Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Aqa Jaan’s first thought was: Khalkhal! He didn’t mention his suspicions to Fakhri, but quickly changed into his street clothes, hurried outside and headed into town.

There were police cars everywhere, and ambulances were taking the wounded to the hospital. A bomb had exploded in the cinema. Three people had been killed and more than a hundred had been wounded.

A week later another bomb exploded, this time in a cinema in Isfahan. There were even more dead and wounded. The regime didn’t issue an official statement, nor was the incident mentioned in any of the newspapers.

Forty days after the attack in Isfahan, a huge bomb went off during the premiere of an American film in the country’s largest cinema, in the southern city of Abadan. Four hundred and seventy-six people died, and many more were injured.

The news made the headlines of newspapers throughout the world.

The shah could hear Khomeini’s footsteps coming closer and closer, and yet it never occurred to him that the mosques and bazaars could have rallied round Khomeini in such a short time. Although he was kept informed of developments, his underlings always scrupulously avoided mentioning the possibility of a popular uprising. The shah was told only that his people were contented and grateful. His Western allies were confident of his ability to govern. He saw no reason to worry about the bombings.

The eyes of the world were focused on Iraq, where Khomeini was living in exile. During the Friday prayer, the Persian service of the BBC broadcast the following message from Khomeini: ‘We are not responsible for the bombings. We don’t commit such atrocities! The secret police are behind the attacks.’

The broadcast was of historical significance, for it was the first time an imam — an ayatollah — had ever delivered his message over the radio. Khomeini might be old, but his voice sounded as militant as ever. Not once did he say the word ‘shah’. Instead, he referred to the shah disparagingly by his middle name, Reza: ‘Reza uses harsh words. Let him. He’s a nobody, an errand boy! I’m going to come and fling him out on his ear. I’m not defying him; he isn’t worth it. I’m defying America!’

The BBC announced that a demonstration would be held in Tehran on the following Friday. The news came like a bolt from the blue. The shah couldn’t understand why contented people would want to demonstrate — or how an uprising could take place in a country so tightly controlled by the police and the security forces.

On that famous Friday thousands of shopkeepers from Tehran’s bazaar made their way towards Majlis Square, where the Parliament was located. They were joined by thousands of others, who spilled out of the mosques at the end of the Friday prayer and poured into the side streets.

When the square was full, the crowd began to move in the direction of Shah Square. The first row of demonstrators was made up of young imams. A few feet ahead of them, walking all by himself, was a newcomer: a relatively young ayatollah in a noticeably stylish imam robe.

The more traditional imams usually paid little attention to their appearance, but this ayatollah was obviously different. He walked with his head held high, his beard neatly clipped and his white shirt carefully ironed. But the most eye-catching feature of all were his yellow imam slippers.

Nobody knew who he was. This was the first time he’d been seen in public. He’d arrived in Iran only last week, having travelled from Iraq via Dubai, disguised as a businessman in an English suit and hat.

This first trial demonstration had been an instant success. According to the BBC, one hundred thousand people had demonstrated against the shah in the streets of Tehran. A younger generation of imams had clearly been in charge.

A picture of the remarkable imam was splashed across the front pages of all the morning papers. ‘Who is this man?’ read the headline in Keyhan , the country’s leading daily.

His name was Ayatollah Beheshti. He had been born in Isfahan and was — at the age of fifty-five — one of the youngest ayatollahs in the Shiite hierarchy. A highly motivated man, he was head of the Iranian mosque in Hamburg, the most important Shiite mosque in Europe.

He had also been the first imam to hear the footsteps of the approaching revolution, and had immediately left his mosque and gone to Iraq to assist Khomeini.

Having lived in Germany for years, Beheshti had an insider’s view of the Western world. This is exactly what the ageing Khomeini needed to help him realise his dream of an Islamic state.

Beheshti understood the value of folk tales and the power of photographic images. His plan was to focus the attention of Western television on Khomeini and then to weave his magic web: ‘An elderly imam sits on a simple Persian rug. He lives in exile, dines on bread and milk, and defies America!’

Unlike Beheshti, Khomeini was so ignorant of the modern world that he still had trouble saying the word ‘radio’.

It was nearly nightfall when Beheshti knocked on the door of Khomeini’s house in Najaf. Khalkhal opened the door.

‘I am Beheshti, the imam of the mosque in Hamburg,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘I have come here to talk to the ayatollah.’

In those days nothing happened in the Khomeini household without Khalkhal’s consent. Pilgrims were always coming to the door, hoping to meet the ayatollah. Khalkhal had never met or heard of Beheshti, but he was immediately struck by his air of confidence and his stylish attire. ‘What do you wish to speak to the ayatollah about?’ he enquired.

‘I understand your curiosity, but I have no intention of discussing this matter with anyone but the ayatollah.’

Khalkhal ushered Beheshti into the guest room and ordered the servant to bring him some tea. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting,’ he said.

Khomeini had never met Beheshti either, but he had known his father. The old man was dead, but he had once been the head of the influential Friday Mosque in Isfahan.

‘The ayatollah was a friend of your father’s,’ Khalkhal reported back to him. ‘He’s looking forward to meeting you.’ And he escorted Beheshti into the simply furnished library, where the ageing ayatollah was seated on his rug.

Beheshti came into the library, bowed to the ayatollah and shut the door behind him.

Alef Lam Ra .

We shall never know in advance

What Your plans are.

I shall follow You.

I shall follow You with my head bowed.

No one had seen it coming, no one had been expecting it and no one knew exactly what was going on, but one day the ageing Ayatollah Khomeini suddenly appeared out of nowhere at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.

There were four of them: Khomeini, Beheshti, Khalkhal and Khomeini’s wife, Batul.

During the fourteen years of his exile in Iraq, Khomeini had never once left the city of Najaf. He woke up every day at five-thirty, said his morning prayer and read the Koran. At seven-thirty his faithful wife brought him his breakfast, after which he worked in his modest library until twelve-thirty. Then it was time for the noon prayer. After lunch he took a short nap, then went back to work until four.

Late in the afternoon he received visitors, mostly Iranian carpet merchants who had travelled to Iraq on business, though some were Islamic dissidents disguised as merchants. They carried messages back and forth, so that Khomeini could maintain his secret contacts with the ayatollahs in Qom.

During the winter, he spent the day in his library, but during the spring and summer he went out at six o’clock, after it had cooled down a bit, to work in his garden.

Later in the evening, he washed his hands and face, put on his robe and went to the Imam Ali Mosque, with his wife walking several feet behind him.