The House of the Mosque

Al-harb

Five months later, at around noon, three Iraqi warplanes flew over Tehran, flying so low that you could see the pilots in the cockpit. Everyone fled in panic at the deafening and altogether terrifying sound.

The planes bombed the airport. And with this surprise attack Iraq declared al-harb, war, on Iran.

The Iraqi army had crossed into Iranian territory the night before and occupied strategic targets in the southern oil-rich province of Khuzestan. Iran’s most important gas and oil refineries were now in the hands of Saddam Hussein.

The regime was shocked. People couldn’t believe it. Only after the first televised images had been broadcast, showing Iraqi tanks in front of Iranian oil refineries, did it begin to dawn on everyone that it wasn’t just a threat, but an actual war.

Khomeini appeared on television and urged all those who owned a rifle to report immediately to the nearest mosque. ‘It is jihad!’ Thanks to his call to arms, a large army of believers was mobilised within twenty-four hours. Thousands of men — both young and old, but none with any military training whatsoever — were crammed into buses and driven to the front.

Meanwhile, American spy planes, flying high above the war zone, had started photographing the movements of the Islamic Army and passing the information on to Saddam Hussein. As a result, Iranian troops were repeatedly bombed by Iraqi planes.

Khomeini, unbowed by defeat, inspired his people with courage. ‘Only death can save us now. America is monitoring our every move from above. We have no choice but to lay down a bridge of corpses that will eventually lead us to Iraq.’

An army of believers, clothed in burial sheets, took up their weapons and paved the way to the Iraqi army. The Iranians finally reached the Iraqi troops and began a war that would last for eight long years and result in the deaths of millions of soldiers on both sides.

The ayatollahs feared that the opposition would make use of the war to topple the regime. Khomeini had always been wary of the leftist movement. He thought of their supporters as enemies of Allah and the Koran, so was waiting patiently for the right moment to crush them once and for all. In turn, the leftist opposition was secretly plotting to weaken the Islamic Republic and remove the fanatical ayatollahs from power.

To safeguard the home front, the regime decided to destroy the leftist movement there and then. Khalkhal was the first to be informed. ‘Tear it out by the roots!’ Khomeini ordered. ‘Show no mercy! Stamp out all those who oppose Islam!’

In less than an hour the leaders of the Communist Tudeh Party — all of whom had supported Khomeini — had been arrested. Yet the regime didn’t manage to get its hands on the leaders of the various underground groups. After the revolution, they had been radicalised and had debated whether or not to rise up in arms against the regime. The Tudeh Party, which had opted not to fight, had walked into the trap Khomeini had set for them.

Three nights later, the party’s elderly leader — thin, grey and unshaven — was paraded on the Islamic-controlled television as on object lesson. His spirit had been broken. It was evident that he’d been taken directly from the torture chamber and placed in front of the camera. He begged to be left in peace.

It was a grisly scene, a cleverly edited videotape intended to frighten people. And it worked, for on that same night the remaining members of the Tudeh Party fled to the borders and escaped.

In Senejan, Ayatollah Araki had been ordered to clear out the Red Village.

The Red Village was in its heyday. It had declared itself an autonomous zone with its own rules and regulations — an enclave in which young men and women had set up an idealistic Communist state of their own. After the harvest, they divided the crops equally among the villagers. In the evening people gathered in the village square and read aloud the poems of the Russian poet Vladimir Mayakovsky.

On the night of the attack, the villagers were sitting in the square, watching a Russian film, when all of a sudden someone shouted: ‘Tanks! They’re coming to get us! Block the road!’

But it was too late for barricades. Within seconds the square emptied. Some of the villagers fled to the mountains, others went inside and locked their doors, and the few who had rifles hidden somewhere got them out and climbed up to their roofs.

A helicopter appeared above the village. Shots rang out from the roofs, causing the helicopter to veer off sharply and fly away.

Tanks rumbled into the village. Hundreds of armed Revolutionary Guards appeared out of nowhere and stole through the darkness, taking up strategic positions. Meanwhile, two helicopters circled overhead, shining their searchlights on the roofs and firing at everything that moved.

The villagers hadn’t been expecting such a large-scale attack. The Revolutionary Guards kept watch on the doors and windows, and fired at anyone who tried to escape. The people on the roofs fired back with fanatical zeal, but their shots were answered with grenades, which blew the roofs sky high.

There was no point in prolonging the struggle. One by one the doors of the houses opened, and the villagers came out with their hands up.

Those who had fled to the mountains were hunted down with jeeps. Anyone who refused to surrender was shot.

That night, dozens of men and women were arrested and hauled off to jail. One of them was Aqa Jaan’s son, Jawad.

Khalkhal was flown to Senejan by helicopter to try the prisoners. As Allah’s dreaded judge, he sowed death and destruction wherever he went.

The sun had not yet risen and the citizens of Senejan were still in their beds when nine young men from the Red Village were executed.

The city awoke in a state of a shock. Parents whose sons or daughters had been arrested hurried off to the prison to find out if their children had been executed.

The bodies were released to the families. But according to the sharia, the corpses were unclean and could not be buried in official cemeteries. So fathers drove into the mountains, where they hoped to give their sons a decent burial.

Aqa Jaan didn’t realise that Jawad had been arrested. He thought his son was in Tehran. It never occurred to him that Jawad might be among the prisoners.

He did know one of the boys who’d been executed — the son of the vaccination specialist whose office was opposite the mosque. Aqa Jaan was thinking of the stricken family and reading the Koran when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver.

‘I’ll keep it short,’ a man said without introducing himself. ‘I’m a friend of Jawad’s. He was arrested in the Red Village. He’s probably going to be executed. If there’s anything you can do to prevent it, you need to do it fast. Once he comes before Allah’s judge, it will be too late,’ and he hung up.

Aqa Jaan’s hand shook as he replaced the receiver. Hundreds of thoughts were racing through his head. He wanted to shout for Fakhri, but he couldn’t speak. His son had been arrested! Why hadn’t he been informed? Who was the man who phoned him? Where had he been phoning from?

As far as he knew, Jawad had gone to Tehran. What on earth had he been doing in the Red Village?

And how could he keep his son from being executed?

He didn’t know where to start. He picked up the phone to make a call, then put it down again.

He grabbed his coat, jammed his hat on his head and started to leave, but just as he was going out the door the phone rang again.

‘Excuse me,’ the same voice said. ‘He’s in the city jail. The judge will come back in a few days to try the rest of the prisoners. You need to hurry.’

‘But what was he doing in the Red Village? And who are you?’

‘We were there together. I managed to escape in time; he was arrested. You’ve got to act quickly. Sorry, I can’t talk any longer, I’ve got to go,’ the man said, and he hung up.

Aqa Jaan hurried towards the gate, but halfway there he turned around and came back. ‘Fakhri Sadat!’ he called.

There was no answer.

‘Fakhri Sadat!’ he called louder.

Fakhri, who could tell from his voice that something was wrong, hurried downstairs.

‘Brace yourself for some bad news,’ Aqa Jaan warned her. ‘Jawad has been arrested!’

Fakhri nearly fainted. ‘Arrested? Why?’ she gasped.

‘A friend of his just called. Jawad was arrested in the Red Village.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe he went there with Shahbal. Where’s Shahbal?’

‘I don’t know that either,’ he said. ‘But we have to do something before it’s too late!’ He started towards the door, then stopped. ‘I don’t know what to do or where to go.’

‘Go to the mosque!’ said Fakhri Sadat, her face as white as a sheet. ‘Talk to the ayatollah!’

Aqa Jaan opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He hadn’t been inside the mosque, not even to pray, since it had been taken away from him.

Swallowing his pride, he went over to the mosque, but the ayatollah wasn’t in his office. ‘Where’s the ayatollah?’ he asked the new caretaker.

‘He cancelled his appointments and won’t be coming in for a while. He doesn’t want people pestering him with questions about the executions.’

‘How can I get in touch with him?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. He has more than one address.’

Aqa Jaan went into the grocery shop opposite the mosque.

‘Aqa Jaan! What can I do for you?’

‘Do you know where the ayatollah lives? I need to get hold of him right away!’

The grocer took pity on him. ‘La ilaha illa Allah,’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but why don’t you try the mansion that used to belong to the former chief of the secret police?’

Aqa Jaan took a taxi to the house.

Armed guards were posted outside. He went up to the gate, but the guards told him they couldn’t let him through and advised him to use the intercom that was connected to the house. He pressed the button. It took a while before someone answered.

‘What do you want?’ snapped a gruff voice.

‘I’d like to speak to the ayatollah.’

‘Write him a note and stick it in the letterbox on the right-hand side of the gate.’

‘I’d like to talk to him personally.’

‘Everyone wants to talk to him personally, but that doesn’t mean they’re allowed to.’

‘But this is an emergency. I’m Aqa Jaan, the former custodian of the Friday Mosque. Tell him that, and I’m sure he’ll agree to see me.’

‘I don’t care who you are. The ayatollah doesn’t have time to see anyone. Besides, he’s out, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

Stumped, Aqa Jaan stood helplessly by the intercom.

‘Don’t just stand there! Move!’

He walked back to the city. For the first time in his life, he was completely at a loss.

He stepped off the kerb, and a car slammed on its brakes. The driver rolled down his window. ‘Are you trying to kill yourself, or what?’ the man yelled.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I wasn’t paying attention.’

The driver recognised him and saw his look of despair. ‘Where are you going? Maybe I can give you a lift,’ he offered.

‘Me? I’m on my way to the jail, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Which jail? The old one or the new one?’

‘I don’t know. The one where the executions were held.’

‘The old one, then. Get in!’

The old jail, on the outskirts of the city, was surrounded by a massive stone wall. The car stopped in the square in front of the jail and Aqa Jaan got out. The tall iron gate was shut, and aside from three guards who were posted on the wall, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

It wasn’t dark yet, but the floodlights suddenly came on.

‘No one’s here,’ the driver said. ‘Let me take you home.’

Aqa Jaan didn’t seem to hear him. He went up to the gate and hunted for the bell. There wasn’t one. So he pounded on the gate with his fist. There was no answer. ‘Is anyone there?’ he shouted.

‘I’ll be glad to drive you home!’ the driver repeated his offer.

‘Sir!’ Aqa Jaan called up to one of the guards on the wall. The man pretended he hadn’t heard him.

‘Sir!’ he called again, louder.

The driver got out, walked over to Aqa Jaan and took him by the arm. ‘I think you’d better go home now,’ he said. ‘You can come back tomorrow.’

He helped him into the car, drove him into town and dropped him outside the mosque.

Back home, Aqa Jaan had another idea. ‘Fakhri!’ he called, with a note of urgency in his voice, ‘put on your chador!’

‘Why?’

‘We’re going to see Am Ramazan!’

They hadn’t seen him for a long time. They didn’t know exactly what he was doing these days, only that he wore a uniform and that he had let the ayatollah use his donkey. Aqa Jaan rang the doorbell, but there were no lights on and it didn’t look like anyone was at home.

He rang again. This time he heard footsteps in the hallway. The door opened and there stood Am Ramazam, who now had a long beard. He was carrying a gun. In the darkness of the hallway, he seemed bigger than he really was.

Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat were the last people he’d been expecting to see.

‘Could we come in for a moment?’ Fakhri Sadat asked.

‘Be my guest,’ Am Ramazan said.

On the wall was a large picture of Khomeini, and the room was filled with framed portraits of other ayatollahs.

‘We need your help, Am Ramazam,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Jawad has been arrested. Would you be willing to do us a favour?’

Am Ramazan looked surprised. He had been their gardener, and they had always been good to him. Now they were standing before him, humbled, asking for his help. ‘What can I do? I’m not sure I can be of any use.’

‘I need to talk to Ayatollah Araki. Can you arrange an appointment for me? It can’t wait. I have to see him now, tonight, before it’s too late.’

‘Tonight? That’s impossible,’ he said. ‘I mean, I don’t know, wait a minute. Please sit down. Fakhri Sadat, would you like some tea?’

He went over to the telephone, which had only recently been installed, and dialled a number. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I’d like to make an appointment with the ayatollah. Can you set it up for me? No, not for myself, but for an acquaintance… Yes, I know him well, I’ve known him for years. It’s important… Tonight, if possible… I understand. And tomorrow? Okay, in the mosque, after the sermon? No, before the sermon is better.’

Tears sprang to Aqa Jaan’s eyes.

It was Friday, so hundreds of people were heading for the mosque. Aqa Jaan stood by the door and waited, but Ayatollah Araki had been delayed. Just as the ayatollah was about to leave, his red phone had rung.

‘Iraq used chemical weapons against our troops this week,’ the ayatollah heard the Friday Prayer Leader say. ‘Thousands of soldiers have died, including three hundred men from Senejan and nearby villages. The bodies will be arriving in Senejan tomorrow.’

Ayatollah Araki’s black Mercedes drew up in front of the mosque, and two Revolutionary Guards got out. Aqa Jaan moved towards the car, but one of the guards stopped him.

‘I have an appointment with the ayatollah,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Get out of the way!’ the guard barked.

The ayatollah looked at Aqa Jaan, but had no idea who he was.

Aqa Jaan removed his hat and bowed. The ayatollah swept right past him.

‘I have an appointment with you,’ Aqa Jaan explained.

The ayatollah paused, glanced back at him and walked on again.

Aqa Jaan started to run after him, but was seized by one of the guards. ‘I’m the former custodian of the mosque!’ he cried.

The ayatollah signalled for the guard to release him.

Aqa Jaan hurried to catch up with him. As they neared the mosque, the ayatollah held out his hand. At the entrance to the prayer room, Aqa Jaan took his hand and kissed it.

The worshippers, who had stood up to greet the ayatollah, saw Aqa Jaan kiss the ayatollah’s hand. They also saw the ayatollah stop for a moment to listen to him. Everyone in the room noticed that Aqa Jaan was still talking when the ayatollah stalked off in annoyance. They all watched as Aqa Jaan clutched the ayatollah’s robe and was roughly shoved out of the way by the guards.

The ayatollah strode directly to the pulpit and stood on the first step. A guard handed him a rifle, which he held throughout his speech, to symbolise the fact that the country was at war.

‘Saddam, who is not the true son of his father, has bombed our pearl in Isfahan!’ he began. ‘Saddam is a nobody, a bastard who dances to the tune of the Americans. America is taking revenge! America is using Saddam as a war machine! Saddam is not bombing our mosques, America is!

‘Bomb us, America! We are not afraid of you. Destroy our historic places of worship, America! We are not afraid of you!

‘Saddam is a mere hireling. He is afraid of us, afraid of our army, afraid of your sons.

‘Prepare yourselves, believers of Senejan, for I have painful news. Saddam has used chemical weapons against our sons! Prepare yourselves, mothers, prepare yourselves, fathers, for we shall soon bury your sons! Your sons who are now being welcomed by angels in Paradise!’

‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ the worshippers cried.

‘God is great! Victory will be ours! We will conquer Baghdad, but we will not stop in Baghdad. We will strike at America in the heart of Zionism and liberate the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem!’

‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ the crowd roared.

‘We are living in difficult times, but your sons are making history. I congratulate you on the death of your sons!

‘Watch out, mothers, stay alert, fathers, for we are fighting on two fronts. Our sons are fighting Saddam on one front, while here at home we are fighting the Communists — a small but no less dangerous enemy in our midst. We will weed them out and destroy them as well!’

Pointing his rifle at Aqa Jaan, he thundered, ‘Punish them! And show them no mercy!’

‘Allahu akbar!’

Aqa Jaan, who was kneeling on the ground, felt the weight of the mosque on his shoulders. With his back bent, he mumbled:

We worship You and ask You for help.

Guide us to the straight path,

The path of those upon whom You have bestowed Your grace,

Those whose portion is not wrath and who do not go astray.

Afterwards, when Aqa Jaan told Fakhri Sadat how he’d been treated by the ayatollah, she flung on her chador.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To see Zinat. She has to help us!’

‘She won’t. She didn’t lift a finger to help Ahmad and she won’t lift a finger to help Jawad. The world has been turned upside down. Khomeini has called for a jihad. Anyone who says a word against the regime is supposed to be reported to the authorities. Mothers have even turned in their own children.’

‘But Jawad hasn’t done anything!’

‘Don’t be so naïve, Fakhri, that’s what every mother says. He hasn’t lived at home for a long time. We don’t know what he’s been up to or why he was in that village.’

‘I’m going to see Zinat anyway.’

‘Zinat has publicly denounced Ahmad in the mosque. If she talks about her own son that way, she’s not going to help yours.’

‘We have to go; we have no choice. We’ll go together.’

Zinat was still working in the women’s section of the prison. She put the prisoners under such pressure that they finally snapped and were prepared to pray seven times a day. They also shamelessly betrayed their friends, one after another.

One night, when Zinat had unexpectedly stopped by the house to pick up the last of her belongings, Aqa Jaan’s voice came to her out of the darkness. ‘Why are you creeping around, Zinat? Why don’t you talk to us? Why won’t you say hello to us any more?’

Zinat didn’t answer, but kept walking towards the gate.

Aqa Jaan stopped her.

‘You can’t just walk away. I demand an answer. People are saying bad things about you behind your back. They say that you’ve become a torturer. Is that true?’

At last Zinat broke her silence. ‘People are free to say whatever they like. I’m simply doing my duty, and obeying the wishes of Allah!’

‘Which Allah do you mean? Why don’t I know that Allah?’

‘Times have changed!’ Zinat hissed, and she yanked open the gate and left.

Zinat felt good. In fact, she had never felt so good. She didn’t care what people were saying about her. After all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong! After Ahmad’s arrest, Zinat had secretly met with Khalkhal in Qom. It had been a crucial meeting, a turning point in her life. Sometimes she’d wondered if she were on the right track, but Khalkhal had swept away her doubts.

‘A great revolution has taken place,’ Khalkhal had said. ‘After 2,500 years the Persian empire has finally been torn up by the roots and replaced by Islam. We’re working hard to set up the first Shiite republic. If we let this opportunity slip by, Allah will punish us unmercifully. Allah has two faces: a merciful one and a cruel one. Now is the time for the cruel, terrifying face. It’s the only way to keep Islam alive. We’re plagued by enemies, so we have no choice. You have to opt for Islam and forget everything else. Your son, your father, your mother — none of them matters any more. You will be rewarded by Allah in Paradise.’

The women of the morals police, who were under Zinat’s command, were housed in the former mayor’s residence.

When Aqa Jaan and Fakhri arrived there, they found a group of parents huddled in the courtyard, come to plead on behalf of their arrested daughters. Fakhri Sadat adjusted her chador to make sure that not a single strand of hair was showing, then walked towards the steps. She was stopped by two women in black chadors.

‘What do you want?’ one of them asked.

‘I’d like to speak to Zinat Khanom.’

‘Sister Zinat!’ the other woman corrected her.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Fakhri Sadat said. ‘Of course, I meant Sister Zinat!’

‘Sister Zinat is busy. She isn’t seeing anyone just now.’

‘I’m here on family business. I need to speak to her.’

‘She doesn’t have time. Not for families, not for anyone.’

‘I’m her sister-in-law. And that’s Aqa Jaan, her eldest brother-in-law. I need to speak to her right away. If you’d let her know we’re waiting, I’m sure she’ll talk to us.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. But go back and wait with the others.’

‘Of course,’ Fakhri agreed.

Zinat, looking down from her office through a gap in the curtains, had already spotted Aqa Jaan and Fakhri. She knew that Jawad had been arrested. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to help him.

Although Khalkhal phoned her from time to time, she wasn’t able to phone him. She didn’t know exactly what he did, nor did she realise that he was Allah’s dreaded judge.

Would she help Jawad if he were really in danger? She trembled at the thought of her own impotence. No, she couldn’t help him. She was in no position to put a stop to such things. She could only carry out orders. And Khomeini had made his orders clear in his speech to the morals police: ‘Today Islam is resting on your shoulders. If necessary, you must sacrifice your own children!’

Zinat looked down at the courtyard again. ‘I don’t want to see them,’ she told the guard. ‘Tell them I’m not here.’

The guard went downstairs. ‘Sister Zinat isn’t here,’ she told Fakhri Sadat. ‘She’s gone out.’

Fakhri was frantically looking around, not knowing what to do next, when her eye fell on one of the windows. A woman was peeking through the curtains. Zinat! The curtains jerked shut.

‘She is here,’ Fakhri said. ‘I just saw her at that window.’

‘No, she’s not,’ the guard said firmly. ‘I just told you she wasn’t. Now go home!’

Aqa Jaan tugged at Fakhri Sadat’s arm. ‘Come, let’s go!’

‘No! I’m not leaving, I’m staying here! I have to speak to Zinat,’ she said.

‘Leave this instant, or I’ll call the guards!’ the woman said.

‘Zinat!’ Fakhri called.

A bearded guard came out and pushed Fakhri towards the gate with his rifle butt. ‘Get out! Now!’

‘Zi-n-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-t!’ Fakhri wailed at the top of her lungs.

The guard hit her with his rifle. Fakhri stumbled and fell against the gate, which caused her chador to slip to the ground. Aqa Jaan grabbed the man by his collar and shoved him against the wall. The female guard screamed for backup, and two armed men came running towards Aqa Jaan. Zinat leaned out the window. ‘Don’t hit him!’ she cried. ‘Let him go!’

Aqa Jaan scooped up Fakhri’s chador and wrapped it around her. ‘We’re going!’ he said.

Khalkhal arrived in the city late that afternoon.

Now that so many soldiers from Senejan had been killed by chemical warfare, this was a good moment to try the opponents of the regime.

He interrogated the prisoners in the former stable of the old jail, which still reeked of horse manure. The walls were lined with horseshoes, saddles and bridles. Khalkhal always picked the most macabre locations.

Three young men were led inside. Within fifteen minutes, Khalkhal had delivered all three verdicts: the first was sentenced to death, the second was given ten years in prison and the third fifteen years.

A young woman was next.

‘Name?’

‘Mahbub.’

‘You were arrested while trying to escape. Why were you running away?’

‘I was running away because I was afraid I was going to be arrested.’

‘What had you done that made you think you were going to be arrested?’

‘I hadn’t done anything.’

‘We found flyers in your handbag!’

‘That’s not true. I didn’t have any flyers in my handbag.’

‘You were arrested in the Red Village. Do you live there?’

‘No.’

‘So what were you doing there?’

‘Visiting friends.’

‘What are their names?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘You mean you won’t tell me. Fine. Are you sorry for what you did?’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong, so I have nothing to be sorry for!’

‘If you sign here and say you repent, I’ll reduce your sentence.’

‘If I didn’t do anything wrong, why should I have to sign anything?’

‘Six years!’ said Khalkhal. ‘Next!’

She was taken out and Jawad was led in by an armed guard.

‘Name!’ Khalkhal said, without looking at the accused.

‘Jawad!’

‘Your father’s name?’

‘Aqa Jaan!’

Khalkhal’s head jerked up, as if he’d been stung by a bee. He stared at Jawad through his dark glasses.

Jawad was unable to see him, because of the bright light shining in his eyes. Khalkhal’s pen rolled off the table and onto the ground. He leaned over to pick it up, and in that brief moment Jawad caught a glimpse of the judge’s face.

There was something familiar about it, Jawad thought.

Khalkhal leafed through his papers, clearly stalling for time. ‘Water!’ he shouted to the guards who were posted outside.

The two men, assuming they’d been ordered to remove the prisoner, came in, grabbed hold of Jawad and were about to drag him out of the room.

‘Leave him here and bring me a glass of water!’ Khalkhal snarled.

I know him from somewhere, thought Jawad. His voice sounds familiar.

One of the guards placed a glass of water in front of Khalkhal and left. Khalkhal took a sip. ‘You have a file as thick as my arm,’ he said. ‘You’re an active member of the Communist Party. You’re the mastermind who works behind the scenes. At the time of your arrest, you were carrying a gun that had fired three bullets. You were seen shooting at a helicopter. These are serious offences for which you can receive the death penalty. Do you have anything to say to that?’

‘It’s a pack of lies. Furthermore, I don’t recognise the authority of this court. What you’re doing is illegal. I have the right to a lawyer! The right to defend myself!’

‘Shut up and listen!’ Khalkhal snapped. ‘I’ve already spent more time on you than on the others. Your file contains a long list of serious offences.’

‘They’re obviously trumped-up charges, because I didn’t have a gun on me, and I certainly wasn’t shooting at a helicopter.’

‘I don’t have time to discuss this with you. I advise you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say. Is that clear? I know your father, and I’m willing to help you if you agree to cooperate.’

It’s Khalkhal! Jawad suddenly realised. Khalkhal is Allah’s judge!

He was aghast. His mouth went dry and his hands began to shake.

Khalkhal knew that Jawad had recognised him. ‘Listen to me, young man. The bodies of more than three hundred soldiers are being brought here tomorrow from the front. All young men of your age. While they were out fighting the enemy, you were shooting at our helicopters. I don’t care who you are. I’d sentence my own brother to death if I had to. But I’m making an exception in your case because I know your father. Now I’m going to ask you three questions. Think carefully before you answer. If you’re smart, you’ll give the right answer. This is the first — and it will be the last — time I’ve ever given anyone this chance.

‘The first question is: Are you a Communist, or do you believe in Islam?’

The gravity of Khalkhal’s words hadn’t sunk in, and Jawad was still seething: ‘I’m not going to answer that question! Judges aren’t allowed to ask such questions. Besides, this isn’t a courtroom; it’s a stable!’

‘Think before you talk,’ Khalkhal said, clearly disappointed. ‘The second question is: If I reduce your sentence, will you pray seven times a day along with the other prisoners?’

‘Prayer is a personal matter, so I won’t answer that question either,’ Jawad retorted.

‘Question three: Will you sign this form, stating that you’re sorry for what you’ve done?’

‘Why should I repent when I haven’t done anything wrong? No, I won’t sign it.’

Khalkhal was in doubt. He wanted to save Jawad, but only if he agreed to cooperate, at least to some extent. ‘I’m going to give you one more chance,’ Khalkhal said. ‘I advise you to make use of it.’

He took a Koran out of his pocket and handed it to Jawad. ‘If you swear on the Koran that you weren’t carrying a weapon and didn’t fire any shots, I’ll reduce your sentence. If you refuse, I’ll have you executed at once!’

‘You’ve had hundreds of innocent people executed! And that’s a crime. A crime in the eyes of the Koran. I refuse to cooperate. The fact that you know my father is all the more reason to say no. I’m ashamed of your deeds. I refuse to accept any favours from you. You feel guilty about the way you’ve treated my family, but I’m ashamed of you. You’re the monster who abandoned his wife and disabled child, the bully who beat and tormented his own wife. I will never kneel before the man who had hundreds of Kurds executed in one day. I wouldn’t be my father’s son if I did. Put away your Koran, I don’t need it!’

‘Death!’ Khalkhal bellowed.

The guards rushed in and led Jawad to the room where the executions were carried out.

One of the guards put a blindfold over his eyes and stood him up against the wall. Jawad didn’t think for a moment that he was going to be shot. He thought that Khalkhal was just trying to frighten him into signing a confession.

The guards left him standing there for a while with his blindfold on, which made him even more sure that they were just trying to frighten him. Besides, he hadn’t been carrying a weapon and hadn’t fired at a helicopter, so they had no right to execute him. He heard footsteps, which he suspected were Khalkhal’s. He was no doubt coming to interrogate him some more. Jawad was convinced that Khalkhal would spare him, that he would call off the execution.

But Khalkhal didn’t come over to him. Jawad expected him to say, ‘That’s enough. Take off his blindfold and throw him in prison.’

Instead, Khalkhal barked out an order: ‘Take up your positions!’

Two guards knelt and aimed their rifles at Jawad.

Jawad stood up straight and squared his shoulders so Khalkhal could see that he wasn’t afraid. He knew Khalkhal wouldn’t go through with it.

‘Ready… aim… fire!’ Khalkhal commanded.

Shots rang out. At first Jawad didn’t feel the bullets slamming into his body. I was right, he thought, they were just trying to frighten me.

Then he slumped forward and fell to the ground.

And then he laid down his head and closed his eyes.