The House of the Mosque

The Donkey

No indeed, they shall soon know!

And again no, they shall soon know!

We made the night as a covering.

And we made a glowing lantern.

We sent down torrents of water from rain-soaked clouds.

And we warned you of imminent torment,

A day when man shall see what his hands have wrought.

For the next month Aqa Jaan searched the city and talked to everyone he knew, but he found no trace of Ahmad. Everyone had heard about Ahmad’s arrest, and rumours were spreading through the city like wildfire.

‘What are you going to do next?’ Fakhri Sadat asked Aqa Jaan.

‘Maybe we should wait for it to blow over,’ he said. ‘Especially in these uncertain times. You ought to come down to the bazaar one of these days and see how the merchants all avoid me. My reputation is at stake.’

Aqa Jaan jumped when the doorbell rang.

There was something different about the ring, as though the messenger of fate were at the door.

‘Who’s there?’ Aqa Jaan asked, his voice trembling.

‘Open up!’ demanded a male voice.

‘Who’s there?’ Aqa Jaan asked again.

‘We have a message for Aqa Jaan.’

He opened the gate. Outside stood a bearded man, toting a gun.

‘What can I do for you?’ Aqa Jaan enquired.

‘The imam would like to speak to you,’ the man replied.

‘Which imam?’

‘The one in the jeep.’

Aqa Jaan walked over to the jeep. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said through the window to the young imam in the back. ‘Come in if you like. We can talk in my study.’

The imam got out. Aqa Jaan ushered him into his study and offered him a chair.

‘Normally you would have been invited to come down to the Islamic Court,’ the imam stated calmly, ‘but we don’t have much time. I’m here to deliver a message and to make a request that must be complied with at once.’

‘What do you mean? What kind of request?’

‘The court has reached a decision, and I’ve come to inform you of its ruling. I’ll read the document aloud.’

Aqa Jaan, assuming that it was about Ahmad, suddenly felt relieved at the thought that there might be room for negotiation after all.

The imam reached into his pocket, took out an unsealed envelope, removed the sheet of paper inside, carefully unfolded it and began to read:

In the name of Allah, who shows no mercy to sinners who refuse to heed his word, and in the name of our leader Ayatollah Khomeini.

The Islamic Court has ruled that, effective immediately and for an indefinite period of time, the Qa’im Maqam Farahani family is to be relieved of all further responsibility for the Friday Mosque in the city of Senejan.

Aqa Jaan was so shocked he leapt to his feet. ‘That’s impossible! The mosque belongs to us!’

‘The mosque belongs to God,’ the imam stated serenely. ‘A mosque is never anyone’s personal property. You should know that!’

‘But we have documents showing that the land and the mosque belong to this house. It says so in our family deeds. We inherited the mosque. I have proof!’

‘Calm down. Those documents have no legal validity, because the mosque belongs to us all. Your family has merely been its custodian. It hasn’t been bestowed on you as a divine right. Now that we have an Islamic government, the judge can rescind earlier rulings. Your supervision of the mosque is no longer required. Further discussion is out of the question. The Islamic Court has revoked your family’s right to the mosque. The house and the mosque are to be separated. You and your family may continue to live in the house, but I have come to collect the keys to the mosque. Are you prepared to hand them over?’

‘No!’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I can’t hand them over and I won’t. What’s the meaning of this? You’re destroying us all! Do you have to insult us too?’

‘If you don’t hand over the keys right now, I’ll order the men I have posted outside to come in and get them.’

‘You’re not getting them from me!’ Aqa Jaan said firmly.

The imam left and went back to his jeep, where he ordered his men to go in and get the keys.

Three men came into Aqa Jaan’s study. They started towards his desk, but Aqa Jaan, who was standing in the middle of the room, blocked their way. ‘Get out!’ he screamed. ‘Get out of my house!’

The men pushed him aside and began to search the room.

‘This is pure theft!’ Aqa Jaan shouted at the man who was dumping the contents of his drawers on his desk, and he shoved him away.

Jawad, having heard the noise, rushed in and dragged his father away, then stood between the two men to prevent them from coming to blows.

The men took every key they could find and then left. But they didn’t get their hands on the key to the treasure room, because Aqa Jaan always kept it in his pocket, next to his Koran.

Three days later, as evening was drawing to a close, a helicopter flew over the mosque. Inside it was Ayatollah Araki — one of the dozens of ayatollahs sent to the major cities by Khomeini to oversee the implementation of the sharia. Each of the ayatollahs had been granted unlimited powers. Answerable only to Khomeini, they were referred to as Jomas, or Friday, imams, since they operated from the Jomah, or Friday, Mosques.

In the streets below, hundreds of believers raised their arms towards the helicopter and shouted ‘Jare imam gosh amad! Welcome, friend of the imam!’

The helicopter landed on the roof, and a group of men from the bazaar trooped up to greet the ageing ayatollah, while the hundreds of Islamic fundamentalists in the mosque’s courtyard beat their chests and shouted, ‘Janam beh fadayet Khomeini! We will sacrifice our souls for you, Khomeini!’

Two armed young men rushed over to help the ayatollah down the stairs, and he was carried into the mosque on the shoulders of the faithful.

Aqa Jaan, not wanting to miss the ayatollah’s arrival, had stealthily opened the trapdoor to one of the minarets, crawled inside and climbed up to the spot where Nosrat had once made love to a woman. From his lofty position he stared down at the scene, taking in every detail, while the green light of the minaret shone on his face.

The mosque had again become the centre of activity in Senejan. Every Friday evening people came to the mosque from miles around to hear the ayatollah speak.

Ayatollah Araki was the most powerful man in the city. His appointment book was always full, and no decision was ever taken without his approval. His autocratic rule extended to everything but the Islamic Court.

The Islamic judge operated independently, though he did consult with Khalkhal in special cases. In fact, he had phoned him to discuss Ahmad’s case. Khalkhal’s advice had been clear: ‘You’re the judge. Close your eyes and give your verdict!’

Nevertheless the judge had gone to the mosque, handed Ahmad’s file to the ayatollah and asked his opinion. The ayatollah had studied the file in between two prayer services and agreed with the judge’s proposed ruling. ‘He is an imam, so he has to be punished more severely than ordinary citizens. Wa-assalaam!’

The following day a jeep drove around the city from dawn until early afternoon, blaring an announcement from the loudspeaker: ‘Attention all believers in Senejan! Come to the main square at two o’clock. The judge will announce his verdict in the case of Ahmad Alsaberi, a former accomplice of the secret police. This will be the first public sentencing under sharia law. God is merciful, but also cruel when He has to be.’

Aqa Jaan was standing in the courtyard by the hauz when he heard the announcement. He froze. All at once his legs went numb, and he had to clutch the lamp post for support.

Fakhri Sadat had also heard the announcement. ‘What should we do?’ she asked, appalled.

‘Nothing,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Only God can help us now. For the last month I’ve gone round knocking on doors and kissing everyone’s hand, but it didn’t help. Nobody knows what goes on in the Islamic Court. The cases are always tried behind closed doors.’

‘Why hasn’t Zinat done anything? She has friends in high places.’

‘I don’t think there’s much she can do. Even she doesn’t know who the judge is and who’s behind the trials. Besides, she’s on their side. She can’t make an exception for her own son.’

‘Why not? You’ve told me often enough that he’s innocent.’

‘I don’t know, Fakhri. I just don’t know any more!’

‘But Ahmad is her son. Why should you have to call on people and kiss their hands, while she’s hidden somewhere? For that matter, where is she? And why is she hiding, even from you?’

‘Fakhri, there’s been a revolution, not just an ordinary transfer of power. And because of that, there’s been a radical change in the way people think. We’re going to see things we never would have thought possible in ordinary times. Human beings are capable of the most inhuman behaviour. Look around you; everyone’s changed. You can hardly recognise them any more. I can’t tell if they’ve suddenly dropped their masks or put on new ones. God only knows what happened to Zinat. Who would have thought she’d ever achieve any kind of prominence?’

‘Prominence? What do you mean by “prominence”?’ Fakhri snapped.

‘She has power, she makes decisions, she organises things. God knows what else she’s doing.’

‘She’s no one special. She’s ugly. All the women she works with are horrible, the kind of women that no one looks at twice. They’re all ugly!’

‘Fakhri!’

‘Zinat is ugly on the inside,’ she said, ignoring Aqa Jaan’s rebuke.

‘This isn’t the time to discuss it. I’m going to the square to see what’s happening. Maybe I can still do something to help Ahmad.’

‘Don’t go. He’s going to be humiliated in public. Stay home until the storm has died down.’

‘I have to go. It’s my life. Humiliation is the least of my worries.’

Before he left, Aqa Jaan said his prayers. Then he put on his hat and, with his chin held high, went out to meet his fate.

It was crowded in the square. He found a spot beneath a tree, where he had a good view of the platform on which the sentencing would take place. People were talking to each other, curious as to how the sharia would be implemented.

Three army jeeps drove up and disgorged their load of Revolutionary Guards, then a black Mercedes rolled into the square. One of the guards opened the door and a young imam stepped out. The guards escorted him to the platform, where he seated himself on a tall chair. ‘Bring in the prisoner!’ he ordered.

Ahmad was led out from behind an improvised green curtain. He looked frail and unkempt. It had been weeks since he’d had any opium, and it showed in his lined face and stooped shoulders. He looked like an unwashed tramp. If the judge hadn’t announced his name, nobody would have recognised him.

The crowd stared in disbelief at Ahmad Alsaberi, once their beloved imam, the man who used to receive hundreds of love letters.

First the judge called for silence, then he began to read his verdict: ‘Ahmad Alsaberi has been found guilty of collaborating with the secret police of the former regime. Of collaborating with Satan! This is an act of treason against Islam and against the mosque that he was appointed to serve. However, because he doesn’t have any blood on his hands, he has been sentenced to only ten years in prison!’

There were gasps and cries from the crowd. Again the judge called for silence, then resumed his reading: ‘The offender is hereby relieved of his duties. Since he will no longer be allowed to work as an imam, his robe and turban have been taken from him.’

Ahmad trembled in his filthy shirt.

‘Because he was the imam of the Friday Mosque, and was therefore expected to set an example to others, he will be given an extra punishment,’ the judge said. He paused, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘Bring in the donkey!’

The guards led a white donkey out from behind the stands.

There were mutterings from the crowd: ‘What are they up to now? What are they going to do to him?’

The donkey took one look at the mass of people and refused to take another step. The guards had to push it onto the platform.

Aqa Jaan recognised the animal. It was Am Ramazan’s donkey!

Just then a group of militants wearing green headbands bearing the words ‘Soldier of Khomeini’ came bursting into the square, shouting, ‘God is great! Death to the henchman of the shah!’

Above the tumult, the judge cried: ‘The offender is to be seated backwards on the donkey and taken to the Friday Mosque. This is a merciful punishment for a man who has defiled his imam robe!’

There was a shocked silence. Everyone stared in horror at Ahmad, who kept his eyes glued to the ground.

Aqa Jaan took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He couldn’t believe they were actually going to make Ahmad ride backwards on a donkey through Senejan!

Ahmad had admittedly done some foolish things, but Aqa Jaan didn’t believe he’d ever been a henchman of the shah. It would be totally out of character. But why didn’t Ahmad speak up? Why didn’t he object? Why didn’t he defend himself?

Aqa Jaan pushed his way towards the platform. ‘Ahmad!’ he cried loudly. ‘You’re not a traitor! Defend yourself!’

Everyone stared at Aqa Jaan.

‘Say something!’ he cried, louder this time.

At the sound of Aqa Jaan’s voice, Ahmad seemed to snap out of his trance.

‘Quiet!’ the judge ordered.

‘Speak up, Ahmad!’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Quiet!’ the judge ordered again.

Two guards came over and seized Aqa Jaan.

‘Wake up, Ahmad! Say something! Do it for me! Do it for us! For the mosque!’ Aqa Jaan shouted as he tried to shake off the guards.

‘You’re the imam of our mosque, defend your—’ he cried. But before he could finish his sentence, one of the guards twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him to the ground, face down.

‘Ahmad! Do something for us!’ he called, as the guards held him down.

Two of the merchants from the bazaar ran up and dragged Aqa Jaan out from under the hands and feet of the guards, then led him back to where they’d been standing.

Ahmad, summoning all his strength, raised his arms in the air and addressed the crowd. ‘I swear by the Holy Koran that I am innocent!’ he cried.

‘Be quiet!’ the judge ordered.

‘I swear by the mosque that I’ve never been a henchman of the shah!’

‘Shut up!’ the judge roared, truly angry now.

‘I have never—’ Ahmad began. Just then two guards grabbed hold of him and started to lift him onto the donkey, but the animal shied away. One of the guards jabbed it so hard with his rifle that the donkey stumbled and fell, then scrambled to its feet again.

An old man wearing a green headband and holding a weapon stepped forward. He stroked the donkey’s head, then held the animal still while the guards hoisted Ahmad into the saddle.

Aqa Jaan couldn’t believe his eyes. The old man in the uniform was Am Ramazan! Their former gardener had become a soldier in the Army of Allah! It was inconceivable. Am Ramazan had not only let them use his donkey to humiliate Ahmad and break his will, but he had even volunteered to hold the animal still.

He ought to be ashamed of himself. Why, he still had the key to their house! How could people change so quickly?

Aqa Jaan was so upset that he began to chant the Al-Mursalat surah like a madman:

Woe, that day, deniers of truth!

By the tempests tempestuous!

By the dispersers dispersing!

By the sunderers sundering!

What you are promised shall come to pass.

When the stars become dim.

When the heavens are torn asunder.

When the mountains are scattered to the winds.

Woe, that day, deniers of truth.

The donkey moved off. Ahmad was weeping soundlessly. Someone threw a stone that hit him in the head.

Aqa Jaan could bear it no longer. He ran after the donkey and hurled himself in front of it. ‘Stop!’ he said to the crowd. ‘You can’t throw stones! He hasn’t been sentenced to a stoning! Where’s that accursed judge?’

One of the guards gave Aqa Jaan a shove, which sent him sprawling to the ground. But he got back up again, with surprising agility for a man of his age, and ran towards the donkey.

The guard stuck out the lower end of his rifle and blocked the way.

Another stone was thrown. This one struck Ahmad’s right ear. Aqa Jaan took out his Koran, thrust aside the guard and ran over to Ahmad. Positioning himself in front of his nephew, he held up his Koran and shouted, ‘In the name of this book, do not stone him!’

The guard snatched the Koran out of his hand and hit him across the face with it. The blow sent Aqa Jaan reeling, but he quickly regained his balance. He grabbed Ahmad round the waist and tried to drag him off the donkey, pulling so hard that they both fell to the ground.

While two of the guards were lifting Ahmad back onto the donkey, the other guards were kicking Aqa Jaan. Their heavy boots thudded into his stomach, back and legs.

The donkey trotted off towards the mosque, and the crowd followed along behind.

Aqa Jaan lay curled up in agony, chanting:

Oh, you cloaked in your mantle!

Oh, you muffled in your garment!

You may lie

On the ground no longer.

Stand up!

By the moon,

And by the morning when it dawns!

He placed his palms on the ground and rose painfully to his feet.