A typical assumption in realistic war literature is that “In war, the dead pay the debts of the living.” But the Iranian widows of the Hidden Half of the Moon, a harrowing collection of memoirs and a long-running Farsi-language literary series, suggest that it is not the fallen soldiers, but the toiling survivors who carry war’s burden long after the troops have gone home. Edited by writer Kurosh Alyani, the series profiles the 1980-88 Iran-Iraq conflict through the lives of women whose husbands fought in the war, whether as generals, foot soldiers, revolutionaries or air force pilots. As its name suggests, the Hidden Half of the Moon constitutes one of the first efforts to bring women’s voices to the forefront of the war experience. Through their stories of loss, grief and resilience, the women recount how war became a fixture of daily life, even in households hundreds of miles from the front line.

Twenty-one booklets make up the collection, each chronicling the story of one war widow, told in her voice. Each booklet features several pages of photographs, and focuses on the stories of women whose husbands served in the navy, army and basij militia. The first book of the collection was published in 1999, and has now been republished 20 times. In it, Ghadeh Jaber, the Lebanese second wife of the scientist-turned-military commander Mostafa Chamran recounts the couple’s first meeting in Lebanon, their subsequent marriage and, finally, Chamran’s 1981 death in Khuzestan province.

The Hidden Half of the Moon is a collection of memoirs of Iran’s war wives Photograph: Tehran Bureau

This original series is ongoing, with books published as recently as 2013. Two newer series, Aseman (Sky) and Va Eenak Shokaran (And Now the Hemlock) narrate the stories of Iranian air force pilots’ wives and the tales of women whose husbands were injured by chemical attacks. Most women begin with tales of their childhood, often portraying a nostalgic Iran in old homes with blue pools and fruit-filled summer orchards. The stories typically end as the protagonist grapples with the trauma of her spouse’s death while struggling to support her family.

The series offers a significant diversity of voices from Iran’s broad socioeconomic and religious spectrum. Mojgan Keshavarzian was born into a wealthy family of land owners in Malayer, a small town in Hamedan province. She subsequently joins the newly established organization of war volunteers to teach combat and shooting classes. Masoomeh Sabokkhiz, another protagonist, comes from a long lineage of farmers in northeastern Iran who left their village after the Shah’s land reforms in the 1960s.

Some widows describe ties to western culture. Nooshin Ameri met her husband when they were both students in the United States, where they went on dates and devoured Philly cheese steaks. “His favorite singer was Andy Williams,” says Mahnaz Dalir Rouyfard, another widow, of her husband’s taste for pop music and acoustic guitar. Jaleh Zarrekhak recalls the only time her grandmother ever slapped her: “Abbas and I had cream puffs, then we went to the movies and I got home really late. We were still engaged.”

Defying family norms to join the revolutionary cause is a common theme for the women who married members of the basij, now a branch if the Islamic Revolutionary Guard’s Corps (IRGC). Some rebelled by dressing in hijab, which their parents disapproved of. Others went further, attending rallies and distributing revolutionary flyers. Most of the women’s parents warned them against marrying a fellow “child of the revolution,” and many broke with their families entirely to marry their young revolutionaries. “You see the excitement of revolution, I see the pain that lies behind it,” one father tells his daughter in a clairvoyant moment.

But young women think differently: “I wanted to marry a pasdar [war volunteer],” says Nesa Hashemian, who wed a basij volunteer preparing to leave for war. “I loved the courage displayed by the basij boys.”

In stark contrast to the revolutionary brides, most military wives entered married life during peacetime. They speak of an era when young, American-trained pilots were the most desirable suitors. “He walked in with sunglasses, very good looking, clean-shaven,” recalls Parvaneh Mahmoudi. “I was enamored.” Military wives like Mahmoudi describe lavish, socialite lifestyles on army bases where they attended regular soirees and walked their children to private schools.

Regardless of which social stratum they came from, each woman finds herself the wife of a diehard soldier once the war begins. Their men only visit for a few days each month, and according to some narratives, pledge their ultimate devotion to God and country as they fight what they view as an unjust offense to their homeland. Virtually overnight, the women become the sole caretakers of their homes, struggling to adjust to new environments and economic hardship. Spartan lifestyles and wartime rations became the reality even for women of privileged background, whose husbands at the forefront of the war ceased caring for personal luxuries. “When I visited my cousins’ homes in Tehran and noticed they had bought new furniture or a car, I was always shocked,” says army wife Nooshin Ameri. “Did they know what we were experiencing on the front lines?”

The women speak of having no oil to heat their homes in the dead of winter. One woman describes her isolated life in a remote village, fearing the attacks of wild animals. Revolutionary slogans mean nothing here; all that remains is bare life. Another widow recalls how her husband, Mehdi Bakeri, showed her his tooth cavity: “So you can identify me if they ever find my body.” Later, the boat carrying his remains is hit by a bomb. His body is never found.

The women mother infants who grow into adults never knowing their fathers: “He came home so rarely that Sommayeh, our daughter, barely recognized him,” says Fatemeh Jahan Bagheri.

The children who did spend time with their fathers witnessed the effects of physical and psychological trauma. “When his blisters would bleed, [my daughter] sat next to him and stroked his wounds with her delicate hands, despite me telling her not to,” says widow Shahla Ghiasvand.

Some children even witnessed their fathers’ deaths: “My baba died in my arms,” 8-year-old Mohammad Hossein cries to his mother after his paraphalegic father dies in a PTSD attack-induced car accident.

Iranian women visit a war memorial 25 km away from the Iraqi border in Khuzestan province on March 17, 2009. Photograph: Morteza Nikoubazl/Reuters

Most widows’ narratives reach their climax when the women receive news of their husbands’ death. Often, they brace for being presented a decapitated body, or no body at all. Many experience a breakdown. Tahmineh Omidvar recalls her inability to care for herself or her child after receiving the news: “I thought I would no longer be able to live. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. There was no life left in me.”

Jila Badihian, who often jokingly threatened her husband “not to die,” says: “I couldn’t believe we were going to the morgue. They open a door and there you see the man you loved with no head. What can you do?”

Aside from offering rare glimpses into the widows’ emotional plight, the Hidden Half of the Moon dispels a common belief regarding the social status of Iranian war veterans. Some surviving soldiers rose to positions of power in post-war Iran. But the veterans numbered in the tens of thousands, and most swiftly became relics of a past begging to be forgotten. Men who had spent the fruit of their youth on the frontlines could not be the engineers, lawyers and doctors leading post-war reconstruction efforts. “They should throw us into the sea, at least if we become sea salt, we’ll be of some good,” veteran Manucher Maddeq proclaims as he adjusts to civilian life as a milkman on downtown Tehran’s Nasser Khosrow street.

For men like Maddeq, there were no career ladders to climb after the war. “After the death of the Imam [Khomeini] and the end of war, things changed,” his wife recalls. “If Manucher wanted to speak to some former friends, he had to go through three secretaries.”

Rare help did not come from the state, but from families and friends who lobbied to establish veteran pension plans. One widow, Zahra Sabri, recalls hounding state organizations for help with her husband’s cancer treatment.

Despite the death and devastation in the widows’ stories, the most powerful imagery in the Hidden Half of the Moon emerges from simple scenes of tenderness, even romance. Maliheh Hekmat, wife of air force pilot Abbas Babaei, shares a candid memory of the last night she spent with her husband. “We were at a dinner party, but we left to be alone together,” she says. “We were like teenagers.”

Manijeh Sagharchi describes a rare moment shopping with her husband, who surprised her by bending down to tie a pair of hiking boots she was trying on. “It embarrassed me,” she says. “People were looking at us. He took his time lacing them up, very slowly.”

Another widow, Fatemeh Amirani, is one of many wives who never received their husbands’ remains after the war. At the end of her story, she travels to Khuzestan, near the former battleground where her husband was killed. More bluntly than most, Amirani describes the enthrallment and chaos of her youth - a chaos that, early on, cemented the shape of the rest of her life. “How can I explain how much I loved him?” she says. “You know how you can sit with a best friend and speak for hours and not even feel the time pass? That’s how it was when the two of us sat down together.”