The management of the factory would be in the hands of the world-famous Japanese manufacturer Mitsubishi. The idea was to produce a small tractor that could be used in the mountains. Thanks to a government subsidy, every farmer would soon have one of those tractors. And so the farmer and the shah would be bound together by Mitsubishi.
No, Aqa Jaan wasn’t up on the latest trends; on the contrary, he was far behind. He never listened to the radio and had never owned a television. If he’d seen the shah’s wife, Farah Diba, on television, he’d have a better idea of what was going on in his country. She was working hard to improve women’s lives. Aqa Jaan didn’t realise how popular she was with women, even those who went to mosque every day.
Farah Diba was the shah’s third wife – the one who finally bore him a son. His first two wives had failed to give him the crown prince he longed for. He’d met her at a party in Paris, where she was a student, and now she was the queen of Iran. She was hoping to improve the position of women, to free them from their bonds.
Until now things had gone well, and it seemed as if the shah was managing to keep the ayatollahs in line. Secure in this knowledge, Farah Diba flew to Paris once a month to shop at the famous boutiques where Hollywood celebrities bought their clothes.
While the New York Times described the country under the shah’s rule as an oasis of peace, Farah Diba made an appointment with a clinic in France to have her Persian nose shaped into a French nose. She came back home with a new hairdo as well.
No newspaper dared to mention the nose job, but every hairdresser in Iran had immediately set about imitating the hairstyle. Farah’s hair was the talk of the town. Even Fakhri Sadat, the wife of Aqa Jaan, had succumbed to the Farahi – the Farah cut – though Aqa Jaan hadn’t even noticed.
In Senejan people were busy setting up a women’s clinic. According to the latest statistics, the numbers of women suffering from female disorders were higher in the more religious cities and villages, and yet devout women refused to be treated by male doctors. As a result the authorities in religious cities decided to open a clinic staffed exclusively by female physicians. The clinic in Senejan was to be the first and largest women’s clinic in the country.
Farah Diba’s royal cultural institute supported the plan, and Farah herself was scheduled to come to Senejan to open the clinic.
Khalkhal, who kept abreast of developments across the country, had gradually started including the everyday life of the city in his sermons. Recently he’d criticised the mayor because there wasn’t a decent public library in Senejan and the kiosks were selling Farsi translations of trashy American novels.
Another time he attacked the city’s theatre for putting on a play in which an imam was ridiculed. The play was aimed at schoolchildren. Every day a new group was brought in to see the performance. Khalkhal was incensed. ‘It’s a disgrace to the honourable city of Senejan. How dare they turn an imam into a figure of fun to entertain our youth? I warn the bazaar: a cunning attack has been launched in this city against Islam. Have you looked in your children’s schoolbags lately to see what kind of blasphemous ideas are being taught at their school? Are you aware of the poisonous poetry being assigned to your daughters in the name of literature? My hands shook when I read some of those poems. Out of respect for the women sitting on the other side of the curtain I won’t tell you what those poems were about. War has been declared on our faith. Don’t play with fire. I warn you! Don’t play with fire!’
The mayor heard the harsh words being hurled from the pulpit. To keep the situation from escalating, he ordered the theatre to stop performing the play.
The incident had barely died down when rumours of a plan to build a cinema in Senejan spread throughout the city.
Senejan’s oldest bathhouse had fallen into disuse, and the owner of a number of large cinemas in Tehran had purchased it with the idea of converting it into a cinema. It was a landmark, a unique place for cultural activities, the perfect spot for a cinema.
Khalkhal immediately let the mayor know that a cinema in a religious stronghold like Senejan was unacceptable, and the mayor let him know that the city had not been consulted: the decision had already been taken in Tehran. The royal cultural institute was touting it as one of its pet projects, and Farah Diba had personally approved the plan.
When the cinema owner heard that Farah Diba was going to come to Senejan for the opening of the women’s clinic, he vowed to finish the renovation on time so that she could open the cinema as well.
He contacted the authorities in Tehran and arranged for Farah to open the cinema after presiding over the opening of the clinic. Given the fact that Senejan was such a religious stronghold, it was decided to wait until the last minute to announce the news.
On a sunny Thursday afternoon a helicopter flew over the city and circled above the bazaar three times. Schoolchildren lined the streets of the route that Farah Diba’s open limousine would take to the clinic.
The children cheered, clapped their hands and shouted, ‘Jawid shah! Long live the shah!’ Three jets also thundered overhead, trailing smoke in the three colours of the Iranian flag. Dozens of plainclothes policemen mingled with the crowd, and army vehicles filled with soldiers were stationed at every corner, ready to quell any signs of unrest.
Farah Diba waved and smiled at the crowd, while a fresh breeze toyed with her hair. She radiated power. As the limousine passed by, the teachers and the clinic staff removed their veils to reveal their Farah cuts. They squealed in excitement and waved their veils.
A camera crew was on hand to capture the scene, which would be broadcast on the evening news, so everyone could see how the women in the pious city of Senejan had rallied round Farah Diba and embraced her as their role model. Since this was Farah Diba’s first visit to a religious stronghold, it was a litmus test for the regime. If Senejan could be won over, the other devout anti-shah cities could be won over as well.
Everything had gone smoothly. So smoothly in fact that the television station decided not to wait until the eight o’clock news, but to use her trip as the lead story on the six o’clock news. The visit was considered a resounding victory over the ayatollahs. But the broadcasters had overlooked one thing – a minor detail that at first glance hadn’t seemed at all important.
A number of young women from Senejan had been hired to work as nurses in the new clinic. They were standing by the door in their crisp white short-sleeved uniforms. As Farah Diba stepped out of her royal limousine, the photographers rushed over and aimed their cameras at the nurses, who bowed and presented the queen with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. But their uniforms were made of such sheer nylon that you could see the nurse’s pale-blue underpants. The bazaar was stunned, and when Khalkhal heard the news, he was so angry he couldn’t eat.
Khalkhal saw it as a slap in the face of the ayatollahs and a deliberate insult to the bazaar. The incident had taken place in his city, the city in which he was the imam of the influential Friday Mosque. He felt compelled to comment on it in tonight’s sermon.
As evening fell, Aqa Jaan’s phone rang. A man from Qom asked to speak to Khalkhal. It was a short, one-sided conversation. Khalkhal listened for a long time, then just before hanging up said, ‘No, I didn’t know. Yes, I understand. Right, I have all the information I need. So do you.’
Aqa Jaan had no idea what they’d been talking about, nor did he ask Khalkhal whom he’d been talking to. Later, when he glanced through the library window, he saw Khalkhal pacing back and forth.
The news broadcast seemed to suggest that Farah Diba had left the city after the opening of the clinic and had gone back to Tehran. In fact she was still in Senejan. A helicopter had flown her to a historical site on the outskirts of the city, at the edge of the desert, so she could view a citadel that had been converted into an inn. Once upon a time it had been a caravanserai on the Silk Road, where merchants and wayfarers could spend the night.
Farah, who had studied architecture in Paris, was now in charge
of the restoration of several of the country’s historic buildings. Much of her time had been spent on the improvements to the citadel.
She was scheduled to go back to Senejan later that evening for the opening of the cinema. For this special occasion the cinema owner had sent to Tehran for a Hollywood love film that had never been shown before in Iran. He had told no one of the royal visit, saying only that a few VIPs from Tehran would be on hand for the opening.
As Farah Diba sat down to dinner in the ancient citadel, Khalkhal slipped into Aqa Jaan’s study to make a phone call. He had a short, whispered conversation with someone in Qom.
At seven o’clock he was ready to go to the mosque. When Shahbal came to the library to escort him, he noticed that Khalkhal was restless.
‘Is anything wrong?’ he enquired.
‘No, why do you ask?’ Khalkhal replied, as they headed out the door.
‘What are you going to talk about tonight?’
‘I haven’t decided. I’ve been too preoccupied with the visit of that slut.’
Shahbal wanted to ask, ‘What slut?’, but didn’t, for the simple reason that he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word ‘slut’.
‘Where’s Aqa Jaan?’ Khalkhal asked.
‘In the mosque.’
They went into the mosque. The prayer room was full. In fact, there were more people than usual. Everyone was curious to see how their imam would react to Farah Diba’s visit.
Khalkhal calmly climbed into the pulpit, took his seat and began to talk in a quiet voice about the mosque and the role of the imam. He saw the mosque as the heart of the city and the imam as the wakeful conscience of the faithful.
He made no reference to the opening of the clinic. Nor did he mention the television broadcast of Farah Diba’s visit. Instead, he aimed all of his arrows at the cinema.
‘Beware!’ he suddenly exclaimed and raised a warning finger. ‘You must know what’s going on!’
He paused dramatically. ‘In the name of the mosque, in the name of the city, in the name of the bazaar,’ he resumed, ‘I ask you, I beg you, I warn you not to continue. Put a stop to these diabolical plans! Senejan is no place for promiscuous American culture. No place for sin. Put a stop to it, or we will do it for you!’
‘Allahu akbar!’ someone shouted.
‘Allahu akbar!’ the worshippers replied in unison.
No one knew exactly what Khalkhal was talking about, but everyone understood that he was voicing his anger at the cinema.
The men of the bazaar nodded in satisfaction at Aqa Jaan. They approved of Khalkhal’s reaction.
Aqa Jaan was proud of him too. He realised, though, that at some point Khalkhal was bound to move on. He was too ambitious to remain the imam of a mosque for long. He needed more breathing space. One day the walls of the mosque would prove too confining, and he would decide to spread his wings. But their mosque was a good place for him to start.
The cinema owner had expected Khalkhal to rant and rave about his cinema, but he wasn’t afraid. He knew that both the secret police and the local police would be on hand to protect him. On this particular Thursday evening he was glad the faithful were sitting in the mosque and listening to Khalkhal, for it meant that he could welcome Farah Diba to the opening without having to worry about her safety.
And yet he had underestimated his enemy, for Khalkhal was well informed. He knew that the queen would be at the opening.
Khalkhal looked at his watch. The queen would be arriving at the cinema shortly. So he relaxed, stroked his beard and smiled. Aqa Jaan assumed that Khalkhal had finished talking about the cinema and would now start in on another topic, that he would be satisfied with merely issuing a warning. But Khalkhal surprised him by quoting the fiery Abu Lahab surah, the one about the woman to whom God had spoken in anger. Khalkhal began chanting calmly and quietly:
Break the hands of Abu Lahab!
Destroy Abu Lahab!
Destroy his fortune!
Destroy the wife of Abu Lahab!
Abu Lahab shall burn in a blazing fire!
And his wife shall carry the faggots!
Around her neck is a cord of palm fibre!
Destroy Abu Lahab!
Aqa Jaan caught his breath. Suddenly he realised that Khalkhal was going to do more than issue a warning.
Abu Lahab had been Muhammad’s uncle – his father’s brother – and also the sworn enemy of Muhammad and the Koran. Once, during Islam’s early years, Muhammad had been trying to convince Mecca’s rulers of his mission when Abu Lahab had cursed him and left the gathering. Abu Lahab’s wife had done likewise: she had cursed Muhammad and said offensive things about the Koran. Not content to stop there, the two of them had taken their hostility to the bazaar, cursing the Koran and especially Allah. Muhammad had suffered greatly under their attacks but had been unable to stop them. Then one night the Abu Lahab surah had been revealed to him:
Tabbat yada abee lahabin!
Around her neck is a cord of palm fibre!
Destroy Abu Lahab!
When someone quoted Abu Lahab, you knew that things were serious. Khalkhal continued his tirade:
Break the hands of the man who bought the bathhouse.
Break the hands of the man who turned it into a cinema.
Break the door of the bathhouse.
Break the legs of the men now assembled in the bathhouse.
Place a cord of palm fibre around the necks of the wives
Of the men now assembled in the bathhouse.
Aqa Jaan was unable to lift his head. Instead of looking at Khalkhal, he found himself staring at the patterns in his prayer rug. He had the feeling that Khalkhal was holding him from behind and pressing his head to the ground.
Khalkhal had surprised him. Aqa Jaan supposed he ought to be pleased, but he felt torn. Why hadn’t Khalkhal told him he was going to talk about the cinema? Why had he suddenly adopted that harsh tone? Would it be good for the mosque? What effect would it have on the city?
But there was no time to ponder all of this now. He took a deep breath, raised his head and looked around.
There was a hushed silence. All eyes were focused on Khalkhal. ‘I warned the authorities long ago,’ he said. ‘I also warned the new owner of the bathhouse. But they wouldn’t listen. Now they’ve even gone so far as to show a sinful American film in the bathhouse tonight. Tonight of all nights! Do you know what day it is today? It is the anniversary of Fatima’s death!
‘I, Khalkhal, the imam of the mosque, forbid it. I, Khalkhal, the imam of the Friday Mosque, forbid you to enter that cinema! I, Khalkhal, will hold the Koran up high and board up the door of that sinful place!’ he thundered. And he took his Koran out of his pocket.
‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ the crowd roared.
‘To the bathhouse!’ Khalkhal cried, and he jumped down from the pulpit.
The crowd stood up for him.
Aqa Jaan, who hadn’t been expecting this sudden turn of events, was rooted to the spot. Khalkhal had deceived him: he had taken control of the mosque. But it wasn’t too late. After all, Aqa Jaan was more experienced than he was. Somehow he had to take command again, in order to uphold the prestige of the mosque. Khalkhal’s reputation didn’t count, only that of the mosque.
He turned and raced after Khalkhal. ‘Run!’ he shouted to Shahbal. ‘Stay with him. Don’t let him out of your sight!’
The tension had mounted to fever pitch and the crowd was now out of control. ‘I’ve got to do something,’ Aqa Jaan mumbled to himself. ‘I’m the only one who can put a stop to this madness.’
Khalkhal was striding towards the cinema, holding his Koran high above his head. The faithful were following behind, chanting ‘Allahu akbar’.
The agents of the secret police, caught off-guard by the demonstration, ran in panic down the dark streets. ‘A riot’s broken out!’ they shrieked into their walkie-talkies. ‘Guard the cinema!’
After a while, two patrol cars came roaring up
, but the patrolmen had no idea what was going on or where the crowd was headed.
A couple of army lorries were blocking the street leading to the cinema. Armed soldiers leapt out and formed a line to hold back the demonstrators.
A helicopter landed in the square by the bathhouse, ready to fly Farah Diba to safety.
The mayor’s car screeched to a halt by the kerb. The mayor jumped out and ran over to the demonstrators with his hands above his head. He scanned the sea of faces until he saw Aqa Jaan. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he roared. ‘You’ve walked into a trap! Call off the demonstration, or there will be a bloodbath!’
‘What do you mean? The authorities don’t listen to a thing the mosque says these days! They insult us by building a cinema and now you’re threatening us with a bloodbath?’
‘No, you don’t understand. I’m not threatening a bloodbath, I’m asking you to help me prevent one! There’s something you need to know, but I can’t say it out loud.’ He whispered it in Aqa Jaan’s ear: ‘Farah Diba is inside the cinema. Believe me, if these people come any closer, the army is going to open fire. Do something! Stop them!’
The armed soldiers held back the demonstrators, while the commanding officer shouted into a megaphone, ‘Turn around! Go back!’
Khalkhal ignored him. Holding his Koran high above his head, he strode past the officer and tried to push through the line, but the officer stopped him. ‘Turn back!’ he warned, ‘or they’ll shoot.’
‘Then let them shoot!’ Khalkhal cried, and tried to break through the line again.
The officer grabbed him by the collar, pulled him away from the line of soldiers and shouted into his face, ‘If you don’t turn back, I’ll ram your turban down your throat and haul you off to jail!’
Khalkhal flew into a rage, shoving the officer so hard the man stumbled and nearly fell. The officer whipped out his gun.
Aqa Jaan quickly grabbed hold of Khalkhal and dragged him away. ‘Get him out of here!’ he yelled to Shahbal.
The House of the Mosque Page 9
