Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Fakhri Sadat had also heard the announcement. ‘What should we do?’ she asked, appalled.

‘Nothing,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Only God can help us now. For the last month I’ve gone round knocking on doors and kissing everyone’s hand, but it didn’t help. Nobody knows what goes on in the Islamic Court. The cases are always tried behind closed doors.’

‘Why hasn’t Zinat done anything? She has friends in high places.’

‘I don’t think there’s much she can do. Even she doesn’t know who the judge is and who’s behind the trials. Besides, she’s on their side. She can’t make an exception for her own son.’

‘Why not? You’ve told me often enough that he’s innocent.’

‘I don’t know, Fakhri. I just don’t know any more!’

‘But Ahmad is her son. Why should you have to call on people and kiss their hands, while she’s hidden somewhere? For that matter, where is she? And why is she hiding, even from you?’

‘Fakhri, there’s been a revolution, not just an ordinary transfer of power. And because of that, there’s been a radical change in the way people think. We’re going to see things we never would have thought possible in ordinary times. Human beings are capable of the most inhuman behaviour. Look around you; everyone’s changed. You can hardly recognise them any more. I can’t tell if they’ve suddenly dropped their masks or put on new ones. God only knows what happened to Zinat. Who would have thought she’d ever achieve any kind of prominence?’

‘Prominence? What do you mean by “prominence”?’ Fakhri snapped.

‘She has power, she makes decisions, she organises things. God knows what else she’s doing.’

‘She’s no one special. She’s ugly. All the women she works with are horrible, the kind of women that no one looks at twice. They’re all ugly!’

‘Fakhri!’

‘Zinat is ugly on the inside,’ she said, ignoring Aqa Jaan’s rebuke.

‘This isn’t the time to discuss it. I’m going to the square to see what’s happening. Maybe I can still do something to help Ahmad.’

‘Don’t go. He’s going to be humiliated in public. Stay home until the storm has died down.’

‘I have to go. It’s my life . Humiliation is the least of my worries.’

Before he left, Aqa Jaan said his prayers. Then he put on his hat and, with his chin held high, went out to meet his fate.

It was crowded in the square. He found a spot beneath a tree, where he had a good view of the platform on which the sentencing would take place. People were talking to each other, curious as to how the sharia would be implemented.

Three army jeeps drove up and disgorged their load of Revolutionary Guards, then a black Mercedes rolled into the square. One of the guards opened the door and a young imam stepped out. The guards escorted him to the platform, where he seated himself on a tall chair. ‘Bring in the prisoner!’ he ordered.

Ahmad was led out from behind an improvised green curtain. He looked frail and unkempt. It had been weeks since he’d had any opium, and it showed in his lined face and stooped shoulders. He looked like an unwashed tramp. If the judge hadn’t announced his name, nobody would have recognised him.

The crowd stared in disbelief at Ahmad Alsaberi, once their beloved imam, the man who used to receive hundreds of love letters.

First the judge called for silence, then he began to read his verdict: ‘Ahmad Alsaberi has been found guilty of collaborating with the secret police of the former regime. Of collaborating with Satan! This is an act of treason against Islam and against the mosque that he was appointed to serve. However, because he doesn’t have any blood on his hands, he has been sentenced to only ten years in prison!’

There were gasps and cries from the crowd. Again the judge called for silence, then resumed his reading: ‘The offender is hereby relieved of his duties. Since he will no longer be allowed to work as an imam, his robe and turban have been taken from him.’

Ahmad trembled in his filthy shirt.

‘Because he was the imam of the Friday Mosque, and was therefore expected to set an example to others, he will be given an extra punishment,’ the judge said. He paused, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘Bring in the donkey!’

The guards led a white donkey out from behind the stands.

There were mutterings from the crowd: ‘What are they up to now? What are they going to do to him?’

The donkey took one look at the mass of people and refused to take another step. The guards had to push it onto the platform.

Aqa Jaan recognised the animal. It was Am Ramazan’s donkey!

Just then a group of militants wearing green headbands bearing the words ‘Soldier of Khomeini’ came bursting into the square, shouting, ‘God is great! Death to the henchman of the shah!’

Above the tumult, the judge cried: ‘The offender is to be seated backwards on the donkey and taken to the Friday Mosque. This is a merciful punishment for a man who has defiled his imam robe!’

There was a shocked silence. Everyone stared in horror at Ahmad, who kept his eyes glued to the ground.

Aqa Jaan took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He couldn’t believe they were actually going to make Ahmad ride backwards on a donkey through Senejan!

Ahmad had admittedly done some foolish things, but Aqa Jaan didn’t believe he’d ever been a henchman of the shah. It would be totally out of character. But why didn’t Ahmad speak up? Why didn’t he object? Why didn’t he defend himself?

Aqa Jaan pushed his way towards the platform. ‘Ahmad!’ he cried loudly. ‘You’re not a traitor! Defend yourself!’

Everyone stared at Aqa Jaan.

‘Say something!’ he cried, louder this time.

At the sound of Aqa Jaan’s voice, Ahmad seemed to snap out of his trance.

‘Quiet!’ the judge ordered.

‘Speak up, Ahmad!’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Quiet!’ the judge ordered again.

Two guards came over and seized Aqa Jaan.

‘Wake up, Ahmad! Say something! Do it for me! Do it for us! For the mosque!’ Aqa Jaan shouted as he tried to shake off the guards.

‘You’re the imam of our mosque, defend your—’ he cried. But before he could finish his sentence, one of the guards twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him to the ground, face down.

‘Ahmad! Do something for us!’ he called, as the guards held him down.

Two of the merchants from the bazaar ran up and dragged Aqa Jaan out from under the hands and feet of the guards, then led him back to where they’d been standing.

Ahmad, summoning all his strength, raised his arms in the air and addressed the crowd. ‘I swear by the Holy Koran that I am innocent!’ he cried.

‘Be quiet!’ the judge ordered.

‘I swear by the mosque that I’ve never been a henchman of the shah!’

‘Shut up!’ the judge roared, truly angry now.

‘I have never—’ Ahmad began. Just then two guards grabbed hold of him and started to lift him onto the donkey, but the animal shied away. One of the guards jabbed it so hard with his rifle that the donkey stumbled and fell, then scrambled to its feet again.

An old man wearing a green headband and holding a weapon stepped forward. He stroked the donkey’s head, then held the animal still while the guards hoisted Ahmad into the saddle.

Aqa Jaan couldn’t believe his eyes. The old man in the uniform was Am Ramazan! Their former gardener had become a soldier in the Army of Allah! It was inconceivable. Am Ramazan had not only let them use his donkey to humiliate Ahmad and break his will, but he had even volunteered to hold the animal still.

He ought to be ashamed of himself. Why, he still had the key to their house! How could people change so quickly?