The House of the Mosque (32 page)

On the one hand, it could be viewed as a minor incident in which a crippled child had climbed onto the statue of the shah. On the other hand, his innocent antics were not without political overtones.

The weakness of the regime was obvious to everyone who saw Lizard cavorting on the horse. Yet no one could have suspected that the shah’s statue would soon be toppled by a hysterical mob.

The next day the front page of the local newspaper featured a picture of Lizard, dangling from the neck of the royal horse. Within an hour the paper had been sold out – for the first time in its history.

Everyone who read the article hurried over to the mosque to see Lizard with their very own eyes. They usually found him sitting on the roof.

It was a turning point in Lizard’s life. He had always been in the habit of climbing to the top of one of the minarets – where the storks used to have their nests – to read his books. Now he had an audience.

No one had ever come to the mosque to demonstrate, but nowadays hundreds of young people came every day to see Lizard.

‘You’re a bad influence on him,’ Aqa Jaan grumbled to Nosrat on the phone.

‘What do you mean? I don’t see the problem.’

‘He climbs into the minaret like a monkey. He’s turning into a major attraction here in Senejan.’

‘Let him do something he enjoys. Besides, it might help to improve the mosque’s image.’

‘We’re talking about a mosque, not a circus. We shouldn’t make ourselves more ridiculous than we are already. First that business with Ahmad, and now Lizard.’

‘I’ll talk to him,’ Nosrat said.

Two nights later Nosrat once again took the night train to Senejan.

He had no way of knowing that this was the last trip he would ever make to his home town with a head full of black hair. The next time he came, his hair had turned grey and his face had changed so much that no one recognised him.

Nosrat asked Lizard to come to his room. He had a handful of flyers with a black-and-white photograph of Khomeini on the front, which he stuffed into the boy’s pockets. ‘The next time a lot of people are gathered outside the mosque,’ he instructed him, ‘climb into your minaret and toss these flyers down to them. You got that? See, like this,’ he said, flicking his wrist. ‘All of them in one throw.’

At eleven-thirty Lizard climbed into the minaret. After a few wild leaps to attract everyone’s attention, he tossed the flyers to the crowd. Nosrat, positioned on the roof, began snapping pictures of the swirling flyers and the people trying to catch them.

The images appeared in every major newspaper in Iran.

It was the first time a photograph of Khomeini had ever been published in a newspaper. The regime was caught off-guard, but was unable to take any action since the newspapers were united in their support of the publication. Aqa Jaan bought the papers and tucked them into the chest in which he kept his journals.

Nosrat and his camera were on hand for every major event. The photographs he took of these landmark moments were printed daily in the newspapers.

He also had a cine camera, which he’d used to film the first big demonstration in Tehran, the one that had been led by Beheshti, who had crossed the border illegally to lead it. Nosrat had done a good job of documenting the presence of the ayatollahs and conveying the strength of their leadership.

When you watched his film reports, you could see what was in store for the nation.

Nosrat regularly sent his extraordinary footage to the Revolutionary Council in Paris. As a result, he and Beheshti developed a close working relationship. Beheshti began phoning him at home to tell him when a demonstration was going to be held so Nosrat would be sure to film it.

The Council then arranged for a man who worked at the airport in Tehran to function as a secret go-between. Nosrat was instructed to hand him the pictures and film rolls, which were then put on the next flight to Paris.

Nosrat was supposedly neutral, but sometimes he wondered which side derived the most benefit from his work. Was he making propaganda for Khomeini? No, he wasn’t committed to any person or any cause. Religion meant nothing to him. Nor did politics. He thought only of his camera. Other people’s wishes or his own personal viewpoint didn’t matter. He simply recorded what he saw.

Nosrat was also secretly in touch with Shahbal. He often gave him photographs, which Shahbal then published in his underground newspaper. One time they ran into each other at a demonstration and had a long talk. Nosrat had read Shahbal’s newspaper, so he knew that his party was sharply divided on the issue of the Islamic state that Khomeini was hoping to establish.

As Khomeini’s displays of power escalated, the leftist underground factions were confronted with the question of how to deal with him. Should they support Khomeini, or should they align themselves against him? Heated debates resulted in a painful break-up: a tiny minority refused to support Khomeini, choosing instead to continue their work underground, while the majority opted to lay down their weapons and support Khomeini’s anti-American crusade.

Shahbal, who had left the university long ago, sided with the majority.

The turning point came on the seventeenth day of the month of Shahrivar. The ayatollahs in Tehran had joined forces in an effort to get as many people as possible into the mosques. At eight o’clock that Friday evening the worshippers left their mosques and marched to Parliament Square, shouting slogans all the way. Both Khomeini supporters and the regime were determined to show their strength.

As thousands of demonstrators headed towards Parliament Square from every corner of Tehran, soldiers left their barracks, determined to teach the protestors a lesson.

The man in charge, General Rahimi, was sitting in an army jeep parked in a corner of the square, keeping an eye on things from behind his dark glasses. When every inch of the square was packed with protestors, he ordered his tanks to block off the side streets so the crowd wouldn’t be able to escape.

Meanwhile, the unsuspecting demonstrators were passing out flowers to the soldiers, which the soldiers gladly accepted. ‘Peace! Peace!’ the crowd roared. ‘Peace, soldiers!’ And the officers in the square waved peacefully back.

What the crowd didn’t know was that the goal of the demonstration was actually to seize and occupy the Parliament. Nosrat had been informed ahead of time and already had his camera in position.

As soon as the first row of demonstrators reached the Parliament, a handful of young men started to climb the fence. Sharpshooters on the nearby roofs opened fire, and the young men fell to the ground, dead.

People fled every which way, screaming, ‘
La ilaha illa Allah!
’

Despite the mad scramble, dozens of other young men ran towards the gate and tried to scale the fence, but the sharpshooters shot them down as well.

‘
La ilaha illa Allah!
’ the protestors cried, pushing and pulling the fence, trying to tear it down so they could get inside the building. But before they got the chance, the army opened fire on the crowd from all four corners of the square.

Within minutes, there were hundreds of dead and wounded.

Nosrat, safely ensconced on a nearby balcony, recorded the incident on film.

The soldiers chased after the demonstrators, shooting everyone in sight. Women pounded on the doors of houses, begging to be let in, while men climbed onto roofs and into trees, and children crawled under cars. The streets were strewn with shoes, jackets, caps, cameras, headscarves and hundreds of black chadors.

Nosrat captured it all: the general in sunglasses giving the order to shoot, the young men falling off the fence, people crawling through drainage ditches, people trying to flee over the blockades, the tanks rolling into the square from the side streets, the scattered bodies.

Seven minutes later a hush fell over the square. All those who could flee had fled, and hundreds had sought refuge in nearby houses. Only the dead and the wounded remained.

The general removed his dark glasses, cast his eye over the scene of the battle and ordered the square to be cleared. Then he got back in his jeep and drove to the palace to deliver his report to the shah.

His orders to his men were clear: no reporters were to be allowed in the square and any cameras that were found were to be destroyed on the spot.

As soon as the general left, Nosrat escaped via the rooftops.

Three days later ABC broadcast Nosrat’s film clip. More than seven hundred people had died.

Aqa Jaan followed the events on Lizard’s television.

The shah, shocked by the incident, addressed the nation: ‘I have heard the voice of the revolution! I have heard the voice of my people. Some mistakes have been made. To restore order I shall appoint a new prime minister. I ask my people to be patient a while longer.’

His voice trembled. His speech was rambling, and he stuttered.

A few days later he did appoint a new prime minister. Khomeini rejected the man, however, so the new cabinet lasted only a few weeks. The shah cast around for another candidate, but no one dared to side openly with him.

Bowing to the inevitable, the shah handed power over to the military. General Azhari, the most pro-American general in the army, put together a military cabinet and declared a curfew in Tehran.

To flaunt the order, Khomeini called on everyone to go up to their roofs at night. Millions of Iranians obeyed his call, climbing onto their roofs and shouting, ‘Death to America!
Allahu akbar!
’

Why wasn’t Aqa Jaan up on his roof? Wasn’t he opposed to the regime? Wasn’t he pleased that the shah was on his way out and Khomeini on his way in?

What would the neighbours think if no one in his family went up to the roof?

‘Fakhri!’ Aqa Jaan called.

But people were making so much noise that she didn’t hear him.

‘Girls!’

Nasrin, his elder daughter, came out to see why they’d been called.

‘Everybody’s up on the roof. I’m going up to ours. Where’s your mother? Don’t you want to come too?’

On the stairs he bumped into Lizard. ‘Would you go down and get Muezzin for me?’ Aqa Jaan asked him.

Lizard scurried down to the cellar to fetch Muezzin.

A little while later Aqa Jaan, Muezzin, Fakhri Sadat and her two daughters – encased in black chadors – stood on the roof and shouted along with everyone else, ‘
Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!
’

Lizard sat at the edge of the dome and stared in astonishment at the hysterical masses.

The shah did his best to find a reputable politician who would be able to reconcile the cabinet. No one seemed willing to undertake such a difficult and hopeless task.

At last he managed to persuade Bakhtiar, the second most important man in the National Front, to serve as prime minister. But Bakhtiar had one condition: he would accept the offer only if the shah agreed to leave the country immediately for an indefinite period of time.

The shah agreed. From that moment on things happened swiftly, as if an avalanche were sweeping down a mountain and dragging everyone and everything along with it.

The next morning when Aqa Jaan arrived at the bazaar, the shop was buzzing with excitement. The shah was leaving!

Aqa Jaan joined his employees, who were clustered round a television. The shah and Farah Diba were at Tehran Airport, surrounded by a group of officials.

Bakhtiar shook his hand and wished him a pleasant journey.

A military officer suddenly threw himself at the shah’s feet, kissed his shoes and begged him not to leave. The shah was so moved that tears rolled down his cheeks.

Another man took out a Koran and held it over the shah’s head for him to walk under – the traditional Iranian way of wishing your loved ones a safe journey.

The shah kissed the Koran and walked beneath it on his way to the plane. Farah Diba kissed the Koran and followed her husband. They boarded the plane, and it flew off towards the border, escorted by two fighter jets.

Thirteen days later Aqa Jaan, Fakhri Sadat, Nasrin, Ensi and Lizard sat glued to the television, watching mechanics at a French airport prepare a Concorde for Khomeini’s history-making return.

Bakhtiar had warned the ayatollah that his plane wouldn’t be given permission to land, but Khomeini had cast his warning to the winds. ‘Bakhtiar is a nobody. I will decide what happens! I’m going to appoint a revolutionary cabinet. I’m coming home!’

Early in the morning millions of people streamed to the airport in Tehran, where the Concorde was scheduled to land. One of them was Shahbal. He wanted to see this momentous event for himself and write an article about it.

Nosrat, standing in an open jeep with a film camera on his shoulder, was being driven to and fro by a man with a beard. He was the only cameraman allowed to film the arrival at such close quarters.

The Concorde came into view above the airport.

‘
Salla ala Mohammad! Khomeini gosh amad!
Welcome, Khomeini!’

The plane landed, the door opened and Khomeini appeared at the top of the stairs. He waved modestly.

‘
Salaam bar Khomeini!
’ the crowd roared.

Aqa Jaan left the house. In the alley he ran into Ahmad. Without knowing why, he took him into his arms and gave him a brief hug. Neither of them could have guessed what the future held in store for them.

‘
A
staghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah,
’ Khalkhal chanted to himself as he headed towards Khomeini’s room.

People chant ‘
astaghfirullah
’ when they’ve committed a sin or are afraid they’re going to, or if they want to avoid a confrontation but know they’ll have to face it anyway. Sometimes it’s simply an expression of astonishment at an unexpected turn of events or a request for God’s forgiveness.