Joel Rosenberg - The Twelfth Imam

No wonder devout Muslims took the verses in the Qur’an about waging jihad so seriously. Why shouldn’t they? To disregard the command to jihad would be to disobey, and such disobedience could tip the scales of justice against them in the final reckoning.

Which brought him to martyrdom.

The mullahs and ayatollahs taught that the only true assurance or secure promise of eternal salvation for a Muslim was to die as a martyr, often as a suicide bomber, in the cause of jihad. Osama bin Laden himself had once said, “The call to jihad in God’s name… leads to eternal life in the end and is relief from your earthly chains.”

There was no way that was true, David was certain. But what was?

Shahrak-e Gharb, Iran

Little Roya was turning ten years old.

And she knew exactly what she wanted. For weeks, she had been writing her parents little notes to remind them, strategically placing them in her father’s briefcase, by her mother’s sewing basket, on their napkins at dinner, or in other places where they would invariably find them, read them, and consider her request one more time. She pleaded with them not to give her candy or a doll or a book or a pretty new scarf. All she wanted was one thing, and she’d been begging for it for each of the past three years. She wanted them to take her to the Jamkaran Mosque so she could write down her prayer, drop it into the well with all the others, and make her request of the Twelfth Imam.

Growing up in a well-to-do suburb of Tehran, Roya had almost everything she wanted. Her father was a senior translator for the Foreign Ministry and occasionally traveled abroad with high-ranking Iranian officials. Her mother was a renowned botanist in the biology department at Tehran University, who, with Roya’s eager help, was cultivating the most gorgeous rose garden in their backyard. Her grandparents were successful in business. She was even distantly related to Ayatollah Hosseini and had met him twice. But while Roya was sweet and devout and brilliant in every respect, she had also been mute from birth. She longed to be able to talk with her parents and sing with her friends. She hated to be thought of as “special.” She wanted to be normal. Was that too much to ask?

Maybe it was.

The Jamkaran Mosque, located about six kilometers outside the holy city of Qom, was at least a three-hour car ride each way, not counting however much time they might spend there in prayer. Taking a day off from work would be an enormous imposition on her parents. But Roya simply couldn’t help it. She’d seen on TV a news story about the well, and it had completely captured her imagination. One man interviewed said, “If you ask in the right way, your prayers will be answered.” Another said, “I don’t come here just to pray for myself. I also ask the Mahdi to take care of my family and their needs.”

Roya was particularly struck by an interview with a little boy who had brought his flashlight, convinced that the Twelfth Imam was hiding at the bottom of the well reading all the prayer requests people were dropping down there. “I was looking into the well with my flashlight, hoping to see the Mahdi,” the boy had said. “But not tonight.”

The reporter noted that according to Shia tradition, “if you come to Jamkaran forty weeks in a row, you will see the Mahdi.”

The morning of her birthday, Roya awoke early. The house was quiet-her parents must not yet be awake.

Suddenly Roya heard footsteps in the hall outside her bedroom. Maybe her parents were up after all. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It wasn’t quite six in the morning. Then the door opened slowly, and her parents came in and sat on her bed.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” her father whispered. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Think you can be ready by then?”

Ecstatic, Roya jumped up and threw her arms around her father, then her mother, kissing them both profusely.

The trip was more special than even she had pictured. They didn’t drive as a family to Qom. They flew-first-class. They didn’t race to the well and then back to the airport. They stayed overnight in a five-star hotel and went out for a fancy dinner. They took a thousand pictures of everything they saw and did, from Roya scribbling her prayer request on special stationery her mother had given her that day as a gift, to Roya pointing her own flashlight-another unexpected gift from her father-down into the well.

But as special as all that was, it did not prepare the little girl for what happened when they all got home the following night. Roya was upstairs brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed when she heard a knock at the door. It seemed a little late for company, and Roya was surprised when she overheard her father talking to a man and then inviting him to come inside. She didn’t recognize the man’s voice, and when she peeked downstairs, she could see only the back of his head, but she was fairly certain she had never seen him before.

“It would be an honor if you would allow me to pray a blessing on you and your home,” said the stranger, who was dressed as a cleric or a mullah.

Roya, hiding on the stairs and careful to remain unseen, heard her father agree, and the man prayed a very beautiful prayer, asking Allah to bring “peace and tranquility to this lovely home” and “bless all who live here now and all who will live here in the future, so long as they submit to you, O Lord.”

Not wanting to risk being discovered by her parents, Roya was about to go back to her room and climb into bed when she heard the man ask if he could see their little girl and pray for her as well. Roya froze. How did the man know about her?

“I’m sorry. How do you know we have a daughter?” her father asked. “There are no pictures of her in this room. I haven’t mentioned her, and we have never met.”

“Do not fear or be alarmed in any way,” the stranger said. “The answer is simple. Allah has sent me to your home to heal little Roya.”

Roya’s heart started racing, but she could see her father tense.

“How do you know her name?”

“I know all about your daughter,” the stranger said. “She was born with aphonia, preventing her ability to speak. In her case, it was caused by a genetic disorder that damaged her vocal cords. She has been to nine doctors in eight years and has had three surgeries. None of them have worked.”

Astonished, Roya waited for her father to respond, but he didn’t. Or couldn’t. The room was silent for a moment, and then the man continued.

“Yesterday you flew to Qom. You went to the Jamkaran Mosque, and together you wrote out a prayer and tossed it into the well.”

“Who are you?” her father finally blurted out. “And how do you know all this?”

“Roya asked for the Mahdi to heal her.”

“Yes… yes, she did, but…”

“Her request has been granted. That is why I am here.”

Roya feared that her father might throw the man out of the house. But what if the stranger really had been sent from Allah? What if he was…?

Suddenly she found herself walking down the stairs and into the living room, where she stood by her father and held his hand.

She pointed at the stranger, in awe of his striking good looks and piercing black eyes. She now thought she recognized him from a dream she’d had a few weeks before.

The man began praying in a language Roya didn’t know and had never heard before. When he stopped, Roya fell backward and began writhing on the floor. Her mother screamed. Her father was at her side but could not help her. Her body shook wildly. She felt like she was choking. For a moment she thought she was losing consciousness. Then the stranger began praying again, still in some unintelligible language. Immediately her convulsions ceased.