The House of the Mosque

Guerrillas

At the entrance to the bazaar policemen were busy putting up WANTED posters. Underneath the black-and-white pictures of four men with glasses and moustaches was written: ‘Escaped prisoners! Armed Communists! A reward of 10,000 toman offered for any tips as to their whereabouts.’

The same pictures had been printed on the front page of the local newspaper. ‘Four dangerous terrorists at loose in our city!’ read the caption.

People had crowded round the entrance to the bazaar and were standing in little groups, talking. They didn’t know the first thing about Communism, but they did know that Communists were dangerous people who didn’t believe in God.

The paper also printed an interview with a goatherd, who claimed to have seen the fugitives.

‘Were they armed?’ the interviewer asked.

‘Yes, they had rifles slung over their shoulders.’

‘Where did you run into them?’

‘I didn’t run into them. I was gathering my flock, chasing after a goat, when suddenly I saw four men on horseback. I could tell right away that they were strangers, because they were sitting in the saddle like sultans. You don’t see people like that in the mountains very often.’

‘Did you talk to them?’

‘Not at first. Only later. I didn’t get a look at their faces. They were going up the mountain, so I only saw them from behind. They were heading for the pass. I guess they were hoping to cross the border into Afghanistan. Suddenly one of them turned, rode down to where I was standing and asked me if I could give him some bread and milk.’

‘And did you?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know they were Communists. I wouldn’t have given it to them if I’d known.’

‘Didn’t you ask him who he was?’

‘No, that’s not something you usually ask a stranger. I just got out a pail and went looking for a goat to milk.’

‘What did he do when you gave him the milk and the bread?’

‘He shook my hand and said, “Please forgive me, but I can’t pay you.”’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Yes, he said that he’d remember my face.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘I don’t know, but the next day I saw the WANTED posters at the police post in our village. Four terrorists! And I gave them my bread!’

Ordinary people didn’t know what was going on, but those who listened in secret to Radio Moscow’s Persian-language broadcast knew the reason for the manhunt.

The fugitives who were attempting to flee the country were the four most important members of a leftist underground movement. They had been arrested a few years ago during an uprising in the forests of the northern region of Shomal, where they’d been in charge of an anti-American guerrilla movement. Their aim had been to spark a rebellion in the north that would eventually topple the shah. One of those men was Hamid Ashraf.

Most of the mountain people lived in poverty. Their villages lacked even the most basic facilities: there were no schools, no telephones and no doctors. The authorities did nothing at all for the village of Farahan, because that’s where Ashraf had been born. The village was paying the price for his political activities.

Ashraf had studied physics at the Technical University of Tehran — a hotbed of leftist discontent in the country. He was a young leader who had abandoned the traditional Communist Tudeh Party and set up an underground movement known as Fadai, whose followers were engaged in an armed struggle against the shah.

Because of its long opposition to the regime, Farahan was known as the Red Village. The villagers were proud of Ashraf and of the town’s nickname.

There were no radios in the other mountain villages, and yet the people of the Red Village listened to Radio Moscow. The moment they heard that Ashraf had escaped from prison, they spread the news through the entire mountain region.

The people of the Red Village claimed that the newspaper interview was a pack of lies, that the goatherd didn’t exist. They were convinced that the whole story had been fabricated by the secret police. But others swore that the goatherd had been sent by the Red Village to throw the police off the track.

Leftist sympathisers throughout the country talked about the Red Village so much that it had taken on mythical proportions. They claimed that the villagers were all Communists, that on holidays the red flag fluttered over every door and that the shah’s gendarmes didn’t dare set foot there.

Although most of the people in the mountains were illiterate, it was said that everyone in the Red Village could read, that leftist sympathisers had secretly gone to the village and taught people how to read and write.

In Radio Moscow’s report of the escape, it was hinted that Hamid Ashraf and his comrades might be hiding in the Red Village.

The next day fourteen armoured vehicles roared into the village, and two helicopters circled above. Since the mountain people had never seen a helicopter at such close range, they dropped what they were doing and raced up the hills to get a better look. The helicopters were flying so low they could see the armed men inside.

The people of the Red Village climbed up on their roofs to protest, leaving their doors wide open so the police wouldn’t break them down.

The policemen searched every house and questioned everyone they found on the roofs. They kicked in a lot of doors anyway and turned the village upside down, but didn’t find a trace of the fugitives.

They did, however, arrest a number of young men who couldn’t prove that they lived in the village or had been visiting relatives. Only when darkness fell did they call a halt to the search.

Shahbal didn’t come home that night. Muezzin, who had listened to the news on his radio, was worried about his son. He went to Aqa Jaan to let him know that the boy hadn’t come home.

Aqa Jaan had seen the posters in the bazaar and heard the news of Hamid Ashraf’s escape. He owned several small carpet workshops in the Red Village, where people wove rugs for him. He knew the village well, and the villagers knew and respected Aqa Jaan. Still, it had never occurred to him that Shahbal might be mixed up in its Communist activities. He stayed up till midnight, waiting, but there was no sign of Shahbal.

‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’ he asked Muezzin.

‘He came downstairs this morning to say that he was going out and that he’d be home late, but I didn’t expect him to be this late.’

‘Perhaps it’s stupid of me to ask, but do you think he’s involved somehow with this business in Farahan?’

‘In the Red Village?’

‘Apparently the police arrested a lot of people. At least that’s what I heard at the bazaar.’

‘What’s that got to do with Shahbal?’ Muezzin asked in surprise.

‘Everything’s tied up with everything else these days. There was a lot of unrest in the city this afternoon. Everyone was talking about the Red Village. Anyway, it’s midnight now. All we can do is wait. We should stay calm and try to get some sleep, and see what the morning brings.’

Muezzin nodded and started to walk away, but Aqa Jaan was suddenly struck by an idea. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘If Shahbal was in Farahan this afternoon and did get arrested, we should search his room before the police do. They’re bound to come here sooner or later.’

Aqa Jaan went into Shahbal’s room and started looking through his things. To his surprise he found a stack of books beneath the bed and in the cupboard — books they didn’t have in their own library, such as novels, short stories and contemporary poems. There were also clandestine books, in which the shah was criticised for being an instrument of American imperialism.

He leafed through the books, but didn’t have time to examine them, so he crammed them all into a bag and hurried through the darkness to the river.

Shahbal didn’t come home that night, and no policeman knocked on their door.

The next morning Aqa Jaan went to work as usual, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. At about ten o’clock the phone rang. It was the chief constable, asking Aqa Jaan to come in for a talk. Aqa Jaan put on his hat and had his chauffeur drive him to the station.

He sat down in the chair proffered by the chief constable. ‘We’ve arrested your nephew,’ the chief constable informed him, ‘along with a group of foreigners.’

‘Arrested?’ Aqa Jaan said in as calm a voice as possible. ‘What for?’

‘We picked him up in the Red Village. When we searched him, we found a transistor radio and a book on him.’

‘What of it? Everyone has a transistor radio these days.’

‘It was tuned to Radio Moscow.’

‘There must be some misunderstanding. He lives in the house of the mosque. There’s no need for anyone in our house to listen to Radio Moscow.’

‘I agree. That’s why I’ve asked you to come here.’

‘Thank you. I’m very grateful to you,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘But I’m still wondering what he was doing in Farahan.’

‘We have a few carpet workshops there. We employ dozens of the villagers. I often send my men there to inspect the work. Shahbal went to Farahan at my request.’

‘But he had an illegal book in his possession,’ the chief constable said.

‘What was it about?’

‘The Russian Revolution.’

‘What’s so illegal about that?’

‘It was written by Maxim Gorky.’

‘Who’s Maxim Gorky?’

‘A Russian writer. Any student who’s found with a subversive book like that in his possession gets sentenced to six months in jail. But luckily for your nephew, you and I know each other. We need each other in this town, so I’m letting him go. As a favour to you.’

‘Thank you, I understand. I’ll speak to him when he gets home and warn him not to do it again,’ Aqa Jaan said, and he stood up.

When Shahbal came home a while later, Aqa Jaan called him into his study. ‘You own a transistor radio and you listen to Radio Moscow. What’s the meaning of this? Why didn’t I know about it?’

‘The police overreacted. Everyone has a television these days, and radios are everywhere. People listen to broadcasts from all over the world. I listen to everything I can. Not just the Iranian channels, but also Radio Moscow, the Voice of America and the BBC.’

‘They found a Communist book on you.’

‘It was a novel, a made-up story. Books are books, what does it matter? Besides, the chief constable can’t tell me what I can and cannot read!’

‘Oh, yes he can. He had you arrested!’

‘He can arrest me, but he can’t force me to do what he wants.’

‘What were you doing in the Red Village so late at night?’

‘That’s another story. I should have mentioned it, but I couldn’t decide whether or not to tell you. Something’s been bothering me, but perhaps this isn’t the best time to go into it. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Then again, not telling you is just as bad.’

‘You can tell me, Shahbal.’

‘I’ve been struggling with this for a long time. I’m filled with so many doubts that it’s all I can think about.’

‘Doubts about what?’

‘About everything! I hesitate to tell you, because I still can’t make up my mind. But the thing is, I… well, I’ve stopped going to mosque.’

‘No, you haven’t. I see you there every day.’

‘I don’t mean physically, I mean mentally. I’m there all right, but when I turn to face Mecca, I’m thinking about completely different things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘I don’t dare put them into words. That’s why I think that it might be better for me to take a break from the mosque and the prayers.’

‘Everyone has doubts. That’s no reason to get so upset.’

‘I’m past the doubting stage,’ Shahbal said. ‘I don’t feel at home in the mosque any more. I’ve lost my faith.’

Shahbal watched as Aqa Jaan slumped in his chair and slipped his hand in his jacket to touch his pocket Koran.

‘I’ve hurt you,’ Shahbal said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Your news does indeed hurt me,’ Aqa Jaan replied, ‘but I went through a similar phase once. It will pass. Young people are especially prone to doubts. In my day there were no radios or televisions or tempting books, all of which have a great influence on people. But I’m not worried, because I haven’t filled your head with strange ideas that would cause you to turn your back on God. All I can do is wait. But you should remember this: I’m not mistaken, I trust you, I believe in you. It’s only human to have doubts. But you’re tired. Go and get some sleep. We’ll discuss it another time.’

Shahbal turned to leave. He had tears in his eyes. Yet Aqa Jaan surprised him with one last question: ‘Do you know anything about those four escaped men?’

‘No!’ Shahbal said. But Aqa Jaan could tell from the tone of his voice that he was hiding something.

Early the next morning Aqa Jaan was on his way to the bazaar when he ran into Crazy Qodsi.

‘How are you, Qodsi?’

‘Fine.’

‘How’s your mother?’

‘Fine,’ she said.

‘Do you have any news for me?’

‘The Moshiri girl sometimes goes down the street with her bare bottom hanging out.’

He didn’t understand what she was saying. Moshiri was one of the richest carpet merchants in the bazaar. His twenty-four-year-old daughter was mentally ill, which is why he never let her leave the house.

‘The Moshiri girl sometimes does what? Would you repeat that?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

Qodsi brought her face close to his and whispered, ‘You have ghosts in your mosque.’

‘Ghosts? Bare bottoms? Come now, Qodsi. You can do better than that!’

But she had already disappeared through the nearest open door.

The police had received a tip about some suspicious goings-on in the cellar of the mosque. They were convinced that the guerrillas were hiding in the crypt. So one evening two policemen slipped into the mosque disguised as young imams and lined up for the prayer along with the other worshippers.

Afterwards the policemen lingered and struck up a conversation with the substitute imam. They told him that they were from Isfahan, and that they were spending the night at an inn in Senejan before going on to the holy city of Qom.

The elderly imam invited them to his rooms for tea. He explained that he was only filling in for Alsaberi’s son, who, if all went well, would graduate from the seminary at the end of the year and take his father’s place. The policemen sipped their tea and kept their eyes on the courtyard.

‘Does anyone else live here, or do you live alone?’

‘I’m the only one living in the mosque, but the caretaker is around a lot. The mosque is his life. I’m grateful he’s so dedicated; he does the work of ten men. He gets here early in the morning and goes home late at night.’

‘I think I hear a noise in the cellar,’ said one of the policemen, inventing an excuse to go outside and look around.

‘This mosque is old, very old. It has many secrets. Don’t ask me who goes in and out of the cellar. Ancient mosques are always full of mystery. Sometimes I hear strange sounds, like footsteps in the night, or faint voices. The mosque has a life of its own. You have to ignore such sounds when you sleep here. You have to bury your head in your pillow and close your eyes.’

At the end of the evening, the policemen heard footsteps in the courtyard. They stood up, said goodbye and stole through the darkness to the cellar, where they crouched down and peeked through a small window.

The shadow of a man with a candle in his hand glided into the cellar. He seemed to be looking for something, or perhaps he was carrying out a ritual. In any case he was holding an object in his left hand, though they couldn’t tell what it was or see exactly what he was doing. He was either talking to himself or to someone else as he headed towards the darker regions of the cellar. They heard a door open, and the shadow disappeared.

They tiptoed into the cellar, crept cautiously down the stairs and stood stock-still, listening to the silence. They didn’t dare switch on their torches. They inched their way towards the place where they had last seen the shadow, taking care not to trip over the tombstones. As they approached the door, they heard a faint voice and saw a yellow strip of light beneath it.

They stopped. The voice — or voices — wasn’t very clear. It sounded like someone reading something aloud or telling a story. They pressed their ears to the door and heard snatches of something that made no sense to them at all:

Suckle him.

If you fear for him,

Cast him into the river.

Fear not,

And do not grieve,

For We shall restore him to you.

Suddenly they heard a woman scream. They stared at each other in sheer terror, not knowing whether the shriek had come from the mosque or from the cellar. They raced up the stairs, making as little noise as possible, and hurriedly left the mosque.

It was Sadiq who had screamed. She’d been standing next to the hauz when she suddenly went into labour. A stabbing pain had gone from her belly to her back and left her feeling dizzy. She’d screamed and crumpled up in agony.

Aqa Jaan, Fakhri, Zinat and Muezzin had gone on a pilgrimage to a nearby village that evening and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Luckily Shahbal had heard Sadiq’s scream. He ran to the hauz, helped her up and brought her to her room. There, in the bright light, he saw drops of blood on the floor.

‘Phone the doctor!’ he yelled to Nasrin, Aqa Jaan’s elder daughter. ‘I’ll go and get the midwife!’ He jumped on his bicycle and pedalled as fast as he could in the direction of the river.

When the midwife finally arrived, she took one look at Sadiq and said, ‘This is serious. I can’t deal with it on my own. You’ll have to send for a doctor.’

‘He’s already on his way,’ Nasrin informed her. ‘I’ll go and wait for him.’

Sadiq was in agony. She screamed so loudly that the midwife decided she’d have to do what she could or Sadiq would lose the baby.

‘The baby’s trying to come out, but something’s holding it back. I can’t see anything in this light. Nasrin, get me a lamp and some clean towels.’

Nasrin hurried out and came back with a lamp and a stack of towels.

‘Shine the light over here. Don’t be so clumsy. Concentrate!’

Nasrin stepped closer to the bed, but avoided looking at Sadiq as she held the lamp over the midwife’s head. ‘I think I hear the doctor,’ she said.

‘Shut up and hold that lamp still!’

A car stopped outside the gate. Nasrin’s hands were shaking. To calm her nerves, she began to hum.

The midwife told Sadiq to keep breathing and to push harder. ‘The baby’s turned the wrong way,’ she explained. ‘It can’t come out. We’re going to have to try something else.’ Sadiq let out a loud cry and fainted.

Just then the doctor came into the room.

‘The doctors are always the last to arrive!’ the midwife muttered. ‘They’re always tucked up nicely in their comfy beds.’

It was a difficult birth, but a few hours later, with the help of the midwife and Nasrin’s humming, the doctor delivered the baby. ‘It’s a boy!’ he said.

The midwife held the baby upside down. ‘He’s not breathing.’ She shook him a few times until at last he began to cry. ‘Thank God!’

The doctor went over to Sadiq, took out his stethoscope and listened to her heart. ‘She’s exhausted, but doing all right,’ he said to the midwife, who was washing the baby in a basin that Nasrin had filled with water.

‘There’s something wrong with its back,’ the midwife said, and she carefully laid the baby on its stomach.

The doctor put on his glasses and ran his finger along the baby’s spine, examining the bones. ‘A severe deformity,’ he muttered.

‘Just as I thought,’ the midwife sighed.

The doctor left.

‘Both mother and baby are asleep,’ the midwife said to Nasrin. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you. These situations are always difficult. I’m going home to get a few hours’ sleep, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning. There’s a problem with the baby. The doctor will phone Aqa Jaan tomorrow.’

The house had settled down again. There was still a light on in Sadiq’s room, and the windowpanes were casting their multi-coloured glow onto the stones in the courtyard.

Shahbal was awed by the baby’s birth.

In the past, when a child had been born in the house of the mosque, Aqa Jaan had always recited a melodious surah into the baby’s ear, because, according to one of the Prophet’s sayings, ‘The first words that a child hears remain in his memory for ever, like a sentence carved in stone.’

Shahbal went into the library, took the oldest Koran out of the cupboard and tiptoed back to Sadiq’s room. She was fast asleep. The baby lay in its cradle by the wall. Shahbal opened the Koran and leafed through it in search of a melodious surah. Then he changed his mind and put it aside. Leaning over, he whispered a poem in the newborn’s ear, a verse by the famous contemporary Persian poet Ahmad Shamlou, which Shahbal knew by heart:

Bar zamin-e sorbi-sobh

savaar

khamush estaadeh ast

Wa yaal-e boland-e asbash dar baad.

A man on horseback

sits motionless

in the lead-grey morning

while the wind ripples his horse’s long mane.

Oh God, horsemen shouldn’t sit still

when danger is headed their way.

The baby opened its eyes.