In “Arash Shi­razi,” set in Khuzes­tan, Iran, in May 1985, the nar­ra­tor reflects on the idea that in every pla­toon, like Arman, there exists a fig­ure akin to himself—a per­son devot­ed to main­tain­ing a sense of hope and spir­i­tu­al­i­ty amidst the rav­ages of war. He describes him­self as that indi­vid­ual, adorned in a long black robe, rid­ing a dark horse named Bad­badak, sym­bol­iz­ing an angel of light. The black robe con­ceals a sol­dier’s uni­form, and the nar­ra­tor car­ries a flash­light under a hood, illu­mi­nat­ing his face as if he were shroud­ed in a divine glow. This angel­ic fig­ure rides through the bat­tle­field, pro­vid­ing a glimpse of com­fort to the dying sol­diers.

Arman empha­sizes the impor­tance of pre­serv­ing the souls of these men, guid­ing them toward Jan­nah with a con­vic­tion root­ed in com­pas­sion rather than fear. The nar­ra­tor recounts Arman’s retelling of a hadith about a dying sol­dier who, in his despair, took his own life rather than endure suf­fer­ing, ulti­mate­ly being turned away from Jan­nah by the Prophet Muham­mad. This sto­ry under­scores Arman’s belief that true strength lies in endur­ing pain with dig­ni­ty.

Through­out the bru­tal real­i­ties of bat­tle, many soldiers—some bare­ly more than boys—carry the keys to heav­en around their necks. As the nar­ra­tor rides along­side these fall­en men, he strives to instill in them the courage to face their mor­tal­i­ty. His pur­pose is not for glo­ry or per­son­al redemp­tion; rather, he dons this angel­ic guise for the sake of the dying, com­mand­ing a pres­ence of hope when faced with impend­ing death.

Despite not hav­ing the same faith as Arman, the nar­ra­tor feels com­pelled to ful­fill his role; he believes in the impor­tance of inten­tion in his actions. He car­ries a sword, rem­i­nis­cent of Hazrat Ali’s Zul­fiqar, which he must keep drawn to reflect its twin-fanged blade’s beau­ty in the moon­light, fur­ther­ing his iden­ti­ty as an angel­ic fig­ure among the dying.

The urgency of war man­i­fests through the sol­diers’ des­per­ate calls for water, rep­re­sent­ing their thirst both lit­er­al and metaphor­i­cal. As the nar­ra­tor con­fronts this real­i­ty, he grap­ples with the absur­di­ty of his existence—dressed as an angel, rid­ing his horse while sur­round­ed by the dying. He recalls a mar­ket scene with Mira, his roman­tic inter­est, con­trast­ing it with the haunt­ing land­scape of suf­fer­ing and death he now inhab­its. His mis­sion is not just to instill hope but to be an embod­i­ment of faith and resilience in the face of unimag­in­able tragedy.

In Feb­ru­ary 1984, against a back­drop of war and tumult in Iran, Arash Shi­razi grap­ples with the inevitabil­i­ty of his enlist­ment. He reflects on his circumstances—being a “zero sol­dier” with no sig­nif­i­cant resources or mer­its that could exempt him from ser­vice. As the rev­o­lu­tion led by ide­al­ists devolves into con­flict dom­i­nat­ed by zealots, Arash feels the weight of respon­si­bil­i­ties, his iden­ti­ty defined by the peo­ple around him. He imag­ines how, upon his death, his image might adorn the walls of a mosque among count­less oth­ers who have sac­ri­ficed them­selves.

At a vac­ci­na­tion cen­ter, he observes inter­ac­tions between a strug­gling young man and a woman who appears deeply frus­trat­ed with him for not lever­ag­ing their shared past to avoid con­scrip­tion. He per­ceives the man’s poten­tial as a pianist, wish­ing he could escape the war, unlike Arash, who feels des­tined for the front­lines. The con­flict has stripped them of their human­i­ty, push­ing them toward duty defined by a call to arms against Iraqi inva­sion. Arash feels a detach­ment from patri­o­tism, view­ing his ser­vice as a mere inevitabil­i­ty.

In a poignant mem­o­ry, Arash recalls a moment with his sis­ter, Roya, at a frozen pond where child­hood inno­cence is jux­ta­posed against the harsh real­i­ties of war. The mem­o­ry reveals a long­ing for a past unmarred by con­flict, show­ing how their sib­ling bond formed amidst care­free play. He even­tu­al­ly recalls the dynam­ics of his fam­i­ly life tinged with ten­sion and loss, and his need for fam­i­ly and con­nec­tion becomes evi­dent.

At the train­ing camp under the Alborz Moun­tains, he is pushed through the rig­ors of mil­i­tary life, stripped of indi­vid­u­al­i­ty and known only by his assigned number—11. The camp sym­bol­izes the fleet­ing essence of youth and under­stand­ing with­in an envi­ron­ment forc­ing him into con­for­mi­ty and obe­di­ence. The jux­ta­po­si­tion of nour­ish­ing child­hood mem­o­ries with the solem­ni­ty of war under­scores his inter­nal tur­moil.

Addi­tion­al­ly, a sto­ry told among sol­diers empha­sizes the trag­ic absur­di­ty of mil­i­tary bureau­cra­cy. This nar­rates how Alireza, a man bear­ing a dead broth­er’s name, unwit­ting­ly con­tin­ues a lega­cy that cul­mi­nates in his death, adding lay­ers to the theme of iden­ti­ty and sac­ri­fice. Through laugh­ter and tragedy, the sol­diers con­front the depths of time and duty, reveal­ing a shared under­ly­ing fear of their uncer­tain futures. Amidst this chaos, Arash clings to elu­sive mem­o­ries of hope and con­nec­tion.

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai