The House of the Mosque

Zaman

As Muezzin lay in bed, he chanted a surah to himself:

By the sun and its morning glow!

By the moon that follows in its wake!

By the day when it shows its glory!

By the night when it conceals the light!

By the sky and He who made it!

Seven days had gone by since the locusts had descended on the city. But Muezzin was still in bed.

‘Why have you shut yourself up in your room, Muezzin?’ Aqa Jaan enquired from behind the closed door. ‘Why won’t you come out?’

‘I don’t dare.’

‘Why not? What are you afraid of? What’s happened?’ Aqa Jaan asked, and he entered the room warily.

‘The clock in my head has stopped ticking. I’ve lost my sense of time, of zaman.’

‘You’re just tired, Muezzin,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘It’s your work. You’re upset because your pottery isn’t selling well.’

‘No, it’s not the pottery; it’s the locusts. My clock stopped ticking when the swarm arrived. I don’t dare go out any more. I panic whenever anyone asks me what time it is.’

The shopkeeper who used to sell Muezzin’s pottery on consignment had cancelled his contract. The market had been flooded with so many cheap plastic goods that there was no longer any demand for his ceramics. And yet Muezzin couldn’t stop making things. He kept churning out plates, bowls, water jugs and vases, and stacking them in the cellar. When the cellar was full, he started piling them between the plants in the garden. And when the garden was full, Lizard helped him to stack them on the roof of the mosque.

Muezzin stayed in bed for three more days. On the tenth night, his clock suddenly started ticking again.

‘Three minutes past twelve,’ he muttered. He was so relieved that he immediately sat up in bed.

He heard a noise: the clang of the front gate. Then footsteps crossing the courtyard to Aqa Jaan’s study.

‘Shahbal,’ he realised instantly.

He stood up and was about to shout a greeting, but then thought better of it. Shahbal must have his reasons for going to see Aqa Jaan so late at night. He would have to be patient. Shahbal would come and see him soon enough.

Aqa Jaan’s first thought when he saw Shahbal in the doorway was: he’s changed. All traces of the boy who had once lived in the house were gone. There was now a man standing before him.

Aqa Jaan stood up, embraced Shahbal and offered him a chair. ‘How are you, my son? You’ve forgotten us. I haven’t heard from you in months.’

‘It’s a long story, Aqa Jaan, but I’ll make it short. I’m happy and everything’s all right.’

Aqa Jaan knew that he mustn’t insist, so he kept his reply simple. ‘Good, that’s all I need to know,’ he said, and he paused, to allow Shahbal to continue if he wanted to.

‘The university is currently in an uproar,’ Shahbal began. ‘The American vice-president was in Tehran today for a visit. Students blocked the road from the airport to the palace, but the riot police broke up the demonstration. Then the students regrouped and tried to storm the American Embassy, but they were stopped by a special task force. There were a few scuffles, and a couple of Molotov cocktails were thrown through the windows. The embassy burst into flames. Then a helicopter came down and started to fire randomly into the crowd. Two students were killed and dozens more were wounded. The police are now looking for the students who led the demonstration. They’ve all fled. So have I. I’d like to hide in the mosque for a few days until things have calmed down, unless you object.’

‘Why would I object?’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘You were right to come home. You’re safer here than anywhere else. I can help you better here than in Tehran.’

‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t live here any more, but whenever I feel unsafe or insecure, you’re the first person I think of. This house has always been my haven. Thank you for giving me a sense of security. And for raising me. When I was living here, I didn’t really know who I was. Now I do. You’ve made me into the strong person I am today.’

Aqa Jaan was touched by Shahbal’s remarks. ‘Not only do you have a good head on your shoulders,’ he replied, ‘but you can also express your feelings.’

‘There’s something else I’d like to tell you,’ Shahbal said. ‘This afternoon, when the train pulled into Qom, I saw an incredible scene. Hundreds of young imams were holding a demonstration in the train station. They were standing on the tracks, blocking the trains, and shouting, “La ilaha illa Allah! There is no God but Allah!”

‘I’ve never seen such a demonstration! Their voices were so strong and powerful! What I saw in Qom today was a totally new kind of resistance. The ayatollahs have changed their tactics. Imams who used to turn their backs on modern inventions like trains were now standing on the railway tracks. One young imam scaled the wall in the waiting room and pasted a picture of Khomeini over the shah’s portrait. Someday the great event we’ve all been waiting for is bound to happen… Have you been in touch with anyone in Qom?’

It was an unexpected question. No, he was no longer in touch with anyone in Qom, and no ayatollah had phoned him during the past year. Now that Shahbal had told him about the demonstration, he felt as if a train full of ayatollahs had left the station, and he had missed the train.

It was thirteen minutes to one when Muezzin heard footsteps in the alley. The footsteps sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place them. Then he heard someone fumbling at the lock on the front gate. He got out of bed, padded barefoot into Aqa Jaan’s study and whispered, ‘I heard a noise in the alley. Someone’s at the gate!’

Aqa Jaan immediately turned to Shahbal. ‘Go and hide in one of the minarets!’

Shahbal gave his father a quick kiss, went up to the roof, took a blanket out of the shed, opened the trapdoor in the left minaret, crawled inside and closed the door behind him.

Aqa Jaan saw a bewildered-looking Lizard standing in the middle of the courtyard. His clothes were soaking wet. ‘You can’t stay here!’ he whispered to him. ‘Go upstairs!’

Outwardly calm, Aqa Jaan strode to the gate and opened it. A man wearing a hat and a pair of dark glasses was standing on the pavement with a key in his hand. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Aqa Jaan couldn’t remember where he might have seen him.

‘I think we’ve met before,’ Aqa Jaan said, ‘but I don’t see very well in the dark. Can I help you?’

The man took off his hat. Only then did Aqa Jaan recognise him, though it took a moment for it to sink in. It was Khalkhal! He had aged.

‘Salaam aleikum,’ Khalkhal said.

For a moment Aqa Jaan wasn’t sure how to react. After all, Khalkhal had destroyed Sadiq’s life. He had abandoned her when she was pregnant with Lizard and had gone to Iraq to be with Khomeini. Now, after all these years, suddenly here he was again.

‘What can I do for you?’ Aqa Jaan said coolly, stepping outside and shutting the gate behind him.

‘I’ve been travelling round the country, spreading Khomeini’s message. This afternoon, I met with a group of merchants here in Senejan. I thought I’d see you there, and was surprised when you didn’t turn up. I’m leaving later tonight for Iraq, but I have one request: may I speak to my wife?’

‘She’s not your wife, not legally. When a man abandons his wife and has no contact with her for several years, the marriage is officially dissolved. You’re an imam; you ought to know that. You have no right to see her.’

‘I know, but I thought she might be willing to see me anyway.’

‘I’ll decide that! And I’m telling you, she won’t see you!’ Aqa Jaan heatedly exclaimed.

‘But I have a son, and I do have a right to see him.’

‘That’s true. But it would be better for us all if you turned and left and we could forget you ever came here,’ Aqa Jaan said in a slightly calmer tone of voice.

‘To be honest, I wasn’t planning to come. I was already in my car, ready to drive off, when I realised I couldn’t go without seeing them. I understand your anger, but you know that I was forced to leave my family because of the intolerable political situation in this country. The Americans are running the show. We must be prepared to sacrifice ourselves, our wives and our children in order to overthrow the regime, or else we’ll never achieve our goal. I had no choice, but I can live with the consequences.’

‘I don’t have to stand here in the middle of the night and listen to your drivel!’ Aqa Jaan snapped, and he pointed to the street.

Khalkhal glared at Aqa Jaan from behind his dark glasses. ‘If you want me to go, I will,’ he said. ‘But we’ll meet again some day!’

And he turned on his heel and left.

Aqa Jaan went to bed and told Fakhri about his unexpected meeting with Khalkhal. They discussed it briefly, but were both too tired to go into it further.

The next evening Fakhri knocked on the door of Aqa Jaan’s study. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Come in,’ said Aqa Jaan, a little taken aback.

Fakhri came in and stood in the middle of the room to deliver her bombshell: ‘I think that Zinat has been in touch with Khalkhal, and that Khalkhal has been meeting Sadiq, with Zinat’s knowledge and consent.’

‘What? I can’t believe it!’ Aqa Jaan said, stunned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I suspect that Khalkhal and Zinat are in cahoots. I think that he’s even put her in contact with Qom. Zinat has had a taste of power. I can tell from the way she’s been acting. Have you noticed that she’s stopped going to our mosque? Beware of Zinat; I don’t trust her. She’s been doing some strange things lately.’

It might very well be true, thought Aqa Jaan, but how could I not have noticed?

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ Fakhri continued, ‘but now that this has come out, I think there’s something else you ought to know. Khalkhal and Sadiq met quite recently, and, if you ask me, they did more than just talk. Sadiq has a bounce in her step again.’

‘What? That’s impossible! It’s just silly women’s gossip.’

‘No, it’s not. You notice every little change in the bazaar, so why can’t you see the changes in your own household? Every time I hear Zinat’s footstep on the stairs, I automatically reach for my chador. I don’t dare wear any make-up when she’s around. It’s like having a strange man look at me. I don’t know what she’s up to or who she’s in touch with, but she looks at people in a different way. I have the same feeling when our devotional group gets together. Nobody dares to speak up when Zinat’s there. I used to enjoy our meetings, but now they’re dominated by a bunch of rude women who talk about nothing but the sharia. And Zinat is the ringleader.’

Aqa Jaan sank deeper into his chair.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Who’s there?’

‘The cinema is smoking.’ Qodsi’s voice could be heard from the other side of the door.

‘What are you doing out so late at night?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

He jumped up and opened the door.

A thick layer of smoke was hanging over the centre of town, and fire engines were racing noisily towards the fire.

Aqa Jaan’s first thought was: Khalkhal! He didn’t mention his suspicions to Fakhri, but quickly changed into his street clothes, hurried outside and headed into town.

There were police cars everywhere, and ambulances were taking the wounded to the hospital. A bomb had exploded in the cinema. Three people had been killed and more than a hundred had been wounded.

A week later another bomb exploded, this time in a cinema in Isfahan. There were even more dead and wounded. The regime didn’t issue an official statement, nor was the incident mentioned in any of the newspapers.

Forty days after the attack in Isfahan, a huge bomb went off during the premiere of an American film in the country’s largest cinema, in the southern city of Abadan. Four hundred and seventy-six people died, and many more were injured.

The news made the headlines of newspapers throughout the world.

The shah could hear Khomeini’s footsteps coming closer and closer, and yet it never occurred to him that the mosques and bazaars could have rallied round Khomeini in such a short time. Although he was kept informed of developments, his underlings always scrupulously avoided mentioning the possibility of a popular uprising. The shah was told only that his people were contented and grateful. His Western allies were confident of his ability to govern. He saw no reason to worry about the bombings.

The eyes of the world were focused on Iraq, where Khomeini was living in exile. During the Friday prayer, the Persian service of the BBC broadcast the following message from Khomeini: ‘We are not responsible for the bombings. We don’t commit such atrocities! The secret police are behind the attacks.’

The broadcast was of historical significance, for it was the first time an imam — an ayatollah — had ever delivered his message over the radio. Khomeini might be old, but his voice sounded as militant as ever. Not once did he say the word ‘shah’. Instead, he referred to the shah disparagingly by his middle name, Reza: ‘Reza uses harsh words. Let him. He’s a nobody, an errand boy! I’m going to come and fling him out on his ear. I’m not defying him; he isn’t worth it. I’m defying America!’

The BBC announced that a demonstration would be held in Tehran on the following Friday. The news came like a bolt from the blue. The shah couldn’t understand why contented people would want to demonstrate — or how an uprising could take place in a country so tightly controlled by the police and the security forces.

On that famous Friday thousands of shopkeepers from Tehran’s bazaar made their way towards Majlis Square, where the Parliament was located. They were joined by thousands of others, who spilled out of the mosques at the end of the Friday prayer and poured into the side streets.

When the square was full, the crowd began to move in the direction of Shah Square. The first row of demonstrators was made up of young imams. A few feet ahead of them, walking all by himself, was a newcomer: a relatively young ayatollah in a noticeably stylish imam robe.

The more traditional imams usually paid little attention to their appearance, but this ayatollah was obviously different. He walked with his head held high, his beard neatly clipped and his white shirt carefully ironed. But the most eye-catching feature of all were his yellow imam slippers.

Nobody knew who he was. This was the first time he’d been seen in public. He’d arrived in Iran only last week, having travelled from Iraq via Dubai, disguised as a businessman in an English suit and hat.

This first trial demonstration had been an instant success. According to the BBC, one hundred thousand people had demonstrated against the shah in the streets of Tehran. A younger generation of imams had clearly been in charge.

A picture of the remarkable imam was splashed across the front pages of all the morning papers. ‘Who is this man?’ read the headline in Keyhan, the country’s leading daily.

His name was Ayatollah Beheshti. He had been born in Isfahan and was — at the age of fifty-five — one of the youngest ayatollahs in the Shiite hierarchy. A highly motivated man, he was head of the Iranian mosque in Hamburg, the most important Shiite mosque in Europe.

He had also been the first imam to hear the footsteps of the approaching revolution, and had immediately left his mosque and gone to Iraq to assist Khomeini.

Having lived in Germany for years, Beheshti had an insider’s view of the Western world. This is exactly what the ageing Khomeini needed to help him realise his dream of an Islamic state.

Beheshti understood the value of folk tales and the power of photographic images. His plan was to focus the attention of Western television on Khomeini and then to weave his magic web: ‘An elderly imam sits on a simple Persian rug. He lives in exile, dines on bread and milk, and defies America!’

Unlike Beheshti, Khomeini was so ignorant of the modern world that he still had trouble saying the word ‘radio’.

It was nearly nightfall when Beheshti knocked on the door of Khomeini’s house in Najaf. Khalkhal opened the door.

‘I am Beheshti, the imam of the mosque in Hamburg,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘I have come here to talk to the ayatollah.’

In those days nothing happened in the Khomeini household without Khalkhal’s consent. Pilgrims were always coming to the door, hoping to meet the ayatollah. Khalkhal had never met or heard of Beheshti, but he was immediately struck by his air of confidence and his stylish attire. ‘What do you wish to speak to the ayatollah about?’ he enquired.

‘I understand your curiosity, but I have no intention of discussing this matter with anyone but the ayatollah.’

Khalkhal ushered Beheshti into the guest room and ordered the servant to bring him some tea. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting,’ he said.

Khomeini had never met Beheshti either, but he had known his father. The old man was dead, but he had once been the head of the influential Friday Mosque in Isfahan.

‘The ayatollah was a friend of your father’s,’ Khalkhal reported back to him. ‘He’s looking forward to meeting you.’ And he escorted Beheshti into the simply furnished library, where the ageing ayatollah was seated on his rug.

Beheshti came into the library, bowed to the ayatollah and shut the door behind him.