My Father's Notebook

by Kader Abdolah

  The political prisoners, realising that the revolution had begun, went on a mass hunger strike.

  In Qom, the situation had spun out of control. As soon as it got dark, the laws of the shah could no longer be enforced, only those of the mullahs. No policeman dared show himself at night. In other cities, as well, people began to speak out.

  Saffron Village had its own story. From all over the country, the blind, the deaf and the lame were on their way to Saffron Mountain, so they could touch their foreheads to the Mahdi’s footprints and beg to be healed.

  Because the sacred well was inaccessible, the local imam had ordered that a makeshift shrine be built at the foot of Saffron Mountain. The sick, the deaf, the lame, the mute, the blind and the otherwise afflicted tied one end of a long rope to the bars of the shrine and the other end around themselves, and lay down twenty or thirty yards away. They fasted and swore not to break their fast until the Mahdi came and relieved them of their burdens.

  It was unbelievably crowded. The deaf lay side by side and wept, the blind sat in another cluster and begged, the sick groaned incessantly and the retarded roamed in and out of the wailing masses.

  The voice of the imam of Saffron Village blared over a loudspeaker, urging believers to pray to the Mahdi and beseech him, from the bottom of their hearts, to come quickly to their aid.

  Golden Bell and I were hunting among the deaf-mutes for my father. We didn’t know for sure whether he’d gone to Saffron Mountain. Golden Bell had phoned to tell me that he’d suddenly disappeared and our search had brought us to the crowd of pilgrims.

  “I see him! He’s over there!” Golden Bell exclaimed.

  My father was lying on the ground with his eyes closed. Around his right ankle was a long rope, tied to the shrine like hundreds of others.

  He had lost weight and let his beard grow, which made him look older. I sat down beside him and took hold of his wrist. He opened his eyes, surprised to see me.

  “What are you doing here?” he gestured weakly.

  “What are you doing here?”

  For an entire week he had fasted and had drunk almost nothing. His lips were cracked and blistered. The imam came by, placed a wet, fragrant-smelling handkerchief on his forehead and murmured, “The Mahdi will soon come and bless you, my poor man!”

  And then he moved on to the next one.

  “Come on!” I said to my father. “We’re going home!” I offered him my hand so he could pull himself up.

  He refused to take it.

  “Listen,” I said, “you could die of thirst. Golden Bell, help me lift him up. I’m going to have to carry him.”

  He didn’t want me to. He’d never resisted me like this.

  “I’ve read him so many books,” I said to Golden Bell. “About the universe, the earth, the moon, mankind. And now he’s lying here like an illiterate peasant, like a deaf-and-dumb old man. He won’t even look at me.”

  Golden Bell stroked his forehead, wet his lips with a damp cloth and shook him gently. “Come, Father. Let’s go home. It pains me to see you so weak. Please open your eyes.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Tina’s been crying,” she signed. “Come home for a few days. You can always come back here again if you want to. Come, it’ll be better this way.”

  He stopped resisting.

  “Take his shoes,” I said to her. Then I carefully lifted him up and carried him to the car, which was parked a mile or so away.

  I laid him on the back seat and drove to Senejan. Ever since the revolution had begun, I’d been visiting my family from time to time, so now I drove him home myself.

  Tina promptly made him some soup, moaning all the while, “Oh, the misery I’ve suffered because of that man. What did he think the Mahdi was going to do? Teach him how to talk? I hardly have any peace and quiet as it is. God help me if he starts to talk.”

  “That’s enough, Mother,” Golden Bell protested. “You shouldn’t talk about Father like that.”

  “Why not? What am I supposed to say when my husband comes home half-dead?”

  “Stop it, Mother, or I’ll—”

  “Or else you’ll what? You aren’t exactly an angel, either. I can be just as hard on you, if I have to. You’re ruining my life. Now that your brother’s here, I want to make a few things clear. Ishmael, I’ve lost control over your sister.”

  “Mother,” Golden Bell replied, “why are you suddenly different now that Ishmael’s here?”

  “I’m no different from usual. But I need to say something to him before he rushes off again. Ever since that Jamileh came to stay with us, Golden Bell has been—”

  “What’s Jamileh got to do with it?” sputtered Golden Bell.

  “—growing away from me. There, now I’ve said what I had to say.”

  I felt like an outsider. I wanted to take Tina in my arms and say, “You’re right, but now you can stop being so scared. The years of hardship are over. I’ll be coming home more often. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I realised that my heart had hardened.

  “Tina,” I said, “let me give Father his soup. We’ll talk later.”

  I spooned some soup into my father’s mouth, while Golden Bell wiped his chin with a handkerchief.

  “Are you going crazy, Father?” I asked. “Why on earth did you tie yourself to that shrine?”

  He said nothing, just smiled.

  I slept at home that night for the first time in years. It felt strange. As if I were a stranger. My other two sisters were still at home; they weren’t married yet. They had always thought of me as more of a father than a brother, which is why they didn’t come sit by me as readily as Golden Bell did. If we’d had time, that would have changed, but we never got the time.

  My father’s grey beard made me realise that the revolution was taking him away from me.

  The next day I talked to him and tried to explain that the Mahdi didn’t actually exist. I should have saved my breath.

  My father told me that, after his first wife died, he saw the holy man in the well with his own eyes. And the day before yesterday he’d seen a miraculous cure. “A blind man went to bed and when he woke up in the morning, he could see. The holy man had come and cured him in his sleep.”

  My father no longer wanted to be an illiterate deaf-mute. He wanted to learn how to read.

  “OK, I’ll teach you how to read,” I said. “If you can wait a year, or half a year, I’ll come back home and teach you myself. I promise.”

  But my words no longer had any effect. He was completely bewitched by the footprints in the rocks.

  A few days later my father grabbed a cane and went out again to look for the holy Mahdi.

  The Days Rush Past

  We fly over Saffron Mountain

  with Khomeini.

  We once hoped to transform our country into a paradise. But we didn’t know, or perhaps didn’t want to know, that neither the country, nor its people—nor we, for that matter—were ready for it. We were impatient, in a hurry, anxious to catch up with history, or even to outrun it, as if such a thing were possible. Actually, we deserved the regime of the mullahs. The events taking place in my country over the last century and a half had all pointed to the rise of a spiritual leader. History had pushed Khomeini to the fore. The shah was forced to go. The front page of the nation’s leading newspaper announced in huge capitals: KHOMEINI HAS COME.

  Such big headlines were unprecedented in Iranian journalism. So, when I laid the newspaper on my father’s workbench, he immediately understood that something important was happening.

  “The shah is gone,” I said to him.

  “Gone?”

  I picked up a map. “He went to Egypt, then to the Bahamas and then to the United States.”

  Egypt? The Bahamas? The United States? He didn’t understand.

  The problem was that he couldn’t see the connection between recent events and the shah’s departure.

  “An
d he’s never coming back,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  My father hadn’t realised that, in following the footprints of the Mahdi, he’d helped to topple the shah.

  “Khomeini is now sitting on the shah’s throne.”

  He looked at me in surprise.

  “Why are you surprised? You wanted Khomeini to come and the shah to go.”

  “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t do anything? You took the shah’s picture off the wall and hung up Khomeini’s picture instead. You went out every day and demonstrated, together with thousands of people. Look in the mirror. You even have a long grey beard, like his.”

  “Like whose?”

  “Khomeini.”

  He looked in the mirror, toyed with his beard and seemed to make a startling discovery.

  “Where was Khomeini before now?” he signed.

  It would be hard to explain in sign language. I knew I’d have to skip over the events of the last century.

  “It’s complicated,” I said to him, “but fifteen years ago the shah forced Khomeini to leave the country. He went to live in another country, far away from here. Those two men were enemies. Now that Khomeini is back, he’s made the shah leave the country.”

  That would have to do. I pointed to the newspaper. “It says here that three days from now, Khomeini will be flying to Saffron Mountain to visit the sacred well.”

  “Why the sacred well?”

  “Because he wants to see the holy man.”

  “But the well is empty. The holy man is gone.”

  I couldn’t explain that, either. “The well isn’t empty,” I said. “The holy man has come back. He’s sitting in the well again, reading his book.”

  A helicopter circled above the crowd that had climbed up Saffron Mountain. Thousands chanted in unison: “La ilaha illa Allah! La ilaha illa Allah!”

  The helicopter circled again, in response.

  “Salaam bar Khomeini!” they roared in unison.

  My father pushed through the crowd and climbed even higher. He wanted to be as close to the well as possible. I went where he went, and he helped me over the difficult mountain paths.

  I was impressed by the mood of the crowd. In spite of myself, I had been swept up by the religious fervor. Although I didn’t chant the slogans along with the rest, I mentally shouted “La ilaha illa Allah” like a true believer.

  Khomeini was now flying directly overhead. I could see him sitting next to the pilot. He waved. Tears sprang to my eyes. I promptly hid my face so my father wouldn’t notice and enthusiastically followed him up the mountain. I wanted to see Khomeini get out of the helicopter and kneel before the sacred well.

  I knew this was an important moment in Iranian history. The helicopter hovered above the well and tried to land. Apparently, it wasn’t easy. The pilot made three attempts to land on a slope. The fourth time, he turned the helicopter around and landed with the tail pointing down at the crowd. Thousands of people suddenly burst out: “Gush amad! Gush amad! Yar-e imam gush amad!”

  Seven bearded mountain climbers clambered up to the helicopter with ropes and spikes to help the aging leader. Khomeini refused their assistance. Out of respect for the Mahdi, he wanted to walk to the well on his own.

  But how was he going to get there?

  The mountain climbers had to come up with another plan. They couldn’t let Khomeini scrabble across the rocks in his brand-new imam slippers. That would be unthinkable!

  So they opted for a long detour. All seven climbers surrounded Khomeini and guided him down, step by step, without being allowed to touch him. After almost twenty minutes, he finally set foot on the ground around the sacred well. He stumbled, and for a moment the crowd was afraid he was going to fall, but to everyone’s surprise he caught himself and calmly straightened up again. The crowd roared, “Salah ’ala Mohammad! Yar-e imam, gush amad!”

  He adjusted his black turban, smoothed down his aba, squared his shoulders—as if he were meeting God Himself—and walked calmly up to the sacred well. I expected him to look directly into it, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned to the left and faced Mecca. He stood for a moment—no doubt reciting a prayer—then stiffly knelt and touched his forehead to the ground.

  It was a political deed of the first order and at the same time a fairy tale that was taking shape before our eyes. Anyone who has read Sheherazade’s tales of the thousand and one nights will understand what I mean.

  Reza Shah had once come here to plug up the well. Now Khomeini was standing on the same spot. A kingdom had vanished and been replaced by the regime of the mullahs.

  • • •

  Khomeini got to his feet. He reached into his pocket, apparently in search of something. Ah, his glasses, but this wasn’t the right pair. He checked his other pocket, but didn’t find them. He must have left them somewhere.

  Khomeini put on the pair he did have and checked to see whether they would do. No, he couldn’t see a thing. So he took them off and tucked them back in his pocket. Then he stepped up to the well, leaned over and stared down into its depths.

  Apparently, he still couldn’t see anything, because he quickly straightened up again. Then, once more, he leaned over and stared into the well. Clearly, he was looking for the Mahdi, but couldn’t see him. Or could he?

  He nodded three times by way of greeting, then began to speak into the sacred well. A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone knew that Khomeini was seeking the Mahdi’s advice, that he was asking him how to govern the country.

  How long did the conversation last? I don’t know.

  What did he say to the Mahdi? I don’t know. However, he no doubt began with the following words: “As-salaamo aleika ya Mahdi ibn Hassan ibn Hadi ibn Taqi ibn Reza ibn Kazem ibn Jafar ibn Baqir ibn Zayn ibn Hussein ibn Ali ibn Abi Taleb.”

  After a while he gestured for help. The seven bearded mountain climbers rushed over, lifted him up on their shoulders and carried him back to the helicopter. The crowd shouted, “Khoda ya! Khoda ya! Khomeini-ra negah dar!”

  It was the dawning of a new era in Iranian history.

  Time goes so fast! When I was little and went everywhere with my father, time seemed to stand still. The days crawled by, the nights were endless. Now I can see that it all went by in a flash.

  • • •

  I sit here in the polder and look out of the window. I feel frozen in time, stuck at my computer forever. Luckily I know from experience that this, too, will pass.

  In the meantime, Khomeini has disappeared, died, as if he never existed. One night he took off his aba, fell asleep and didn’t wake up again.

  The era of the sacred well is also over. The Mahdi has vanished. The well is empty. Wild pigeons build their nests on the ledges. Poisonous snakes coil up behind the rocks, wait patiently for the birds to leave, then slither into the well and eat the eggs. The pigeons come back, see their empty nests and weep.

  This, too, will come to an end.

  Autumn turns to winter and it snows on Saffron Mountain. For several months, the well is covered with a thick layer of snow. Then spring comes, the snow melts and the well fills with water. It’s an anxious time for the mountain goats. They watch their young and push them away from the well, afraid they’ll fall in.

  The Soviet Union has also ceased to exist. If you were to stand at the top of Saffron Mountain and stare through your binoculars, you’d no longer see red flags and a checkpoint on the other side of the border, or gendarmes on this side. It’s all gone. Everyone’s gone. Including me.

  I’m here, but where’s the Mahdi? Perhaps he’s also moved to the Dutch polder.

  Sometimes I see in the distance the figure of a man, walking his dog on the dyke. I walk towards him, but no matter how fast I walk or run, I never catch up with him. So I let him go, along with his dog. We both need this polder.

  It’s peaceful here in the polder, unlike the rest of the world. The moment you turn on your TV, however, yo
u realise that the quiet is deceptive.

  Saddam Hussein occasionally flashes on the screen. Then the President of the United States says a few nasty things about him. By now everyone knows that under Khomeini’s leadership we fought for eight years with neighbouring Iraq. Thousands died and thousands were wounded, on both sides. What was the war about? Nothing. Just the stupidity and stubbornness of two crazy leaders. Next, Saddam moved on to attack his other neighbour, Kuwait. America chased him out of there and he crawled back into his hole. But he keeps crawling out again.

  I don’t want to talk about Saddam. I just want to use him as a stepping stone to my father’s notebook.

  When Khomeini became the absolute ruler of Iran, the party wasn’t sure how to react. We didn’t trust him and were convinced he wouldn’t tolerate a leftist movement any more than the shah had. We knew he’d outlaw the party at the first possible opportunity. Even so, we were anxious to make use of our temporary freedom. We therefore opted for a semi-legal existence. The party opened an office in Tehran, where a few leaders operated in the public eye. At the same time, however, the movement’s most important activities were kept underground.

  One of those closely guarded secrets was the location of the printing press and the place where the party’s editorial board met. In those days, I was one of the editors.

  I no longer remember the date, but my oldest sister was going to get married that day and I had agreed to drive home for the wedding. At about one o’clock, warplanes suddenly flew over Tehran, so low and so loud that everyone clapped their hands to their ears and ducked for cover.

  Saddam bombed Tehran’s airport. The war had begun. Instead of going to the wedding, I hurried back to the newspaper.

  • • •