Read Online The House of the Mosque by Kader Abdolah - Free Book Online
Authors: Kader Abdolah
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Khomeini had been forced into exile.
Shahbal had often heard the name ‘Khomeini’, but he knew almost nothing about the man. He must have been about seven or eight years old when the uprising occurred. On his next visit Khalkhal promised to bring him a banned book, which contained an accurate account of the history of the ayatollahs’ resistance movement in the last few decades.
That evening Khalkhal said something about prisons that made Shahbal rethink his ideas. ‘No one’s afraid of going to jail,’ Khalkhal said. ‘It’s become a kind of university, especially for young activists.’
It was a novel concept. Shahbal had always thought of prison as a place for criminals.
‘Political prisoners aren’t like ordinary prisoners,’ Khalkhal said. ‘They’re people who fight against the regime, people who are embarrassed by the presence of the CIA in this country. They’re the most intelligent people, the ones who want to take the fate of the country into their own hands and radically change the political system. That’s why the regime arrests them and keeps them in a separate wing, but then they’re all thrown together, sometimes ten or twenty to a cell, and they meet people from all walks of life: students, artists, imams, politicians, leaders and teachers, as well as people with new ideas. They start talking and discussing things, so the prison cell becomes a university, where you can learn all kinds of things. Can you imagine what happens when you put so many intelligent people together in one cell? They swap stories and listen to each other’s experiences. Before you know it, you’ve joined them. Some people go in like a lamb and come out like a lion. I know lots of political prisoners – friends of mine, young imams, members of left-wing or right-wing underground movements. Have you ever heard of these movements?’
‘No.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, in this house, in this city.’
‘Not much. I go to school and to mosque.’
Khalkhal shook his head. ‘I knew it. Nothing’s going to happen in this city. It’s weak. All over the country people are gradually turning against the shah, but Senejan is blissfully asleep. What else can you expect from a city with such a weak Friday Mosque? What does Alsaberi do all day in his library? Nothing, except let the grandmothers wash his balls! It’s a shameful waste of this big, beautiful mosque. It’s had a brilliant past. A history. It’s time it had a fiery speaker. Do you know what I’m saying?’
Shahbal lapped up Khalkhal’s words. He thought of Khalkhal as great and himself as small. He wanted to ask questions, but didn’t dare. He was afraid of sounding stupid.
One time he’d hardly said a word all evening. Then, suddenly, just as he was about to leave, he blurted out, ‘I’d like to show you something.’
‘What?’
‘My stories,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I write.’
‘How interesting! Show them to me. Have you got them here? Read one out loud.’
‘I don’t know if they’re any good.’
‘I wouldn’t know either, but it’s good that you write. Go and get your stories!’
Shahbal went to his room and quickly returned with three notebooks, which he modestly handed to Khalkhal.
‘You’ve written quite a lot,’ Khalkhal said in surprise as he thumbed through them. ‘I knew you were clever from the moment I laid eyes on you! Pick one of your stories and read it to me.’
‘I’ve never shown them to anyone before,’ Shahbal said. He flipped through a notebook until he found the page he wanted. ‘I hardly dare to read it, but I’ll do my best.’ And he began to read: ‘Early one morning, when I was going to the hauz to wash my hands before the prayer, I noticed that the light wasn’t on in my father’s room. It was the first time this had ever happened. He was always awake before I was and always went to the hauz before I did, but that morning everything was different.
Shahbal had often heard the name ‘Khomeini’, but he knew almost nothing about the man. He must have been about seven or eight years old when the uprising occurred. On his next visit Khalkhal promised to bring him a banned book, which contained an accurate account of the history of the ayatollahs’ resistance movement in the last few decades.
That evening Khalkhal said something about prisons that made Shahbal rethink his ideas. ‘No one’s afraid of going to jail,’ Khalkhal said. ‘It’s become a kind of university, especially for young activists.’
It was a novel concept. Shahbal had always thought of prison as a place for criminals.
‘Political prisoners aren’t like ordinary prisoners,’ Khalkhal said. ‘They’re people who fight against the regime, people who are embarrassed by the presence of the CIA in this country. They’re the most intelligent people, the ones who want to take the fate of the country into their own hands and radically change the political system. That’s why the regime arrests them and keeps them in a separate wing, but then they’re all thrown together, sometimes ten or twenty to a cell, and they meet people from all walks of life: students, artists, imams, politicians, leaders and teachers, as well as people with new ideas. They start talking and discussing things, so the prison cell becomes a university, where you can learn all kinds of things. Can you imagine what happens when you put so many intelligent people together in one cell? They swap stories and listen to each other’s experiences. Before you know it, you’ve joined them. Some people go in like a lamb and come out like a lion. I know lots of political prisoners – friends of mine, young imams, members of left-wing or right-wing underground movements. Have you ever heard of these movements?’
‘No.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, in this house, in this city.’
‘Not much. I go to school and to mosque.’
Khalkhal shook his head. ‘I knew it. Nothing’s going to happen in this city. It’s weak. All over the country people are gradually turning against the shah, but Senejan is blissfully asleep. What else can you expect from a city with such a weak Friday Mosque? What does Alsaberi do all day in his library? Nothing, except let the grandmothers wash his balls! It’s a shameful waste of this big, beautiful mosque. It’s had a brilliant past. A history. It’s time it had a fiery speaker. Do you know what I’m saying?’
Shahbal lapped up Khalkhal’s words. He thought of Khalkhal as great and himself as small. He wanted to ask questions, but didn’t dare. He was afraid of sounding stupid.
One time he’d hardly said a word all evening. Then, suddenly, just as he was about to leave, he blurted out, ‘I’d like to show you something.’
‘What?’
‘My stories,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I write.’
‘How interesting! Show them to me. Have you got them here? Read one out loud.’
‘I don’t know if they’re any good.’
‘I wouldn’t know either, but it’s good that you write. Go and get your stories!’
Shahbal went to his room and quickly returned with three notebooks, which he modestly handed to Khalkhal.
‘You’ve written quite a lot,’ Khalkhal said in surprise as he thumbed through them. ‘I knew you were clever from the moment I laid eyes on you! Pick one of your stories and read it to me.’
‘I’ve never shown them to anyone before,’ Shahbal said. He flipped through a notebook until he found the page he wanted. ‘I hardly dare to read it, but I’ll do my best.’ And he began to read: ‘Early one morning, when I was going to the hauz to wash my hands before the prayer, I noticed that the light wasn’t on in my father’s room. It was the first time this had ever happened. He was always awake before I was and always went to the hauz before I did, but that morning everything was different.
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