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
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
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