The House of the Mosque

Kader Abdolah, Susan Massotty

• Publisher: Canongate Books
• Year: 2010
• ISBN:
  9781847678126
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Narrativa storica

This "beautifully written, " international bestselling novel charts the triumphs and tragedies of an Iranian family on the brink of national revolution ( Daily Mail, UK). Senejan, Iran, 1969. The family of Aqa Jaan has lived for eight centuries in the house of the mosque. Now it is occupied by the families of three cousins: Aqa Jaan, a merchant and head of the city's bazaar; Alsaberi, the imam of the mosque; and Aqa Shoja, the mosque's muezzin. The house itself teems with life, as each of their families grows up with their own triumphs and tragedies. Sadiq is waiting for a suitor to knock at the door to ask for her hand, while her two grandmothers sweep the floors each morning dreaming of travelling to Mecca. Meanwhile, Shahbal longs only to get hold of a television to watch the first moon landing. All these daily dramas are played out under the watchful eyes of the storks that nest on the minarets above. But this family will experience upheaval unknown to previous generations. For in Iran, political unrest is brewing. The shah is losing his hold on power; the ayatollah incites rebellion from his exile in France; and one day the ayatollah returns. The consequences will be felt in every corner of Aqa Jaan's family. "Abdolah's is a powerful voice."— The Times Saturday Review, UK

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 soft 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.

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 ar...