Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Khalkhal was well informed. He talked about America as if he knew it like the back of his hand. He explained how the Americans had taken control of Iran and how they ruled it from behind the scenes. He told him how the Americans had first gained a foothold. ‘It was like this. America was becoming a superpower and wanted a military base in Iran that could be used against the Soviet Union. But Mossadegh, our democratically elected prime minister, was a progressive politician and a nationalist. He didn’t want to give the land to the Americans, but they were getting impatient. They were afraid the Soviets would invite Mossadegh to Moscow and reinforce his anti-Americanism. So the CIA came up with the idea of staging a coup, and the shah went along with it. The plan was for Mossadegh to be assassinated. The Soviet Union got wind of it, however, and told Mossadegh. He arrested the pro-American military officers who supported the coup and had the shah’s palace occupied. The CIA managed to whisk the shah away in a helicopter in the nick of time, and he was flown to the US in a fighter jet.’

‘That’s fascinating!’ Shahbal said. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’

‘You won’t find it in your schoolbooks,’ Khalkhal said. ‘The history you’re being taught is based on lies.’

‘What happened next?’

‘To realise its global ambitions, America needed Iran. Our country occupies a strategic position in the Middle East and also shares nearly twelve hundred miles of border with the Soviet Union. So the CIA staged another coup, and this time they had the backing of several Iranian generals. Two days later, when everyone thought it had all blown over, Mossadegh was arrested. The generals seized control of the Parliament, and American tanks were parked at every major intersection in Tehran. Hundreds of criminals and prostitutes were then sent into the streets to wave around portraits of the shah.

‘The next day the shah, with the help of a group of CIA agents, was reinstalled in his palace. The shah is a puppet. We have to get rid of him and the Americans.’

Shahbal got goose pimples when he listened to Khalkhal’s impassioned descriptions of historical events.

The last time they ate together on the balcony, Khalkhal told him about the armed struggle of the ayatollahs against the regime. He described the historic day when Ayatollah Khomeini, who had incurred the wrath of both the shah and the Americans, had fought back. Many young imams had been killed that day. Many more had been arrested, and Khomeini had been forced into exile.

Shahbal had often heard the name ‘Khomeini’, but he knew almost nothing about the man. He must have been about seven or eight years old when the uprising occurred. On his next visit Khalkhal promised to bring him a banned book, which contained an accurate account of the history of the ayatollahs’ resistance movement in the last few decades.

That evening Khalkhal said something about prisons that made Shahbal rethink his ideas. ‘No one’s afraid of going to jail,’ Khalkhal said. ‘It’s become a kind of university, especially for young activists.’

It was a novel concept. Shahbal had always thought of prison as a place for criminals.

‘Political prisoners aren’t like ordinary prisoners,’ Khalkhal said. ‘They’re people who fight against the regime, people who are embarrassed by the presence of the CIA in this country. They’re the most intelligent people, the ones who want to take the fate of the country into their own hands and radically change the political system. That’s why the regime arrests them and keeps them in a separate wing, but then they’re all thrown together, sometimes ten or twenty to a cell, and they meet people from all walks of life: students, artists, imams, politicians, leaders and teachers, as well as people with new ideas. They start talking and discussing things, so the prison cell becomes a university, where you can learn all kinds of things. Can you imagine what happens when you put so many intelligent people together in one cell? They swap stories and listen to each other’s experiences. Before you know it, you’ve joined them. Some people go in like a lamb and come out like a lion. I know lots of political prisoners — friends of mine, young imams, members of left-wing or right-wing underground movements. Have you ever heard of these movements?’

‘No.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, in this house, in this city.’

‘Not much. I go to school and to mosque.’

Khalkhal shook his head. ‘I knew it. Nothing’s going to happen in this city. It’s weak. All over the country people are gradually turning against the shah, but Senejan is blissfully asleep. What else can you expect from a city with such a weak Friday Mosque? What does Alsaberi do all day in his library? Nothing, except let the grandmothers wash his balls! It’s a shameful waste of this big, beautiful mosque. It’s had a brilliant past. A history. It’s time it had a fiery speaker. Do you know what I’m saying?’

Shahbal lapped up Khalkhal’s words. He thought of Khalkhal as great and himself as small. He wanted to ask questions, but didn’t dare. He was afraid of sounding stupid.

One time he’d hardly said a word all evening. Then, suddenly, just as he was about to leave, he blurted out, ‘I’d like to show you something.’

‘What?’

‘My stories,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I write.’

‘How interesting! Show them to me. Have you got them here? Read one out loud.’

‘I don’t know if they’re any good.’

‘I wouldn’t know either, but it’s good that you write. Go and get your stories!’

Shahbal went to his room and quickly returned with three notebooks, which he modestly handed to Khalkhal.

‘You’ve written quite a lot,’ Khalkhal said in surprise as he thumbed through them. ‘I knew you were clever from the moment I laid eyes on you! Pick one of your stories and read it to me.’

‘I’ve never shown them to anyone before,’ Shahbal said. He flipped through a notebook until he found the page he wanted. ‘I hardly dare to read it, but I’ll do my best.’ And he began to read: ‘Early one morning, when I was going to the hauz to wash my hands before the prayer, I noticed that the light wasn’t on in my father’s room. It was the first time this had ever happened. He was always awake before I was and always went to the hauz before I did, but that morning everything was different. The mahiha — the fish — which usually darted through the water when they saw me, weren’t moving, and their tails were all pointing in my direction. Brightly coloured scales floated on the surface, and there was blood on one of the tiles. I realised immediately that something was wrong. I ran to my father’s room, pushed open the door, switched on the light and—’

‘Very good!’ Khalkhal said. ‘You can stop now, I’ll read the rest on my own. You have talent. Leave your notebooks with me. I’ll look at them later.’

He went down to the courtyard and walked over to the hauz , where he stared at the sleeping fish in the glow of the lantern. A light was on in the library. The shadow of the imam fell on the curtain. He quietly opened the gate and went outside, towards the river.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon. The courtyard was covered in snow. Darkness was gradually closing in, and there was an icy wind. As usual the grandmothers were carrying towels and clean clothes into the bathroom so Alsaberi could bathe before the evening prayer.

Even though they’d lit the stove early in the morning, the bathroom was still cold. ‘This has got to stop,’ Golbanu grumbled. ‘It’s no longer healthy. He should bathe in the municipal bathhouse. If he goes on like this, he’ll make himself ill.’