† Arabic, meaning ‘author’.
‡ Arabic, meaning ‘Farewell, O Master of Writers!’
§ Turbah is a small clay tablet used by Shia Muslims during the daily prayers.
‖ Arabic, meaning ‘sir’.
4
MEANWHILE, THIS IS THE SCENE that is played out on the other side of the border, on the slopes of the Alborz Mountains. Here we find another man, bent double, a man whose whole body is twisted, from his wrist to his neck and his back, so much so that he can’t sit straight anymore, can’t stand up straight anymore, and can’t walk straight anymore. And as he opens his eyes today — like every other day — this man reflects that he is not, nor has he ever been, the kind of person who thinks much about what shoes and clothes he should put on. This man spends his nights considering and marvelling at the cultures of these two tribes and the blending of their languages, which gave voice to enmities, humiliations and disputes fomented on the one hand by the caliphs and their appointees and duly responded to on the other side by those who were intent on confronting the Abbasid caliphate. For instance, Ya’qub the coppersmith seized control of the area between Ahwaz and Baghdad.* Whereupon the caliph sent Ya’qub’s brother Amr a missive, requesting that he withdraw from the border and settle in Neishabur, where he was to await a succession of gifts and presents from the caliph, including slaves and all the other things that make life pleasant and worth living; and it seems as if the blood on that tract of land has never dried up, for the people on this side of the border have never accepted the presence of outsiders, and never will. It was always so, and so it shall remain. As a prime example of this attitude, there is a famous quotation from that most revered and cunning vizier, the grand Khwaja,† who once complained that ‘no matter where you go, the Batenians are known by a different name or term; hence at every city and in every region they are called something else, though they all amount to the same thing: in Aleppo and Egypt they are called Ismaili; in Qom and Kashan and Tabaristan and Sabzevar, Sabii; and in Baghdad and Transoxiana and Qazni, Qarmati; in Kufa, Mobaraki; and in Basra, Ravandi and Borqa’i; and in Rey, Khalafi; in Gorgan, Mohammereh; in Damascus, Mobayyezeh; in Morocco, Saeedi; and in Lhasa and Bahrain, Jannabi; in Isfahan, Bateni; while they refer to themselves as Ta’limi or by other names. But whatever they are called, their sole intent is to confound the populace and cast them into a state of ignorance!’
It has also been said that ‘the basis of the religious sects of Mazdakism and the Khurramites and Batenians are one and the same!’ And that all this began with Abu Muslim, in the year 137 after the Hijra,‡ when Abu Ja’far Mansur Aldavaniq had Abu Muslim Khorasani assassinated. There was a man, Sunpadh by name, the overseer of Neishabur and a friend of Abu Muslim, who had elevated him and bestowed upon him the title of commander-in-chief of the Zoroastrians. After Abu Muslim’s death, this Sunpadh rebelled under the name of Khorramdin, which he inherited from the wife of Mazda Bamdadan. And those deeds, which the vizier Khwaja called ‘sedition’, all stemmed from him and kept happening at various locations under various names. And all these were directed at Baghdad, to debase and smear the name of whoever was the caliph there at the time. And now, isn’t this just another link in the very same chain, which has simply surfaced in a different guise?
‘Did you just say something?’
‘No! Did you?’
‘All I said was jamoo.’§
‘Jamoo?’
‘Yes, jamoo!’
‘Why jamoo?’
‘Jamoo, yes, jamoo … but someone was talking to himself. I heard him!’
‘Maybe what you heard was someone saying jamoo … did you get the word jamoo from a book?’
‘No, I can’t even read. But I remember the name of our village as ‘Jamoo’. It’s not its real name. No matter how hard I try I can’t recall its proper name. Just jamoo, jamoo! Only this word comes to my mind and then to my lips. Jamoo … jamoo … jamoo!’
‘Where are you from? The south? The southern regions, right?’
‘I’ll have to think about that, I have to think a lot … please, some water — isn’t there any water? And this enemy soldier, can’t you untie his hand from mine? I can’t breathe. Please, Jamoo … let me untie my hand from his. I can’t take it anymore.’
‘I told you to untie yourself a while ago!’
‘I can’t, I tried, but it won’t budge!’
‘It’s better to be patient, much better, isn’t it? Just try and think of something pleasant!’
‘I can’t remember anything. I just told you so!’
‘A dove, how about a dove? You can picture a dove, right? I’ll help you, think about a dove, a dove that used not to be a dove at first. But that later turned into one!’
‘Jamoo … jamoo … that’s all I’m getting!’
‘Use your brain, man! We’re in a trench, the trench has been dug into the heart of Hill Zero. This hill used to belong to the enemy. It’s been three nights and three days since we took control. We don’t have any water, our flasks are empty; we’ve lost some of our men from this trench and now it’s just me and you and a prisoner, and we’re waiting. If you don’t think for yourself you might lose control over your actions and put yourself in the enemy’s range, Jamoo! Let me tell you this, not everyone turns into a dove. Think how a valiant warrior can turn into a dove; open your mind, be attentive! A false dawn has appeared and the sky is inching towards daylight. Think of a dove, you might have seen a dove once on the roof of your house, in the sky above your village, right?’
‘Jamoo … jamoo … jamoo …’
‘Goddammit! What about a lion, then, a female lion; think of that lioness who might come to us — anytime now, come and find us. You know they call her the ‘lion of the desert’, roaming the wasteland to offer her milk to the thirsty and the distressed? That lioness; you must recall the lioness? Everyone at the border knows about her, friend and foe alike. No one dares shoot her, because if you do your finger will stick to the trigger and the rifle butt will burst into flames in your hand. The lioness looks at friends and foes in the same way. Blessed be the milk of her breasts, which are like a mother’s breasts; a spring that never dries up. Think of her, think of the breasts of the lioness, bursting with milk. She roams the desert in search of thirsty people; she goes in search of the fallen. You should be able to think of her, surely! You’ve heard stories about her, everybody has. A lioness? Doesn’t it remind you of anything, this image, the picture that’s painted by this description?’
‘Jamoo …’
‘Someone is speaking to me, can you hear it? Isn’t anyone speaking to you? Can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear anything?’
‘Jamoo …’
And you, soldier? Anta? La Asmaa? Anything?’‖
‘Atash … al-atash ya mola!’a
‘But I … I … what strange loneliness! And silence … this silence … this silence! Disaster always follows silence. The enemy lies in wait at six o’clock. Advancing, its tanks will be blown up by our land mines; in retreat they can’t help but drive over the corpses of our men. So I have to focus on the enemy being shattered. I can only pray for destruction from the sky. I mustn’t let my heart think for my brain! I must think like a warrior. Here I am a warrior. A fighter! I have to think of killing and not being killed. Once I’ve convinced myself that I’m a warrior, a fighter, then all I must think of is killing and not getting killed. When I declare myself a warrior, I separate myself from other aspects of my being. I won’t refer to what I’ve read or to any prior knowledge, unless it’s related to history. Just history; for history is the breeding-ground of crime, the blood-spattered arena of crime; and I mustn’t let my heart get the better of my brain. They are killed, we are killed; that’s all there is to it! But … I can’t abandon this young man to the fatal thirst he’s suffering from. My heart won’t let me spare him a bullet and free myself from the weight of his presence on my conscience. It’s heavy, it’s weighing down on my soul, but I can’t! Why can’t I? Who would I have to answer to for it? Who is there to seek permission from? What guarantee is there that I’ll stay alive myself under this hail of gunfire and fear? But if I can’t spare him a bullet, I’m sure I’ll keep suffering from this delusion that a pair of eyes is watching me the whole time. I can hear a voice, and see images … images; I see images in my subconscious. You! What about you, boy? Have you gone mute at the worst possible moment to lose your power of speech? What has happened to you all of a sudden? Maybe his blood has thickened and is not flowing to his brain properly? Maybe … how can I know? Maybe that heavy bombardment that came down behind the hill has unsettled him and the shock of it … I don’t know! He’s so young, I’m talking to you kid, can you hear me? It’s quiet everywhere, can you hear? Can you see the false dawn? Your eyes can see, can’t they? Have you gone blind too? I told you the lioness was searching for us, I told you the lioness would find us. I told you that she feeds milk to the enemy captive as well. She doesn’t differentiate between you and me and them, so just take care of yourself until she arrives. First she has to attend to the wounded, do you understand? Keep a grip on yourself. This is a battleground, a warzone, and you are a warrior! If you pull yourself together, I’ll tell you how a human being can turn into a dove. A dove. A white dove. Do you understand what I’m saying?’