The House of the Mosque (38 page)

‘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:

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.