painting, there was a poetic sentence in Arabic, saying, "I may not be able to eradicate this darkness, but with this feeble light, I will show the difference between darkness and light, truth and falsehood. And the ones who seek the light, no matter how faint the light, it will grow in their heart." Upon seeing this painting and the poem, I cried a lot that night. It was as if that light had engulfed me. But I didn't know who had painted it.

Finally, one day, I went to the institute with one of my friends who wanted to go there. On the first floor, they introduced me to a man and said he was Dr. Chamran. Mustafa was wearing a smile that really surprised me. I thought someone, whose name was associated with war and everybody was scared of, must be heartless. I was even scared, but his smile and calmness astounded me. My friend introduced me to him. "Is that you? I was looking for you, I expected to see you sooner." He was talking as if he already knew me. It was strange. "Are you sure this is Dr. Chamran?" I asked my friend. She was sure. Mustafa brought a calendar just like the one Sayyid Ghoravi had given me a few weeks before. I looked at it. "I have seen it before," I said. "Have you seen all the paintings? Which one did you like the most?" Mustafa asked. "The candle, I was moved by it," I said. My answer caught his attention. "The candle? Why the candle?" he asked insistently. I cried involuntarily and my tears poured down my face. "I don't know. This candle, this light; it is as if I can feel it inside me. I didn't think anyone could be able to perceive and show the meaning of a candle and sacrifice as beautifully as this," I said. "I didn't expect a Lebanese girl could be able to perceive a candle and its meaning as perfectly as this, either," Mustafa said. "Who painted this? I would like to see and know that person," I asked. "Me," Mustafa replied. I wondered even more than the moment I saw his smile and face. "You! You did it?" I asked. "Yes, I did," Mustafa replied. "But you live in war and blood, how is that possible? I don't think you can have such strong feelings," I said. Then, something more unusual happened. Mustafa started to read my writings. "I have read all your writings and flown with your soul though from afar," Mustafa said. Then he came to tears. This was the first time we met, and it was incredibly beautiful.

The second time I saw him, I was completely ready to work in the institute. Bit by bit, we got to know each other more. I was with Mustafa in many places; in the institute with the children, in various cities, and once or twice in the front. To me, his deeds were all impressive and informative, without him doing them intentionally.

Ghada had been raised up under the influence of the European culture. She was not wearing proper Hijab. But she wanted to be different, to see something else other than this extravagance. She likes this house that has only one room whose door always welcomes everyone. Children can come in at any hour, sit on the floor, and chat with their principal. Mustafa welcomed her in the same room, and Ghada was astonished when she found out that she must take off her shoes and sit on the floor. In her opinion, Mustafa was a masterpiece; surprising and charming.

I remember that I was with him in one of his trips to the villages. He gave me a gift in the car. It was his first gift, and we weren't married yet. It made me really happy, and I immediately opened it. The gift was a scarf, a red one with large flowers. I was moved, but he smiled and said with a pleasant tone that the children like to see me wearing scarf. Since then, I wore scarf and I'm still wearing it. I knew the children would criticize Mustafa for bringing a woman without hijab into the institute. But it seemed strange to me that Mustafa tried hard I noticed that to draw me closer to the children. "She is a good woman. She comes to the institute because of you. She wants to learn from you. God willing, we will teach her by ourselves," he said. He didn't say I wasn't wearing proper hijab, I wasn't like them, or anything bad about my family and relatives. It was his attitude that influenced me. Just like an infant, he pushed me forward step by step and made me familiar with Islam. Nine months...we were together for nine beautiful months, and then, we got married, though we encountered serious problems.

"You are out of your mind! This man is twenty years your senior. He is Iranian. He has always been in the war zone. He doesn't have any money. He is not like us. He doesn't even have a birth certificate!"

She took her head between her hands with her eyes closed. Why had everyone become so similar? It was as if those words were the text of a play everyone had memorized except for her; her mother, father, relatives, and even her friends. She wished she had been born in an ordinary family. She wished she had no car of her own! She wished her father was a teacher or a worker instead of trading between Africa and Japan. Everything would have been different then... She knew, she knew that Mustafa and she were in the same boat. Those who work with Mustafa don't like him, they reject him...O God! This is the most difficult part of the story. She wished her grandma was there. If she was there, Ghada would never be sad anymore. Her grandma would listen to her and sympathize with her. She remembered the story, or actually the tale of grandma's life during the years she lived with her husband and two daughters in Palestine. Here is the story: A young man falls in love with one of the daughters, and there is no objection. But the young man chooses the day of Ashoora1 for a marriage proposal and prenuptial agreements. Grandma gets upset and rejects the young suitor. But the grandpa, who didn't care for such issues, wanted to hold the wedding ceremony. Therefore, grandma doesn't hesitate. One day, she sits on a horse and comes to this side of the border, to Sur.

Grandma wore Burqa, held mourning gatherings for Imam Hussain (a.s) at her home, and had memorized many prayers. She raised Ghada and taught her prayers. If she could see that Ziyarat Ashoora2, Sahifeh Sajjadieh3, and all those prayers Ghada loves and says before she goes to bed are now deeply ingrained in Mustafa, she would not hesitate about their marriage.

And above all, Mustafa's love for Wilayat was the reason why I was attracted to him. I always wrote that the Sur sea and each and every particle of Jabal Amel's soil reminded me of Abouzar1's voice. This voice was inside me. I felt that I had to go, to get there. But there was no one to take my hand, and Mustafa played the role of that "hand." When he came into my life, it was as if Salman2 came. "Salman is from us, the Ahl al-bayt3 (our household)." He could take my hand and drag me out of this darkness, out of this routine life. I couldn't convince myself to get married and live like millions of others. I was looking for a man like Mustafa; a great soul, free from the world and all its belongings. But my parents and relatives couldn't understand this. They had different ideals and had the right to say "No". They looked at Mustafa's appearance and noticed he had no property. A man who doesn't have any money, any home, any life... nothing! They could see that. To tell the truth, the Lebanese society was like that, and it is still like that, unfortunately. Appearance and money define how valuable a person is. They respect those who dress sharp and if he is a doctor, he must own a high-end car. Spirituality and such things never attract anyone's attention. However, Mustafa asked for my hand in marriage sending Sayyid Ghoravi to my family. My family rejected it at first, but Mr. Sadr intervened.

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-14 show above.)