Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

During his studies, Bani-Sadr had come up with an economic model that combined capitalism and Islam. His plans were ideal for Khomeini, who knew absolutely nothing about economics.

When Khomeini flew from Paris to Tehran, Bani-Sadr was one of the seven men educated in the West who went with him. Later he was elected the first president of Iran.

The plane was circling Paris for the fourth time when the airport manager informed Bani-Sadr of the decision: ‘The French government has agreed to offer asylum to you and your fellow passengers. Your plane may land. Welcome to France.’

Bani-Sadr’s escape was the lead story on French television that night.

Khomeini had just come to the end of his evening prayer when Rafsanjani, then commander-in-chief of the armed forces, knelt by his side and broke the news to him.

Khomeini stood up and immediately launched into another prayer. Now that he had been informed of this unfortunate news, he hoped that an extra prayer would bring him closer to God. He needed Allah’s advice. After he’d uttered the last rakat , his eyes gleamed. He turned to Rafsanjani. ‘Our moment of glory has come!’

Ever since the war began, the Iranian army had been waiting for the right moment to liberate the occupied city of Khorramshahr. The largest oil refinery in the Middle East was located in its strategic harbour. Up to now the operation had been impossible, because American satellites relayed every movement in and around Khorramshahr to the Iraqis.

‘Allah is on our side,’ Khomeini said to Rafsanjani. ‘We will liberate Khorramshahr. The moment has come. Call a meeting of all your generals!’

Saddam had toasted his good fortune and was on his way to a cabinet meeting to break the news of Bani-Sadr’s escape to his ministers when the Iranian army attacked Khorramshahr simultaneously from six sides.

Thousands of Iraqi and Iranian soldiers were killed. The streets were lined with corpses. After half a day of heavy fighting, two Iranian soldiers managed to tear down the Iraqi flag on top of the refinery and replace it with the green flag of Islam.

The Iraqis regrouped, but the ayatollahs unexpectedly opened a new front: the Iranians attacked the Iraqi harbour of Basra. The Iraqi soldiers were so shaken by the news of the invasion that they went on the rampage, destroying every house in Khorramshahr and torching the trees before retreating in a vain attempt to save Basra.

After this historic victory, Khomeini appeared on television and was seen to be smiling for the first time. He gave thanks to Allah and congratulated the parents of the fallen soldiers on their sons’ bravery.

Millions of people took to the streets to celebrate the liberation of Khorramshahr. They set off fireworks, drove around in cars, honking and flashing their lights, danced on top of buses and treated each other to biscuits, sweets and fruit.

The rejoicing went on until deep in the night. It was the first nationwide celebration since the ayatollahs had come to power.

A full moon shone that night, comforting those who had suffered the pains and sorrows of war. Not everyone was rejoicing, however. Some people took advantage of that joyful night to exact revenge.

The light of that same moon shone down on a saltwater lake near Senejan, where the half-submerged body of Zinat Khanom lay. There was a note in a plastic holder round her neck: ‘She forced young unmarried women who had been sentenced to death to sleep with an Islamic fundamentalist before being executed. She has been tried and punished here at this salt lake, at the express wish of the mothers whose daughters were unwillingly made brides on the last night of their lives.’

Soon the moon would fade, and the sun would take its place. A flock of desert birds would spot Zinat’s body by the lake and circle noisily above it.

A traveller riding by on a camel would stop at the lake to see what had attracted the birds’ attention. And he would get down from the camel, kneel by the corpse and read the note.

Aqa Jaan strolled along the banks of the river. Instead of going back to bed after the morning prayer, he had come here for a walk. He sat down on a mound of sand to rest. Despite the cold, a woman was washing her feet in the river.

She dried her feet on the hem of her chador, put on her shoes and approached Aqa Jaan. ‘Do you have any change?’ she said. ‘I don’t have any coins to put in my mouth.’

‘Qodsi, is that you?’

The once so young and lively Qodsi now looked old. Her hair was grey, her face wrinkled.

‘I haven’t seen you for a long time, Qodsi. Where have you been? How’s your mother?’

‘She’s dead,’ Qodsi said sombrely.

‘When did that happen? Why wasn’t I told?’

‘She just up and died one day,’ was all Qodsi said.

‘How’s your sister?’

‘She’s dead too.’

‘Your sister too? When? What did she die of?’

There was no reply.

‘Where’s your brother?’

‘He’s dead too.’

‘What’s all this you’re telling me?’

‘But you won’t die,’ Qodsi prophesied. ‘You will stay until they’ve all gone and come back again.’

She turned and walked away.

‘Where are you going, Qodsi? You haven’t told me the latest news.’

‘Seven men are left. Three of them will come, one will go, one will lie where he is, one will die and one will sow. But you will stay until they’ve all come and gone,’ she replied, without turning round to look at him.

Aqa Jaan stood up and continued his walk.

Who was going to come and who was going to go? he wondered.

Suddenly he thought of Nosrat.

During the turbulent nights of the terror, only one man had had access to Khomeini’s nights: Nosrat.

Khomeini and Nosrat would shut themselves off from the harsh reality of daily life, and Nosrat would transport him to another world, in which there were no Iraqi jets, no bombs and no executions.

Nosrat beguiled him with his cinema. He showed him documentaries and nature films about birds, bees, snakes and the river of stars. It was their secret. No one else knew what went on behind Khomeini’s closed door.

Khomeini was the leader of the Shiite world, a man who could move millions of people with a single speech, but he was lonely. He spent all day, sometimes all week, by himself in his study.

He was a charismatic leader, and in turn everyone was always doing their best to impress him. Everyone except Nosrat, that is. Nosrat tried to be himself, in the hope that it would bring him closer to Khomeini.

Khomeini knew nothing of maths and lacked even the most rudimentary knowledge of physics, but he was curious about such things as light, the moon, the sun and space exploration. He was particularly interested in meteorites.

Nosrat, the akkas — the photographer — brought Khomeini into contact with a wondrous world he had never known before. He transformed Khomeini’s lonely nights into colourful and captivating nights in which he could forget his troubles.

The first thing Nosrat did when he came into Khomeini’s room was to take off his jacket, hang it on the coat-rack and start talking about whatever films he’d brought along. ‘I have a couple of short films for you tonight,’ he began one evening. ‘Unique documentaries about the life of two animal species. One is about the social hierarchy of ants, and the other is about apes. I’m sure you’re going to enjoy them. You’ll be amazed at how much their behaviour resembles ours! After that, I have a fascinating film about the rocks floating around in space. There are billions of them, and every once in a while one of them crashes into the earth. It’s brilliant!’

Khomeini looked at him in surprise. Even his own son didn’t feel this much at ease in his presence. He had heard that artists were a different breed, but Nosrat was the first artist he’d ever met.