‘I’m going to read out your name,’ the judge began. ‘If it is correct, you may say yes. Then I’m going to ask you a few questions to which you must reply.’
‘I am the imam of the Friday Mosque,’ Ahmad said. ‘Before you start, I would like to have my robe and turban brought to me. If not, I refuse to answer your questions.’
‘You are Ahmad Alsaberi, the son of Mohammad Alsaberi.’
Ahmad maintained a stubborn silence.
‘As an active member of the secret police,’ the judge continued, ‘the suspect has committed the worst crime an imam can commit.’
‘That’s not true!’ Ahmad burst out. ‘I haven’t done anything!’
‘We’re got the evidence in here,’ the judge said, holding up a file.
‘Then it’s been falsified. I should know whether or not I’ve done anything wrong, and I don’t have any crimes on my conscience.’
‘We have proof that you were working hand in glove with the shah’s secret police,’ the judge said.
‘You can’t have proof, because I wasn’t working with them. As an imam I have contacts with all kinds of people – everyone from beggars to the chief of the secret police. You have no doubt received reports of those contacts, but they could hardly be considered evidence in a court of law! I was the imam of the mosque during turbulent times. Whenever I gave an inflammatory speech, the secret police showed up on my doorstep and read me the riot act. A judge wouldn’t consider that to be evidence either. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘You’re an opium addict,’ the judge replied.
‘That’s not a sin,’ Ahmad retorted. ‘Most of the ayatollahs in this country are opium addicts.’
‘We have proof that you smoked opium with top men in the secret police.’
‘True, but that’s all I did.’
‘They gave you money. That’s been documented.’
‘Only in my official capacity as an imam. People confide in me and give me money for a variety of reasons. The secret police also gave me money, but I turned every last cent of it over to the mosque.’
‘You’ve had improper relations with women on numerous occasions.’
‘I’ve had relations with women, but always according to sharia law.’
‘I have in my possession photographs which clearly show you smoking opium and cavorting with prostitutes.’
‘The secret police set me up in order to discredit me, but I . . .’
Up to this point he’d tried to give convincing answers to the judge’s questions, but in the harsh light of the lamp it was obvious that his hands were shaking, and that tears were oozing out of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.
Soon he began to stutter and leave his sentences unfinished. It was the opium. He’d never kicked the habit. Instead, he’d bought a modern electrical pipe in Tehran so that he could smoke opium in secret wherever he wanted to. Aqa Jaan knew, but had decided to turn a blind eye.
If he’d had his usual fix, he would have been able to defend himself more eloquently. But they’d arrested him at the wrong moment, just when he’d been about to smoke his pipe before going to the mosque to lead the prayer.
Now that he was under so much pressure, every nerve in his body was crying out for opium. It felt like an elephant was standing on his chest.
Usually he kept a little chunk of opium in his robe for emergencies. If he’d had it with him now, he could have swallowed it and felt halfway normal, but when they hauled him off to the Islamic Court, he’d been wearing only a long cotton shirt.
In desperation, he patted the pockets of his shirt, but they were as empty as a desert.
He tried to loosen his collar so he could breathe more easily, but his fingers refused to cooperate. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His ears began to pound, the sound faded away and he no longer heard the judge’s voice. Everything went black before his eyes, and he slid from his chair.
The next morning his wife took their child and went home to her parents.
The Donkey
No indeed, they shall soon know!
And again no, they shall soon know!
We made the night as a covering.
And we made a glowing lantern.
We sent down torrents of water from rain-soaked clouds.
And we warned you of imminent torment,
A day when man shall see what his hands have wrought.
For the next month Aqa Jaan searched the city and talked to everyone he knew, but he found no trace of Ahmad. Everyone had heard about Ahmad’s arrest, and rumours were spreading through the city like wildfire.
‘What are you going to do next?’ Fakhri Sadat asked Aqa Jaan.
‘Maybe we should wait for it to blow over,’ he said. ‘Especially in these uncertain times. You ought to come down to the bazaar one of these days and see how the merchants all avoid me. My reputation is at stake.’
Aqa Jaan jumped when the doorbell rang.
There was something different about the ring, as though the messenger of fate were at the door.
‘Who’s there?’ Aqa Jaan asked, his voice trembling.
‘Open up!’ demanded a male voice.
‘Who’s there?’ Aqa Jaan asked again.
‘We have a message for Aqa Jaan.’
He opened the gate. Outside stood a bearded man, toting a gun.
‘What can I do for you?’ Aqa Jaan enquired.
‘The imam would like to speak to you,’ the man replied.
‘Which imam?’
‘The one in the jeep.’
Aqa Jaan walked over to the jeep. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said through the window to the young imam in the back. ‘Come in if you like. We can talk in my study.’
The imam got out. Aqa Jaan ushered him into his study and offered him a chair.
‘Normally you would have been invited to come down to the Islamic Court,’ the imam stated calmly, ‘but we don’t have much time. I’m here to deliver a message and to make a request that must be complied with at once.’
‘What do you mean? What kind of request?’
‘The court has reached a decision, and I’ve come to inform you of its ruling. I’ll read the document aloud.’
Aqa Jaan, assuming that it was about Ahmad, suddenly felt relieved at the thought that there might be room for negotiation after all.
The imam reached into his pocket, took out an unsealed envelope, removed the sheet of paper inside, carefully unfolded it and began to read:
In the name of Allah, who shows no mercy to sinners who refuse to heed his word, and in the name of our leader Ayatollah Khomeini.
The Islamic Court has ruled that, effective immediately and for an indefinite period of time, the Qa’im Maqam Farahani family is to be relieved of all further responsibility for the Friday Mosque in the city of Senejan.
Aqa Jaan was so shocked he leapt to his feet. ‘That’s impossible! The mosque belongs to us!’
‘The mosque belongs to God,’ the imam stated serenely. ‘A mosque is never anyone’s personal property. You should know that!’
‘But we have documents showing that the land and the mosque belong to this house. It says so in our family deeds. We inherited the mosque. I have proof!’
‘Calm down. Those documents have no legal validity, because the mosque belongs to us all. Your family has merely been its custodian. It hasn’t been bestowed on you as a divine right. Now that we have an Islamic government, the judge can rescind earlier rulings. Your supervision of the mosque is no longer required. Further discussion is out of the question. The Islamic Court has revoked your family’s right to the mosque. The house and the mosque are to be separated. You and your family may continue to live in the house, but I have come to collect the keys to the mosque. Are you prepared to hand them over?’
‘No!’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I can’t hand them over and I won’t. What’s the meaning of this? You’re destroying us all! Do you have to insult us too?’
‘If you don’t hand over the key
s right now, I’ll order the men I have posted outside to come in and get them.’
‘You’re not getting them from me!’ Aqa Jaan said firmly.
The imam left and went back to his jeep, where he ordered his men to go in and get the keys.
Three men came into Aqa Jaan’s study. They started towards his desk, but Aqa Jaan, who was standing in the middle of the room, blocked their way. ‘Get out!’ he screamed. ‘Get out of my house!’
The men pushed him aside and began to search the room.
‘This is pure theft!’ Aqa Jaan shouted at the man who was dumping the contents of his drawers on his desk, and he shoved him away.
Jawad, having heard the noise, rushed in and dragged his father away, then stood between the two men to prevent them from coming to blows.
The men took every key they could find and then left. But they didn’t get their hands on the key to the treasure room, because Aqa Jaan always kept it in his pocket, next to his Koran.
Three days later, as evening was drawing to a close, a helicopter flew over the mosque. Inside it was Ayatollah Araki – one of the dozens of ayatollahs sent to the major cities by Khomeini to oversee the implementation of the sharia. Each of the ayatollahs had been granted unlimited powers. Answerable only to Khomeini, they were referred to as Jomas, or Friday, imams, since they operated from the Jomah, or Friday, Mosques.
In the streets below, hundreds of believers raised their arms towards the helicopter and shouted ‘Jare imam gosh amad! Welcome, friend of the imam!’
The helicopter landed on the roof, and a group of men from the bazaar trooped up to greet the ageing ayatollah, while the hundreds of Islamic fundamentalists in the mosque’s courtyard beat their chests and shouted, ‘Janam beh fadayet Khomeini! We will sacrifice our souls for you, Khomeini!’
Two armed young men rushed over to help the ayatollah down the stairs, and he was carried into the mosque on the shoulders of the faithful.
Aqa Jaan, not wanting to miss the ayatollah’s arrival, had stealthily opened the trapdoor to one of the minarets, crawled inside and climbed up to the spot where Nosrat had once made love to a woman. From his lofty position he stared down at the scene, taking in every detail, while the green light of the minaret shone on his face.
The mosque had again become the centre of activity in Senejan. Every Friday evening people came to the mosque from miles around to hear the ayatollah speak.
Ayatollah Araki was the most powerful man in the city. His appointment book was always full, and no decision was ever taken without his approval. His autocratic rule extended to everything but the Islamic Court.
The Islamic judge operated independently, though he did consult with Khalkhal in special cases. In fact, he had phoned him to discuss Ahmad’s case. Khalkhal’s advice had been clear: ‘You’re the judge. Close your eyes and give your verdict!’
Nevertheless the judge had gone to the mosque, handed Ahmad’s file to the ayatollah and asked his opinion. The ayatollah had studied the file in between two prayer services and agreed with the judge’s proposed ruling. ‘He is an imam, so he has to be punished more severely than ordinary citizens. Wa-assalaam!’
The following day a jeep drove around the city from dawn until early afternoon, blaring an announcement from the loudspeaker: ‘Attention all believers in Senejan! Come to the main square at two o’clock. The judge will announce his verdict in the case of Ahmad Alsaberi, a former accomplice of the secret police. This will be the first public sentencing under sharia law. God is merciful, but also cruel when He has to be.’
Aqa Jaan was standing in the courtyard by the hauz when he heard the announcement. He froze. All at once his legs went numb, and he had to clutch the lamp post for support.
Fakhri Sadat had also heard the announcement. ‘What should we do?’ she asked, appalled.
‘Nothing,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Only God can help us now. For the last month I’ve gone round knocking on doors and kissing everyone’s hand, but it didn’t help. Nobody knows what goes on in the Islamic Court. The cases are always tried behind closed doors.’
‘Why hasn’t Zinat done anything? She has friends in high places.’
‘I don’t think there’s much she can do. Even she doesn’t know who the judge is and who’s behind the trials. Besides, she’s on their side. She can’t make an exception for her own son.’
‘Why not? You’ve told me often enough that he’s innocent.’
‘I don’t know, Fakhri. I just don’t know any more!’
‘But Ahmad is her son. Why should you have to call on people and kiss their hands, while she’s hidden somewhere? For that matter, where is she? And why is she hiding, even from you?’
‘Fakhri, there’s been a revolution, not just an ordinary transfer of power. And because of that, there’s been a radical change in the way people think. We’re going to see things we never would have thought possible in ordinary times. Human beings are capable of the most inhuman behaviour. Look around you; everyone’s changed. You can hardly recognise them any more. I can’t tell if they’ve suddenly dropped their masks or put on new ones. God only knows what happened to Zinat. Who would have thought she’d ever achieve any kind of prominence?’
‘Prominence? What do you mean by “prominence”?’ Fakhri snapped.
‘She has power, she makes decisions, she organises things. God knows what else she’s doing.’
‘She’s no one special. She’s ugly. All the women she works with are horrible, the kind of women that no one looks at twice. They’re all ugly!’
‘Fakhri!’
‘Zinat is ugly on the inside,’ she said, ignoring Aqa Jaan’s rebuke.
‘This isn’t the time to discuss it. I’m going to the square to see what’s happening. Maybe I can still do something to help Ahmad.’
‘Don’t go. He’s going to be humiliated in public. Stay home until the storm has died down.’
‘I have to go. It’s my life. Humiliation is the least of my worries.’
Before he left, Aqa Jaan said his prayers. Then he put on his hat and, with his chin held high, went out to meet his fate.
It was crowded in the square. He found a spot beneath a tree, where he had a good view of the platform on which the sentencing would take place. People were talking to each other, curious as to how the sharia would be implemented.
Three army jeeps drove up and disgorged their load of Revolutionary Guards, then a black Mercedes rolled into the square. One of the guards opened the door and a young imam stepped out. The guards escorted him to the platform, where he seated himself on a tall chair. ‘Bring in the prisoner!’ he ordered.
Ahmad was led out from behind an improvised green curtain. He looked frail and unkempt. It had been weeks since he’d had any opium, and it showed in his lined face and stooped shoulders. He looked like an unwashed tramp. If the judge hadn’t announced his name, nobody would have recognised him.
The crowd stared in disbelief at Ahmad Alsaberi, once their beloved imam, the man who used to receive hundreds of love letters.
First the judge called for silence, then he began to read his verdict: ‘Ahmad Alsaberi has been found guilty of collaborating with the secret police of the former regime. Of collaborating with Satan! This is an act of treason against Islam and against the mosque that he was appointed to serve. However, because he doesn’t have any blood on his hands, he has been sentenced to only ten years in prison!’
There were gasps and cries from the crowd. Again the judge called for silence, then resumed his reading: ‘The offender is hereby relieved of his duties. Since he will no longer be allowed to work as an imam, his robe and turban have been taken from him.’
Ahmad trembled in his filthy shirt.
‘Because he was the imam of the Friday Mosque, and was therefore expected to set an example to others, he will be given an extra punishment,’ the judge said. He paused, then suddenly exclaimed, ‘Bring in the donkey!’
The guards led a white donkey out from behind th
e stands.
There were mutterings from the crowd: ‘What are they up to now? What are they going to do to him?’
The donkey took one look at the mass of people and refused to take another step. The guards had to push it onto the platform.
Aqa Jaan recognised the animal. It was Am Ramazan’s donkey!
Just then a group of militants wearing green headbands bearing the words ‘Soldier of Khomeini’ came bursting into the square, shouting, ‘God is great! Death to the henchman of the shah!’
Above the tumult, the judge cried: ‘The offender is to be seated backwards on the donkey and taken to the Friday Mosque. This is a merciful punishment for a man who has defiled his imam robe!’
There was a shocked silence. Everyone stared in horror at Ahmad, who kept his eyes glued to the ground.
Aqa Jaan took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He couldn’t believe they were actually going to make Ahmad ride backwards on a donkey through Senejan!
Ahmad had admittedly done some foolish things, but Aqa Jaan didn’t believe he’d ever been a henchman of the shah. It would be totally out of character. But why didn’t Ahmad speak up? Why didn’t he object? Why didn’t he defend himself?
Aqa Jaan pushed his way towards the platform. ‘Ahmad!’ he cried loudly. ‘You’re not a traitor! Defend yourself!’
Everyone stared at Aqa Jaan.
‘Say something!’ he cried, louder this time.
At the sound of Aqa Jaan’s voice, Ahmad seemed to snap out of his trance.
‘Quiet!’ the judge ordered.
‘Speak up, Ahmad!’ Aqa Jaan said.
‘Quiet!’ the judge ordered again.
Two guards came over and seized Aqa Jaan.
‘Wake up, Ahmad! Say something! Do it for me! Do it for us! For the mosque!’ Aqa Jaan shouted as he tried to shake off the guards.
‘You’re the imam of our mosque, defend your—’ he cried. But before he could finish his sentence, one of the guards twisted his arm behind his back and pushed him to the ground, face down.
‘Ahmad! Do something for us!’ he called, as the guards held him down.
The House of the Mosque Page 26
