Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

‘ Allahu akbar! ’ someone shouted.

‘ Allahu akbar! ’ the worshippers replied in unison.

No one knew exactly what Khalkhal was talking about, but everyone understood that he was voicing his anger at the cinema.

The men of the bazaar nodded in satisfaction at Aqa Jaan. They approved of Khalkhal’s reaction.

Aqa Jaan was proud of him too. He realised, though, that at some point Khalkhal was bound to move on. He was too ambitious to remain the imam of a mosque for long. He needed more breathing space. One day the walls of the mosque would prove too confining, and he would decide to spread his wings. But their mosque was a good place for him to start.

The cinema owner had expected Khalkhal to rant and rave about his cinema, but he wasn’t afraid. He knew that both the secret police and the local police would be on hand to protect him. On this particular Thursday evening he was glad the faithful were sitting in the mosque and listening to Khalkhal, for it meant that he could welcome Farah Diba to the opening without having to worry about her safety.

And yet he had underestimated his enemy, for Khalkhal was well informed. He knew that the queen would be at the opening.

Khalkhal looked at his watch. The queen would be arriving at the cinema shortly. So he relaxed, stroked his beard and smiled. Aqa Jaan assumed that Khalkhal had finished talking about the cinema and would now start in on another topic, that he would be satisfied with merely issuing a warning. But Khalkhal surprised him by quoting the fiery Abu Lahab surah, the one about the woman to whom God had spoken in anger. Khalkhal began chanting calmly and quietly:

Break the hands of Abu Lahab!

Destroy Abu Lahab!

Destroy his fortune!

Destroy the wife of Abu Lahab!

Abu Lahab shall burn in a blazing fire!

And his wife shall carry the faggots!

Around her neck is a cord of palm fibre!

Destroy Abu Lahab!

Aqa Jaan caught his breath. Suddenly he realised that Khalkhal was going to do more than issue a warning.

Abu Lahab had been Muhammad’s uncle — his father’s brother — and also the sworn enemy of Muhammad and the Koran. Once, during Islam’s early years, Muhammad had been trying to convince Mecca’s rulers of his mission when Abu Lahab had cursed him and left the gathering. Abu Lahab’s wife had done likewise: she had cursed Muhammad and said offensive things about the Koran. Not content to stop there, the two of them had taken their hostility to the bazaar, cursing the Koran and especially Allah. Muhammad had suffered greatly under their attacks but had been unable to stop them. Then one night the Abu Lahab surah had been revealed to him:

Tabbat yada abee lahabin!

Around her neck is a cord of palm fibre!

Destroy Abu Lahab!

When someone quoted Abu Lahab, you knew that things were serious. Khalkhal continued his tirade:

Break the hands of the man who bought the bathhouse.

Break the hands of the man who turned it into a cinema.

Break the door of the bathhouse.

Break the legs of the men now assembled in the bathhouse.

Place a cord of palm fibre around the necks of the wives

Of the men now assembled in the bathhouse.

Aqa Jaan was unable to lift his head. Instead of looking at Khalkhal, he found himself staring at the patterns in his prayer rug. He had the feeling that Khalkhal was holding him from behind and pressing his head to the ground.

Khalkhal had surprised him. Aqa Jaan supposed he ought to be pleased, but he felt torn. Why hadn’t Khalkhal told him he was going to talk about the cinema? Why had he suddenly adopted that harsh tone? Would it be good for the mosque? What effect would it have on the city?

But there was no time to ponder all of this now. He took a deep breath, raised his head and looked around.

There was a hushed silence. All eyes were focused on Khalkhal. ‘I warned the authorities long ago,’ he said. ‘I also warned the new owner of the bathhouse. But they wouldn’t listen. Now they’ve even gone so far as to show a sinful American film in the bathhouse tonight. Tonight of all nights! Do you know what day it is today? It is the anniversary of Fatima’s death!

‘I, Khalkhal, the imam of the mosque, forbid it. I, Khalkhal, the imam of the Friday Mosque, forbid you to enter that cinema! I, Khalkhal, will hold the Koran up high and board up the door of that sinful place!’ he thundered. And he took his Koran out of his pocket.

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

‘To the bathhouse!’ Khalkhal cried, and he jumped down from the pulpit.

The crowd stood up for him.

Aqa Jaan, who hadn’t been expecting this sudden turn of events, was rooted to the spot. Khalkhal had deceived him: he had taken control of the mosque. But it wasn’t too late. After all, Aqa Jaan was more experienced than he was. Somehow he had to take command again, in order to uphold the prestige of the mosque. Khalkhal’s reputation didn’t count, only that of the mosque.

He turned and raced after Khalkhal. ‘Run!’ he shouted to Shahbal. ‘Stay with him. Don’t let him out of your sight!’

The tension had mounted to fever pitch and the crowd was now out of control. ‘I’ve got to do something,’ Aqa Jaan mumbled to himself. ‘I’m the only one who can put a stop to this madness.’

Khalkhal was striding towards the cinema, holding his Koran high above his head. The faithful were following behind, chanting ‘ Allahu akbar ’.

The agents of the secret police, caught off-guard by the demonstration, ran in panic down the dark streets. ‘A riot’s broken out!’ they shrieked into their walkie-talkies. ‘Guard the cinema!’

After a while, two patrol cars came roaring up, but the patrolmen had no idea what was going on or where the crowd was headed.

A couple of army lorries were blocking the street leading to the cinema. Armed soldiers leapt out and formed a line to hold back the demonstrators.

A helicopter landed in the square by the bathhouse, ready to fly Farah Diba to safety.

The mayor’s car screeched to a halt by the kerb. The mayor jumped out and ran over to the demonstrators with his hands above his head. He scanned the sea of faces until he saw Aqa Jaan. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he roared. ‘You’ve walked into a trap! Call off the demonstration, or there will be a bloodbath!’

‘What do you mean? The authorities don’t listen to a thing the mosque says these days! They insult us by building a cinema and now you’re threatening us with a bloodbath?’

‘No, you don’t understand. I’m not threatening a bloodbath, I’m asking you to help me prevent one! There’s something you need to know, but I can’t say it out loud.’ He whispered it in Aqa Jaan’s ear: ‘Farah Diba is inside the cinema. Believe me, if these people come any closer, the army is going to open fire. Do something! Stop them!’

The armed soldiers held back the demonstrators, while the commanding officer shouted into a megaphone, ‘Turn around! Go back!’

Khalkhal ignored him. Holding his Koran high above his head, he strode past the officer and tried to push through the line, but the officer stopped him. ‘Turn back!’ he warned, ‘or they’ll shoot.’

‘Then let them shoot!’ Khalkhal cried, and tried to break through the line again.

The officer grabbed him by the collar, pulled him away from the line of soldiers and shouted into his face, ‘If you don’t turn back, I’ll ram your turban down your throat and haul you off to jail!’

Khalkhal flew into a rage, shoving the officer so hard the man stumbled and nearly fell. The officer whipped out his gun.