Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

‘It’s a pack of lies. Furthermore, I don’t recognise the authority of this court. What you’re doing is illegal. I have the right to a lawyer! The right to defend myself!’

‘Shut up and listen!’ Khalkhal snapped. ‘I’ve already spent more time on you than on the others. Your file contains a long list of serious offences.’

‘They’re obviously trumped-up charges, because I didn’t have a gun on me, and I certainly wasn’t shooting at a helicopter.’

‘I don’t have time to discuss this with you. I advise you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say. Is that clear? I know your father, and I’m willing to help you if you agree to cooperate.’

It’s Khalkhal! Jawad suddenly realised. Khalkhal is Allah’s judge!

He was aghast. His mouth went dry and his hands began to shake.

Khalkhal knew that Jawad had recognised him. ‘Listen to me, young man. The bodies of more than three hundred soldiers are being brought here tomorrow from the front. All young men of your age. While they were out fighting the enemy, you were shooting at our helicopters. I don’t care who you are. I’d sentence my own brother to death if I had to. But I’m making an exception in your case because I know your father. Now I’m going to ask you three questions. Think carefully before you answer. If you’re smart, you’ll give the right answer. This is the first — and it will be the last — time I’ve ever given anyone this chance.

‘The first question is: Are you a Communist, or do you believe in Islam?’

The gravity of Khalkhal’s words hadn’t sunk in, and Jawad was still seething: ‘I’m not going to answer that question! Judges aren’t allowed to ask such questions. Besides, this isn’t a courtroom; it’s a stable!’

‘Think before you talk,’ Khalkhal said, clearly disappointed. ‘The second question is: If I reduce your sentence, will you pray seven times a day along with the other prisoners?’

‘Prayer is a personal matter, so I won’t answer that question either,’ Jawad retorted.

‘Question three: Will you sign this form, stating that you’re sorry for what you’ve done?’

‘Why should I repent when I haven’t done anything wrong? No, I won’t sign it.’

Khalkhal was in doubt. He wanted to save Jawad, but only if he agreed to cooperate, at least to some extent. ‘I’m going to give you one more chance,’ Khalkhal said. ‘I advise you to make use of it.’

He took a Koran out of his pocket and handed it to Jawad. ‘If you swear on the Koran that you weren’t carrying a weapon and didn’t fire any shots, I’ll reduce your sentence. If you refuse, I’ll have you executed at once!’

‘You’ve had hundreds of innocent people executed! And that’s a crime. A crime in the eyes of the Koran. I refuse to cooperate. The fact that you know my father is all the more reason to say no. I’m ashamed of your deeds. I refuse to accept any favours from you. You feel guilty about the way you’ve treated my family, but I’m ashamed of you. You’re the monster who abandoned his wife and disabled child, the bully who beat and tormented his own wife. I will never kneel before the man who had hundreds of Kurds executed in one day. I wouldn’t be my father’s son if I did. Put away your Koran, I don’t need it!’

‘Death!’ Khalkhal bellowed.

The guards rushed in and led Jawad to the room where the executions were carried out.

One of the guards put a blindfold over his eyes and stood him up against the wall. Jawad didn’t think for a moment that he was going to be shot. He thought that Khalkhal was just trying to frighten him into signing a confession.

The guards left him standing there for a while with his blindfold on, which made him even more sure that they were just trying to frighten him. Besides, he hadn’t been carrying a weapon and hadn’t fired at a helicopter, so they had no right to execute him. He heard footsteps, which he suspected were Khalkhal’s. He was no doubt coming to interrogate him some more. Jawad was convinced that Khalkhal would spare him, that he would call off the execution.

But Khalkhal didn’t come over to him. Jawad expected him to say, ‘That’s enough. Take off his blindfold and throw him in prison.’

Instead, Khalkhal barked out an order: ‘Take up your positions!’

Two guards knelt and aimed their rifles at Jawad.

Jawad stood up straight and squared his shoulders so Khalkhal could see that he wasn’t afraid. He knew Khalkhal wouldn’t go through with it.

‘Ready… aim… fire !’ Khalkhal commanded.

Shots rang out. At first Jawad didn’t feel the bullets slamming into his body. I was right, he thought, they were just trying to frighten me.

Then he slumped forward and fell to the ground.

And then he laid down his head and closed his eyes.

Aqa Jaan had gone to collect Jawad’s body, which was now lying in a delivery van parked in front of the house.

Fakhri Sadat stood by the window and looked down at Muezzin, who was anxiously pacing the courtyard. In the frame of the window, she looked like a black-and-white photograph of a grieving mother.

Persian custom demanded that she weep and wail, beat her head and tear out her hair. Then the other women would rush over and take her hand, and they would cry and comfort one another. But that was forbidden. The regime did not allow executed prisoners to be mourned openly.

Aqa Jaan had no idea where he was going to bury Jawad. He had spent all afternoon on the phone, trying to get permission to bury him in the city, but no one had dared to go out on a limb to help him.

There was the sound of feet in the alley. Although Muezzin listened carefully, he didn’t recognise the footsteps.

A key turned in the lock, the gate creaked open and in came Shahbal. Lizard hurried over to him.

Muezzin also went over to his son, embraced him and wept silently on his shoulder.

Shahbal had heard the news. It was dangerous for him to come home, but he’d set off for Senejan the moment the message had reached him.

Aqa Jaan came out of his study and greeted Shahbal as he always did. He didn’t show the slightest flicker of emotion, making Shahbal wonder if he’d driven three hundred miles for nothing.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘You’re just in time. Who gave you the message?’ He went on without waiting for an answer. ‘We have to hurry! I’ve got him in the van by the gate.’

In the lamplight Shahbal saw his fears confirmed by the haunted look in Aqa Jaan’s eyes. It was a familiar story: a corpse, a father and no grave.

He took him by the arm and embraced him. ‘You have my condolences, Aqa Jaan,’ he said as he wept. ‘My poor Aqa Jaan…’

Shahbal, feeling guilty for having encouraged Jawad, had been afraid that Aqa Jaan would shun him.

‘It was God’s will, my boy,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Come, let’s go. It will be dark soon. We don’t have much time.’

Shahbal was holding the key to the van, a sobering enough fact, but until he’d seen Jawad for himself, he couldn’t believe that he was really dead.

Shahbal opened the rear doors. There he lay, wrapped in a white shroud. He was curled up on his right side, with his hands between his thighs. He looked cold. Shahbal undid the shroud so he could see his face. It was definitely Jawad, with a bullet hole in his left temple.

‘We have to hurry,’ Aqa Jaan said.

Shahbal slid in behind the wheel.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked as they drove out of the alley.

‘That way!’ Aqa Jaan said, pointing to the mountains in the north.

Shahbal didn’t know what his uncle’s plans were, but he was sure of one thing: Aqa Jaan wasn’t the kind of man who would let his son be buried in a deserted spot in the mountains.