Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Zinat didn’t answer, but kept walking towards the gate.

Aqa Jaan stopped her.

‘You can’t just walk away. I demand an answer. People are saying bad things about you behind your back. They say that you’ve become a torturer. Is that true?’

At last Zinat broke her silence. ‘People are free to say whatever they like. I’m simply doing my duty, and obeying the wishes of Allah!’

‘Which Allah do you mean? Why don’t I know that Allah?’

‘Times have changed!’ Zinat hissed, and she yanked open the gate and left.

Zinat felt good. In fact, she had never felt so good. She didn’t care what people were saying about her. After all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong! After Ahmad’s arrest, Zinat had secretly met with Khalkhal in Qom. It had been a crucial meeting, a turning point in her life. Sometimes she’d wondered if she were on the right track, but Khalkhal had swept away her doubts.

‘A great revolution has taken place,’ Khalkhal had said. ‘After 2,500 years the Persian empire has finally been torn up by the roots and replaced by Islam. We’re working hard to set up the first Shiite republic. If we let this opportunity slip by, Allah will punish us unmercifully. Allah has two faces: a merciful one and a cruel one. Now is the time for the cruel, terrifying face. It’s the only way to keep Islam alive. We’re plagued by enemies, so we have no choice. You have to opt for Islam and forget everything else. Your son, your father, your mother — none of them matters any more. You will be rewarded by Allah in Paradise.’

The women of the morals police, who were under Zinat’s command, were housed in the former mayor’s residence.

When Aqa Jaan and Fakhri arrived there, they found a group of parents huddled in the courtyard, come to plead on behalf of their arrested daughters. Fakhri Sadat adjusted her chador to make sure that not a single strand of hair was showing, then walked towards the steps. She was stopped by two women in black chadors.

‘What do you want?’ one of them asked.

‘I’d like to speak to Zinat Khanom.’

‘ Sister Zinat!’ the other woman corrected her.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Fakhri Sadat said. ‘Of course, I meant Sister Zinat!’

‘Sister Zinat is busy. She isn’t seeing anyone just now.’

‘I’m here on family business. I need to speak to her.’

‘She doesn’t have time. Not for families, not for anyone.’

‘I’m her sister-in-law. And that’s Aqa Jaan, her eldest brother-in-law. I need to speak to her right away. If you’d let her know we’re waiting, I’m sure she’ll talk to us.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. But go back and wait with the others.’

‘Of course,’ Fakhri agreed.

Zinat, looking down from her office through a gap in the curtains, had already spotted Aqa Jaan and Fakhri. She knew that Jawad had been arrested. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to help him.

Although Khalkhal phoned her from time to time, she wasn’t able to phone him. She didn’t know exactly what he did, nor did she realise that he was Allah’s dreaded judge.

Would she help Jawad if he were really in danger? She trembled at the thought of her own impotence. No, she couldn’t help him. She was in no position to put a stop to such things. She could only carry out orders. And Khomeini had made his orders clear in his speech to the morals police: ‘Today Islam is resting on your shoulders. If necessary, you must sacrifice your own children!’

Zinat looked down at the courtyard again. ‘I don’t want to see them,’ she told the guard. ‘Tell them I’m not here.’

The guard went downstairs. ‘Sister Zinat isn’t here,’ she told Fakhri Sadat. ‘She’s gone out.’

Fakhri was frantically looking around, not knowing what to do next, when her eye fell on one of the windows. A woman was peeking through the curtains. Zinat! The curtains jerked shut.

‘She is here,’ Fakhri said. ‘I just saw her at that window.’

‘No, she’s not,’ the guard said firmly. ‘I just told you she wasn’t. Now go home!’

Aqa Jaan tugged at Fakhri Sadat’s arm. ‘Come, let’s go!’

‘No! I’m not leaving, I’m staying here! I have to speak to Zinat,’ she said.

‘Leave this instant, or I’ll call the guards!’ the woman said.

‘Zinat!’ Fakhri called.

A bearded guard came out and pushed Fakhri towards the gate with his rifle butt. ‘Get out! Now!’

‘Zi-n-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-t!’ Fakhri wailed at the top of her lungs.

The guard hit her with his rifle. Fakhri stumbled and fell against the gate, which caused her chador to slip to the ground. Aqa Jaan grabbed the man by his collar and shoved him against the wall. The female guard screamed for backup, and two armed men came running towards Aqa Jaan. Zinat leaned out the window. ‘Don’t hit him!’ she cried. ‘Let him go!’

Aqa Jaan scooped up Fakhri’s chador and wrapped it around her. ‘We’re going!’ he said.

Khalkhal arrived in the city late that afternoon.

Now that so many soldiers from Senejan had been killed by chemical warfare, this was a good moment to try the opponents of the regime.

He interrogated the prisoners in the former stable of the old jail, which still reeked of horse manure. The walls were lined with horseshoes, saddles and bridles. Khalkhal always picked the most macabre locations.

Three young men were led inside. Within fifteen minutes, Khalkhal had delivered all three verdicts: the first was sentenced to death, the second was given ten years in prison and the third fifteen years.

A young woman was next.

‘Name?’

‘Mahbub.’

‘You were arrested while trying to escape. Why were you running away?’

‘I was running away because I was afraid I was going to be arrested.’

‘What had you done that made you think you were going to be arrested?’

‘I hadn’t done anything.’

‘We found flyers in your handbag!’

‘That’s not true. I didn’t have any flyers in my handbag.’

‘You were arrested in the Red Village. Do you live there?’

‘No.’

‘So what were you doing there?’

‘Visiting friends.’

‘What are their names?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘You mean you won’t tell me. Fine. Are you sorry for what you did?’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong, so I have nothing to be sorry for!’

‘If you sign here and say you repent, I’ll reduce your sentence.’

‘If I didn’t do anything wrong, why should I have to sign anything?’

‘Six years!’ said Khalkhal. ‘Next!’

She was taken out and Jawad was led in by an armed guard.

‘Name!’ Khalkhal said, without looking at the accused.

‘Jawad!’

‘Your father’s name?’

‘Aqa Jaan!’

Khalkhal’s head jerked up, as if he’d been stung by a bee. He stared at Jawad through his dark glasses.

Jawad was unable to see him, because of the bright light shining in his eyes. Khalkhal’s pen rolled off the table and onto the ground. He leaned over to pick it up, and in that brief moment Jawad caught a glimpse of the judge’s face.

There was something familiar about it, Jawad thought.

Khalkhal leafed through his papers, clearly stalling for time. ‘Water!’ he shouted to the guards who were posted outside.

The two men, assuming they’d been ordered to remove the prisoner, came in, grabbed hold of Jawad and were about to drag him out of the room.

‘Leave him here and bring me a glass of water!’ Khalkhal snarled.

I know him from somewhere, thought Jawad. His voice sounds familiar.

One of the guards placed a glass of water in front of Khalkhal and left. Khalkhal took a sip. ‘You have a file as thick as my arm,’ he said. ‘You’re an active member of the Communist Party. You’re the mastermind who works behind the scenes. At the time of your arrest, you were carrying a gun that had fired three bullets. You were seen shooting at a helicopter. These are serious offences for which you can receive the death penalty. Do you have anything to say to that?’