Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

No indeed, they shall soon know!

And again no, they shall soon know!

We made the night as a covering.

And we made a glowing lantern.

We sent down torrents of water from rain-soaked clouds.

And we warned you of imminent torment,

A day when man shall see what his hands have wrought.

For the next month Aqa Jaan searched the city and talked to everyone he knew, but he found no trace of Ahmad. Everyone had heard about Ahmad’s arrest, and rumours were spreading through the city like wildfire.

‘What are you going to do next?’ Fakhri Sadat asked Aqa Jaan.

‘Maybe we should wait for it to blow over,’ he said. ‘Especially in these uncertain times. You ought to come down to the bazaar one of these days and see how the merchants all avoid me. My reputation is at stake.’

Aqa Jaan jumped when the doorbell rang.

There was something different about the ring, as though the messenger of fate were at the door.

‘Who’s there?’ Aqa Jaan asked, his voice trembling.

‘Open up!’ demanded a male voice.

‘Who’s there?’ Aqa Jaan asked again.

‘We have a message for Aqa Jaan.’

He opened the gate. Outside stood a bearded man, toting a gun.

‘What can I do for you?’ Aqa Jaan enquired.

‘The imam would like to speak to you,’ the man replied.

‘Which imam?’

‘The one in the jeep.’

Aqa Jaan walked over to the jeep. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said through the window to the young imam in the back. ‘Come in if you like. We can talk in my study.’

The imam got out. Aqa Jaan ushered him into his study and offered him a chair.

‘Normally you would have been invited to come down to the Islamic Court,’ the imam stated calmly, ‘but we don’t have much time. I’m here to deliver a message and to make a request that must be complied with at once.’

‘What do you mean? What kind of request?’

‘The court has reached a decision, and I’ve come to inform you of its ruling. I’ll read the document aloud.’

Aqa Jaan, assuming that it was about Ahmad, suddenly felt relieved at the thought that there might be room for negotiation after all.

The imam reached into his pocket, took out an unsealed envelope, removed the sheet of paper inside, carefully unfolded it and began to read:

In the name of Allah, who shows no mercy to sinners who refuse to heed his word, and in the name of our leader Ayatollah Khomeini.

The Islamic Court has ruled that, effective immediately and for an indefinite period of time, the Qa’im Maqam Farahani family is to be relieved of all further responsibility for the Friday Mosque in the city of Senejan.

Aqa Jaan was so shocked he leapt to his feet. ‘That’s impossible! The mosque belongs to us!’

‘The mosque belongs to God,’ the imam stated serenely. ‘A mosque is never anyone’s personal property. You should know that!’

‘But we have documents showing that the land and the mosque belong to this house. It says so in our family deeds. We inherited the mosque. I have proof!’

‘Calm down. Those documents have no legal validity, because the mosque belongs to us all. Your family has merely been its custodian. It hasn’t been bestowed on you as a divine right. Now that we have an Islamic government, the judge can rescind earlier rulings. Your supervision of the mosque is no longer required. Further discussion is out of the question. The Islamic Court has revoked your family’s right to the mosque. The house and the mosque are to be separated. You and your family may continue to live in the house, but I have come to collect the keys to the mosque. Are you prepared to hand them over?’

‘No!’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I can’t hand them over and I won’t. What’s the meaning of this? You’re destroying us all! Do you have to insult us too?’

‘If you don’t hand over the keys right now, I’ll order the men I have posted outside to come in and get them.’

‘You’re not getting them from me!’ Aqa Jaan said firmly.

The imam left and went back to his jeep, where he ordered his men to go in and get the keys.

Three men came into Aqa Jaan’s study. They started towards his desk, but Aqa Jaan, who was standing in the middle of the room, blocked their way. ‘Get out!’ he screamed. ‘Get out of my house!’

The men pushed him aside and began to search the room.

‘This is pure theft!’ Aqa Jaan shouted at the man who was dumping the contents of his drawers on his desk, and he shoved him away.

Jawad, having heard the noise, rushed in and dragged his father away, then stood between the two men to prevent them from coming to blows.

The men took every key they could find and then left. But they didn’t get their hands on the key to the treasure room, because Aqa Jaan always kept it in his pocket, next to his Koran.

Three days later, as evening was drawing to a close, a helicopter flew over the mosque. Inside it was Ayatollah Araki — one of the dozens of ayatollahs sent to the major cities by Khomeini to oversee the implementation of the sharia. Each of the ayatollahs had been granted unlimited powers. Answerable only to Khomeini, they were referred to as Jomas , or Friday, imams, since they operated from the Jomah , or Friday, Mosques.

In the streets below, hundreds of believers raised their arms towards the helicopter and shouted ‘ Jare imam gosh amad! Welcome, friend of the imam!’

The helicopter landed on the roof, and a group of men from the bazaar trooped up to greet the ageing ayatollah, while the hundreds of Islamic fundamentalists in the mosque’s courtyard beat their chests and shouted, ‘ Janam beh fadayet Khomeini! We will sacrifice our souls for you, Khomeini!’

Two armed young men rushed over to help the ayatollah down the stairs, and he was carried into the mosque on the shoulders of the faithful.

Aqa Jaan, not wanting to miss the ayatollah’s arrival, had stealthily opened the trapdoor to one of the minarets, crawled inside and climbed up to the spot where Nosrat had once made love to a woman. From his lofty position he stared down at the scene, taking in every detail, while the green light of the minaret shone on his face.

The mosque had again become the centre of activity in Senejan. Every Friday evening people came to the mosque from miles around to hear the ayatollah speak.

Ayatollah Araki was the most powerful man in the city. His appointment book was always full, and no decision was ever taken without his approval. His autocratic rule extended to everything but the Islamic Court.

The Islamic judge operated independently, though he did consult with Khalkhal in special cases. In fact, he had phoned him to discuss Ahmad’s case. Khalkhal’s advice had been clear: ‘You’re the judge. Close your eyes and give your verdict!’

Nevertheless the judge had gone to the mosque, handed Ahmad’s file to the ayatollah and asked his opinion. The ayatollah had studied the file in between two prayer services and agreed with the judge’s proposed ruling. ‘He is an imam, so he has to be punished more severely than ordinary citizens. Wa-assalaam! ’

The following day a jeep drove around the city from dawn until early afternoon, blaring an announcement from the loudspeaker: ‘Attention all believers in Senejan! Come to the main square at two o’clock. The judge will announce his verdict in the case of Ahmad Alsaberi, a former accomplice of the secret police. This will be the first public sentencing under sharia law. God is merciful, but also cruel when He has to be.’

Aqa Jaan was standing in the courtyard by the hauz when he heard the announcement. He froze. All at once his legs went numb, and he had to clutch the lamp post for support.