Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

A helicopter appeared above the village. Shots rang out from the roofs, causing the helicopter to veer off sharply and fly away.

Tanks rumbled into the village. Hundreds of armed Revolutionary Guards appeared out of nowhere and stole through the darkness, taking up strategic positions. Meanwhile, two helicopters circled overhead, shining their searchlights on the roofs and firing at everything that moved.

The villagers hadn’t been expecting such a large-scale attack. The Revolutionary Guards kept watch on the doors and windows, and fired at anyone who tried to escape. The people on the roofs fired back with fanatical zeal, but their shots were answered with grenades, which blew the roofs sky high.

There was no point in prolonging the struggle. One by one the doors of the houses opened, and the villagers came out with their hands up.

Those who had fled to the mountains were hunted down with jeeps. Anyone who refused to surrender was shot.

That night, dozens of men and women were arrested and hauled off to jail. One of them was Aqa Jaan’s son, Jawad.

Khalkhal was flown to Senejan by helicopter to try the prisoners. As Allah’s dreaded judge, he sowed death and destruction wherever he went.

The sun had not yet risen and the citizens of Senejan were still in their beds when nine young men from the Red Village were executed.

The city awoke in a state of a shock. Parents whose sons or daughters had been arrested hurried off to the prison to find out if their children had been executed.

The bodies were released to the families. But according to the sharia, the corpses were unclean and could not be buried in official cemeteries. So fathers drove into the mountains, where they hoped to give their sons a decent burial.

Aqa Jaan didn’t realise that Jawad had been arrested. He thought his son was in Tehran. It never occurred to him that Jawad might be among the prisoners.

He did know one of the boys who’d been executed — the son of the vaccination specialist whose office was opposite the mosque. Aqa Jaan was thinking of the stricken family and reading the Koran when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver.

‘I’ll keep it short,’ a man said without introducing himself. ‘I’m a friend of Jawad’s. He was arrested in the Red Village. He’s probably going to be executed. If there’s anything you can do to prevent it, you need to do it fast. Once he comes before Allah’s judge, it will be too late,’ and he hung up.

Aqa Jaan’s hand shook as he replaced the receiver. Hundreds of thoughts were racing through his head. He wanted to shout for Fakhri, but he couldn’t speak. His son had been arrested! Why hadn’t he been informed? Who was the man who phoned him? Where had he been phoning from?

As far as he knew, Jawad had gone to Tehran. What on earth had he been doing in the Red Village?

And how could he keep his son from being executed?

He didn’t know where to start. He picked up the phone to make a call, then put it down again.

He grabbed his coat, jammed his hat on his head and started to leave, but just as he was going out the door the phone rang again.

‘Excuse me,’ the same voice said. ‘He’s in the city jail. The judge will come back in a few days to try the rest of the prisoners. You need to hurry.’

‘But what was he doing in the Red Village? And who are you?’

‘We were there together. I managed to escape in time; he was arrested. You’ve got to act quickly. Sorry, I can’t talk any longer, I’ve got to go,’ the man said, and he hung up.

Aqa Jaan hurried towards the gate, but halfway there he turned around and came back. ‘Fakhri Sadat!’ he called.

There was no answer.

‘Fakhri Sadat!’ he called louder.

Fakhri, who could tell from his voice that something was wrong, hurried downstairs.

‘Brace yourself for some bad news,’ Aqa Jaan warned her. ‘Jawad has been arrested!’

Fakhri nearly fainted. ‘Arrested? Why?’ she gasped.

‘A friend of his just called. Jawad was arrested in the Red Village.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe he went there with Shahbal. Where’s Shahbal?’

‘I don’t know that either,’ he said. ‘But we have to do something before it’s too late!’ He started towards the door, then stopped. ‘I don’t know what to do or where to go.’

‘Go to the mosque!’ said Fakhri Sadat, her face as white as a sheet. ‘Talk to the ayatollah!’

Aqa Jaan opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He hadn’t been inside the mosque, not even to pray, since it had been taken away from him.

Swallowing his pride, he went over to the mosque, but the ayatollah wasn’t in his office. ‘Where’s the ayatollah?’ he asked the new caretaker.

‘He cancelled his appointments and won’t be coming in for a while. He doesn’t want people pestering him with questions about the executions.’

‘How can I get in touch with him?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. He has more than one address.’

Aqa Jaan went into the grocery shop opposite the mosque.

‘Aqa Jaan! What can I do for you?’

‘Do you know where the ayatollah lives? I need to get hold of him right away!’

The grocer took pity on him. ‘ La ilaha illa Allah ,’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but why don’t you try the mansion that used to belong to the former chief of the secret police?’

Aqa Jaan took a taxi to the house.

Armed guards were posted outside. He went up to the gate, but the guards told him they couldn’t let him through and advised him to use the intercom that was connected to the house. He pressed the button. It took a while before someone answered.

‘What do you want?’ snapped a gruff voice.

‘I’d like to speak to the ayatollah.’

‘Write him a note and stick it in the letterbox on the right-hand side of the gate.’

‘I’d like to talk to him personally.’

‘Everyone wants to talk to him personally, but that doesn’t mean they’re allowed to.’

‘But this is an emergency. I’m Aqa Jaan, the former custodian of the Friday Mosque. Tell him that, and I’m sure he’ll agree to see me.’

‘I don’t care who you are. The ayatollah doesn’t have time to see anyone. Besides, he’s out, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

Stumped, Aqa Jaan stood helplessly by the intercom.

‘Don’t just stand there! Move!’

He walked back to the city. For the first time in his life, he was completely at a loss.

He stepped off the kerb, and a car slammed on its brakes. The driver rolled down his window. ‘Are you trying to kill yourself, or what?’ the man yelled.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I wasn’t paying attention.’

The driver recognised him and saw his look of despair. ‘Where are you going? Maybe I can give you a lift,’ he offered.

‘Me? I’m on my way to the jail, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Which jail? The old one or the new one?’

‘I don’t know. The one where the executions were held.’

‘The old one, then. Get in!’

The old jail, on the outskirts of the city, was surrounded by a massive stone wall. The car stopped in the square in front of the jail and Aqa Jaan got out. The tall iron gate was shut, and aside from three guards who were posted on the wall, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

It wasn’t dark yet, but the floodlights suddenly came on.

‘No one’s here,’ the driver said. ‘Let me take you home.’

Aqa Jaan didn’t seem to hear him. He went up to the gate and hunted for the bell. There wasn’t one. So he pounded on the gate with his fist. There was no answer. ‘Is anyone there?’ he shouted.