The House of the Mosque

by Kader Abdolah

  The Sermon

  During the first few months, Khalkhal had managed to keep things on an even keel in the mosque. He knew that agents of the secret police were attending his sermons in order to find out what he was up to.

  In everyday life he had few social skills and came across as a stiff and stern imam, but the moment he climbed into the pulpit he was transformed into a witty man with a ready smile who spiced up his sermons with humour, so that it was a pleasure to listen to him.

  In his first sermons he deliberately focused on neutral topics, often taking a surah from the Koran and explaining the historical and narrative aspects of the text. Sometimes he took the analysis a step further and talked about the power of the language and the poetry of the surahs. He gave examples and read melodious passages in his beautiful voice.

  His listeners enjoyed his interpretations. The majority of the mosque-goers couldn’t read the Koran, much less understand it. The Koran had been written in Arabic, which bore little resemblance to Persian. Besides, the language in which it had been written was fourteen hundred years old, which meant that many of the historical references in the surahs couldn’t be understood without some measure of expertise.

  Khalkhal was not only knowledgeable, but he could also explain the Koran in a simple way that ordinary people could understand.

  The agents of the secret police enjoyed his humour and were satisfied with his sermons. They sent positive reports to the main office.

  The bazaar was also satisfied with Khalkhal. The merchants praised his knowledge of history and his skill in translating the ancient texts, though, as some of them occasionally hinted to Aqa Jaan, they had expected more fireworks. ‘He’s a substitute imam,’ Aqa Jaan always told them. ‘We can’t be too demanding. In a year or two, when Alsaberi’s son has finished his training, we’ll have a permanent imam, and then we’ll know where we stand.’

  The bazaar might grumble, but Khalkhal had stolen the hearts of the worshippers by gradually bringing up new and startling topics. Sometimes he discussed things the merchants had never heard of before.

  Recently he’d talked about migratory birds – a topic not usually discussed in the mosque. He described how the birds could always find their way back home. Even fledglings, he explained, could fly an unfamiliar route and still find their way back to their parents’ nest.

  People listened to him in wonder as he described the hierarchy in the ant kingdom and the precision with which the ants worked together. He showed them traces of God’s greatness.

  Aqa Jaan admired Khalkhal for his fresh approach and was pleased that his modern subjects were attracting a younger crowd: more and more youngsters were coming to the sermons on Fridays.

  Khalkhal had learned a bit of English. He could barely speak it, but he was able to read English texts. He bought a scientific journal published in the UK and spent hours in the library, looking up words in the dictionary and trying to understand the articles. Then he formed his own opinion and turned it into an exciting sermon.

  In one of his sermons he talked about aeroplanes and the history of aviation. He praised Orville and Wilbur Wright for trying to fly like birds, but hastened to point out that the ancient Persians had attempted flight long before the Americans. He gave the story a humorous twist. ‘The Americans,’ he began, ‘always want to be the first in everything. They began to fly fifty or sixty years ago, but the roots of aviation lie deep in our own soil.

  ‘Long ago Nimrod, one of our earliest Persian kings, decided that he would fly. He was so powerful he thought he could do whatever he wanted. He even thought he could compete with God. One day he decided he would go into the sky to do battle with God. He ordered the scientists of his day to make a vehicle that could fly. They came up with a spectacular invention: a rudimentary aeroplane based on a chariot. The four corners of a specially designed wicker chair were attached to four powerful eagles by means of long, strong ropes. Nimrod seated himself in his royal chair, and four pieces of meat were dangled high above the heads of the eagles. The birds spread their wings and tried to grab the meat, in the process pulling the chariot into the sky. And that’s how the world’s first aeroplane came into being.’

  Another time Khalkhal talked about Einstein and his theory of relativity. None of his listeners had ever heard of Einstein. They had no idea that light could travel, let alone that it travelled at a speed of almost 300,000 kilometres per second.

  Khalkhal, aware of their ignorance and hoping to impress them, started off by reading a quotation in English. He might, in fact, have been the first imam in the country to use an English quotation in a sermon: ‘Einstein said, “One thing I have learned in a long life: that all our science, measured against reality, is primitive and childlike – and yet it is the most precious thing we have.”’

  He didn’t explain the quotation, but told them about the theory of relativity, or at least as much of it as he himself understood. ‘Let’s suppose we have a plane that can fly 300,000 kilometres a second and that it’s parked up on the roof of the mosque, waiting for passengers. Let’s also suppose that we divide the passengers into two groups: one with boys and one with girls between the ages of twelve and fifteen. The girls are asked to stay here in the mosque and the boys are sent up to the roof as passengers.

  ‘The pilot revs the engines, the plane takes off and the boys are hurled into space. Don’t forget that the plane is flying at the speed of light. Listen carefully now. The boys fly for three hours, then come back and land on the roof of the mosque. According to their watches they’ve been in the air for three hours. The boys get out of the plane, walk down the stairs and go into the prayer room. They pull back the curtain between the men’s and women’s section and can’t believe their eyes. The girls have turned into old women, into toothless hags!’

  His listeners stared at each other in puzzlement and disbelief. How could the girls have aged so much in the three hours the boys were gone?

  ‘Relativity,’ Khalkhal explained. ‘The relative speed of light. A different logic applies when you travel at the speed of light. That’s why I chose that quotation. Traces of God are everywhere. Power upon power, light upon light.’

  Meanwhile, Khalkhal’s fame had spread throughout the city. He was especially popular with the young people, and the women doted on him.

  Even though he was married, he was surrounded by veiled women who slipped him love letters as he strode through the mosque’s dark corridors. He tucked the letters into his robe without so much as a backward glance.

  ‘You’re a handsome imam,’ said one woman, when she chanced upon him alone in the corridor.

  ‘I want to fly into space in Einstein’s aeroplane with you,’ said another in passing.

  ‘You smell so good. Where do you buy your cologne?’ asked a young woman from out of the darkness, making sure to keep her face concealed.

  ‘You look so handsome when you wear your turban at an angle,’ whispered another.

  The curtain separating the men’s and women’s sections ran down the entire length of the prayer room. The pulpit was on a platform between the two. The young women usually sat in the first few rows so they could get a better look at Khalkhal. He revelled in their attention.

  Khalkhal waited patiently for the birthday of the Prophet Muhammad, when he would be able to make his true feelings known. According to custom, that’s when issues of vital importance were discussed. It was no coincidence that much of the protest in the holy city of Qom had taken place on the Prophet’s birthday. Everyone was curious to know what Khalkhal was going to say on that day.

  Khalkhal entered the prayer room on the Prophet’s birthday escorted by Aqa Jaan and Shahbal. He sat down in his chair and, after a brief silence, began to recite the melodious Earthquake surah:

  Edha zolzelati alarzo zelzaalaha . . .

  When the earth is shaken to its foundations,

  And people are like scattered moths,

  And the mountains are like carded wool,
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  You will ask: what is wrong with it?

  On that day it will declare its tidings.

  The tone of Khalkhal’s voice had changed. His words sounded more powerful than ever.

  The mosque was filled to overflowing and everyone was listening intently to his words. ‘Imam Alsaberi has left us,’ Khalkhal said, ‘but the mosque has remained. One day all of us will pass away, but the mosque will remain.

  ‘Is that true? Will the mosque be here for ever? No, not even the mosque will be here for ever. Imams come and go, mosques come and go, but the voice remains.’

  The men exchanged puzzled glances. Aqa Jaan and Shahbal looked at each other: ‘The voice remains? What does that mean?’

  But Khalkhal was right, Aqa Jaan thought. Alsaberi had been forgotten and none of his words had remained, because he’d had nothing to say. Alsaberi’s father had been different. He’d been a remarkable imam who’d given fiery speeches, a man who wanted to make things happen, to change things. A man who dared to call a spade a spade. During his time as imam, he’d had the city in the palm of his hand. With one small gesture he’d been able to stir the bazaar to action. Alsaberi’s father had been dead for decades, but his voice remained. His voice lived on in the city’s memory.

  He’d once preached a fiery sermon on the Prophet’s birthday against Reza Khan, the father of the present shah. Reza Khan had outlawed chadors and had ordered his soldiers to stop any veiled woman they saw on the streets and take her down to the police station. Alsaberi’s father had been arrested and banished to the city of Kashan. After that the secret police had boarded up the doors of the mosque.

  Aqa Jaan remembered the arrest as though it had been yesterday. Several military vehicles had pulled up to the mosque, and armed soldiers had leapt out. Then an officer arrived in a jeep. Tucking his baton under his arm, he got out and strode into the prayer room with his shoes on, intending to arrest the elderly imam and haul him off to jail.

  Aqa Jaan, then a young man who had only just been put in charge of the mosque, calmly went up to the officer and said, ‘If you leave the mosque now, the imam will come out by himself and go with you quietly. If you don’t, I’m afraid you’ll have a riot on your hands. Consider yourself warned.’

  He said it so clearly and firmly that there was no room for doubt. The officer looked at the worshippers, who had formed a circle around the imam. He got the message. ‘Bring me the imam,’ he said, poking his baton in Aqa Jaan’s chest. ‘I’ll wait outside.’ He stalked out of the prayer room and waited by the gate.

  Aqa Jaan, his head held high, escorted the imam to the jeep, followed by dozens of worshippers. The officer waited for the imam to get in, then he himself slid behind the wheel.

  Meanwhile, the soldiers ordered everyone to leave the mosque and proceeded to board up the doors.

  Not until three years later, when the British forced Reza Khan to leave the country and go into exile in Egypt, did the mosque open its doors again.

  Aqa Jaan smiled and waited anxiously to hear what Khalkhal would say next. But Khalkhal sat there in silence, staring at his audience. Suddenly he uttered a single word, totally unconnected to what he had been talking about before: ‘America!’

  It was as if he’d hurled a rock into the hushed audience. There were gasps on both sides of the curtain, because it was forbidden to talk about America in the mosque. The word itself was fraught with political overtones. The ayatollahs didn’t see America as the rest of the world did. America was evil. America was the enemy of Islam.

  The young shah had been about to flee the country – thereby ending 2,500 years of monarchy – when a CIA-backed coup had restored him to his throne. Since then the ayatollahs had referred to America as ‘Satan’, and the mosques had become a hotbed of anti-American feeling.

  An imam who uttered the word ‘America’ was in effect firing a bullet and shouting, ‘Down with Satan! Down with America!’

  ‘Times have changed,’ Khalkhal thundered. ‘Reza Khan is gone, and now America is everywhere. In Tehran. In Qom!’

  He’d made a statement, and yet at the same time he hadn’t made one. Basically all he was doing was announcing an innocent truth: ‘Times have changed. America is everywhere.’

  The city’s wise men weighed his words and noted that he was a clever orator. He knew that you had to use words in a certain sequence in order to heighten the suspense.

  Khalkhal stared at his listeners. They were hanging on his every word, curious to hear what he would say next. He broke the silence by uttering two short words: ‘Allah, Allah!’

  Those two words could mean almost anything. When you saw something you admired, you said, ‘Allah, Allah.’ When you were up to your ears in trouble, you said, ‘Allah, Allah!’

  But Khalkhal had used those words in an altogether different context. By mentioning Qom and America in the same breath, he had added a new dimension to his statement. Qom! America! Allah, Allah! It was as though he’d fired three shots into the mosque.

  Then Khalkhal changed tack and switched over to the Victory surah:

  You will see them bow and prostrate themselves.

  The marks of prostration are on their foreheads.

  In the Torah and the Gospel they are likened

  To a seed that sends forth shoots

  And is made strong.

  It then becomes thicker

  And rests firmly on its stalk,

  Which fills the sowers with delight.

  Aqa Jaan and Shahbal exchanged glances.

  Khalkhal didn’t linger by the Victory, but moved smoothly on to the Rome surah:

  The Romans have been defeated

  In a land that is close by.

  But after this defeat they shall be victorious,

  Soon as well as later.

  And on that day you shall rejoice.

  He is Almighty.

  And that was the end of his sermon.

  His sermon had been highly suspect, open to various interpretations, and yet it had been worded in such a way that the secret police wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on him. He’d started out with the Prophet Muhammad, then slipped in the word ‘America’ and finally mentioned the decline of the Roman Empire. Clearly, he had no intention of explaining what he meant or where he was headed.

  Aqa Jaan realised that the mosque was in for another exciting time – something he had long been waiting for.

  Khalkhal got to his feet and stepped down from the pulpit. Hundreds of worshippers stood up for him. Aqa Jaan walked over to him, took him in his arms, kissed him on the left shoulder and proudly escorted him to the door.

  The Cinema

  Khodaa ya tu busideh-ye hich gah

  labb-e sorkh-e faam-e zani mast-ra?

  Be pestane kaalash zadi dast-ra?

  God, have you ever kissed

  the blushing lips

  of a drunken woman?

  Have you ever touched

  her unripe breasts?

  One day when Aqa Jaan was walking by Khalkhal’s desk, he happened to see a poem lying there. He picked it up and read it. He couldn’t believe his eyes: Khodaa ya tu busideh-ye hich gah . . .

  It was a shocking poem. God, kisses, a drunken woman, unripe breasts – and all of that on Khalkhal’s desk!

  The poet’s name was printed at the bottom: Nosrat Rahmani. Aqa Jaan had never heard of him.

  Who was he?

  How dare he write such blasphemous words?

  ‘Things are out of hand,’ Aqa Jaan mumbled to himself. The shah encourages this kind of rubbish, but what’s Khalkhal doing with it? And why does he bring such things back to the library?

  There were other poems on the desk. Aqa Jaan began to read one. It was a remarkable poem, because it had been written by a woman:

  My thirsty lips

  Search yours.

  Take off my clothes,

  Embrace me.

  Here are my lips,

  My neck and burning breasts.

  Here is my s
oft body!

  He heard Khalkhal’s footsteps in the courtyard. There wasn’t time to finish reading the poem, so he swiftly put it back on the desk and hurried over to a bookcase, where he pretended to be searching the shelves.

  Khalkhal came in. Aqa Jaan removed a book at random and quickly left the library. Still mulling over the poems, he went into his study. He couldn’t get the last one out of his mind. It bothered him so much he couldn’t concentrate on his work:

  Here are my lips,

  My neck and burning breasts.

  Here is my soft body!

  Who was this female poet?

  Had the country changed so much that women could talk openly about themselves and express their innermost feelings? Had it changed so much that they could now talk intimately about their bodies? Why hadn’t he noticed the change? Who were these women? Why hadn’t he ever met them? What did they look like? And where did they live? In Tehran?

  The shah! It was all the fault of the shah and the Americans! American culture came pouring into their homes via radio, television and film.

  The regime did whatever it could to lure young people away from the mosque and transform them into supporters of the shah and his ideals.

  The shah had launched his ‘White Revolution’. He had published a thin volume in which he’d outlined his hopes for the country. In an effort to combat illiteracy, he’d sent young women to the villages to work as teachers. They’d taken off their veils, donned hats, and gone into the mountains, much as the shah’s soldiers had done, to set up schools in remote villages.

  Yes, everything had changed. Aqa Jaan hadn’t noticed . . . or hadn’t wanted to. The country was being industrialised at a rapid pace, which is why so many foreign investors had been granted permission to build factories in Tehran and other major cities.

  Senejan was no exception. Dozens of Japanese and European companies had seized the opportunity to take part in this new development. A tractor factory was being built on the outskirts of the city. Soon it would be employing hundreds of young people from Senejan and the nearby villages.