Homesick Mosque

By Reza Jalali

While he walked on the dim path next to the donkey carrying Zarin,
Musa pondered his new fate. In the distance, the tall dark mountains
stood with their jagged tops, puncturing the blue-black sky. With a
fresh sadness, Musa reflected that on the Iranian side of the same high
hillsthe town where he was born, got married, and ran into trouble
with the secret policewas also waking to a new day. He figured that,
for years to come, probably till he died, he would miss the place and its
people as he would move farther away, in opposite direction, with more
mountains and oceans in between, to separate himself from his home.
As they climbed a knoll, Musa stopped to survey a cluster of mud
homes in a beehive-like village, surrounded by patches of brown wheat
and barley fields, farther ahead. To his side, the donkey, with its
head down and the beads jingling, blinked its long eyelashes to keep
the unseen flies away. The tall plane trees, their tops touched by the
glowing sun, stood solid like a wall. Somewhere in the still dawn, a man
from an invisible minaret called the faithful to pray. A pair of hoopoes
flew over their heads, heading east for the high hills. Musa watched
them with a sudden longing. Excerpts from The Gravedigger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493120123

Reza Jalali

Reza Jalali is a writer, playwright, and educator whose short stories, essays, and political commentaries have appeared in publications in the U.S. and beyond. He has taught at the University of Southern Maine and Bangor Theological Seminary and is the author of the award-winning children’s book Moon Watchers: Shirin’s Ramadan Miracle.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Reza Jalali.

Library of Congress Control Number:           2013918931

ISBN:                  Hardcover                 978-1-4931-2011-6

                            Softcover                   978-1-4931-2010-9

                            eBook                        978-1-4931-2012-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 11/11/2013

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CONTENTS

1.   The Gravedigger

2.   Baba, Be Careful

3.   Homesick Mosque

4.   Blessed Oven

5.   The Shah Of America

6.   Ghosts Of Santa Monica

Also by Reza Jalali

Moon Watchers: Shirin’s Ramadan Miracle

For Azad and Setareh

Fear is the cheapest room in the house

I would like to see you living

In better conditions.

For your mother and my mother

Were friends.

—Hafiz

14th century Persian mystic and poet

You are

A fish

Trying to wear pants

In a country as foreign to you

As land.

—Hafiz

THE GRAVEDIGGER

The first time Musa climbed into a grave, he stumbled across it by accident, waiting and opening like a yawn, when searching for a place to hide. It was dark, and the ground was loose and soft with loud rain. The drops were cold and were dripping down his black mustache. The sneakers he had purchased for the escape across the border were sodden and heavy. He stopped running, conscious of the shooting pain in his side, to tell his wife to catch up. Looking over his shoulder, he saw her dark figure, rushing in the darkness; her shoulders were shaking as if she were sobbing.

"Zood baash, Hurry up!" he bellowed in the rain, not sure if she heard him, feeling miserable for his ability to run faster. As he took another step, his right foot slipped in the mud, propelling him to the edge of the narrow pit. He bent to peer inside. The voices coming from a distance behind them sounded muffled in the downpour. An image of the wet bottom filled with snakes and scorpions crawling from the damp earth came to his bewildered mind. Turning his head, Musa saw, not far behind them, the chaotic movements of the beams of light from the flashlights the men carried. With an arm raised, calling her toward him, he urged his wife to rush. He lowered his body, with dangling tired feet first, searching for solid ground. He hunkered down. Looking up, he watched Zarin, his wife of ten years, her head shrunk inside her cold body, staring down at him. He whispered to her to get inside. She hesitated and, looking back, strained her eyes to see the shadows of the men chasing them, as if listening to what they were saying. She dropped to her knees and stooped by the edge. Still gazing up, Musa moved around on his knees and hands to make room for her. The rain splattered on the wet ground around him. She slid down clumsily, trapping a soft cry in her throat and bringing wet dirt along with her. As she crouched next to him, they heard the soldiers, still in pursuit, shouting in guttural Turkish.

When he reached to hold her, he felt her body’s trembling.

We’re safe. They’re too superstitious to look inside graves on a night like this, he whispered in her ear, smelling rain in her hair, as she rested her body against his. The sound of the heavy footsteps on the ground above got louder. A wand of yellow light jerked wildly overhead, as the men talking in loud gruff voices walked around, looking for them. A big drop of rain fell to Musa’s eye, making him lower his face. He did not dare move a hand to wipe it.

They waited.

I’m scared, Zarin said in a soft voice. In response, Musa tightened his hold over her wet windbreaker. Somewhere not far away, the dogs started to howl just as the beams of yellow light got weaker and the wet darkness returned. The voices vanished in the sheets of water coming down; the drops were streaking down their backs, making tiny puddles by their feet. Facing the sky, Zarin opened her mouth to catch the drops of water and quench her thirst.

The next time Musa looked up, the sky was pinned with bright stars. In the tight space, Zarin’s body pressed against him, keeping him warm. Moving one limb at a time, Musa stretched his numb legs. He reached inside his jacket, careful not to rouse Zarin, and extracted a plastic bag filled with raisins. He put a fistful in his mouth and started to chew. She stirred.

Should we climb out now? she asked.

It’s best to wait, he said, starting to feel drowsy.

But soon there’ll be light.

He offered her some raisins and said the smuggler would return to rescue them. Amir would not leave us stranded here, he added. We still owe him half the money he asked for. He patted the folded American dollars hidden in a secret pouch stitched to his muddy pants.

What if he got caught last night? Zarin asked.

We don’t know that, he said and tried hard to keep his burning eyes open.

The dawn lurked above when they heard the sounds of soft footsteps and a familiar voice, speaking in Kurdish, calling their names.

It is Amir! Musa said with joy as he shook Zarin to wake her up. She opened her eyes and put a dirty index finger to her lips to hush him. Let’s wait and see if he’s all by himself, she whispered. Musa’s limbs went weak, and a wave of dark thoughts swept over him. He waited for Amir to get closer before standing up to see if he was alone.

Musa strained on his toes and could catch glimpses of twisted scrub oaks. Amir then appeared, standing over him and looking worried. To Musa’s weary eyes, he looked monstrous—his teeth the size of vodka shot glasses, the loose ballooned Kurdish pants tied in the ankles, his legs as fat as a giant bug, and his feet like slabs of dried mud.

Musa, is that you? Swear to God, you scared me to death, said the smuggler, shaking his head in disbelief, the pointed bristle of his black mustache twitching. Rising out of a grave like a ghost!

Once Musa climbed out of the grave, he noticed the long smear of dried blood below Amir’s right ear. Turning his face away, he asked Amir for the time. Amir raised his left wrist, revealing a bracelet of white flesh on an otherwise tanned arm, where his watch would have been, and shook his head. Lighting a cigarette, he watched as the couple stomped their feet to loosen the mud caked to their sneakers and brushed their damp clothes. Zarin’s body trembled in the crisp morning air.

You’re safe now. We’re inside Kurdistan. No more border patrols, Amir said to Zarin. She turned her head and looked around, smiling for the first time.

Amir offered Musa one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. Musa did not take it, for his mouth felt dry. He realized that since the previous evening’s dinner of kebab and naan, the tough-as-leather stale bread, nothing had passed his throat save the drops of rain and a handful of raisins.

Zarin is thirsty and hungry, Musa said, feeling embarrassed for using her to mask his own needs.

There’ll be plenty of food waiting for us, Amir said, wetting his lips. But first, we have to get to the village where you’ll stay for a while in a safe house. Amir pointed to an unknown spot in the semidarkness. We need a week to get your fake identity cards.

Aware of some moving shadows beyond the cemetery, Musa squinted to make out the outlines of a boy and a donkey waiting by a tree full of noisy birds.

It’ll be a short ride, Amir said, pointing to a donkey, decorated with turquoise beads and good luck charms once they walked out of the cemetery. The sleepy-eyed boy stood staring at them.

While he walked on the dim path next to the donkey carrying Zarin, Musa pondered his new fate. In the distance, the tall dark mountains stood with their jagged tops, puncturing the blue-black sky. With a fresh sadness, Musa reflected that on the Iranian side of the same high hills—the town where he was born, got married, and ran into trouble with the secret police—was also waking to a new day. He figured that, for years to come, probably till he died, he would miss the place and its people as he would move farther away, in opposite direction, with more mountains and oceans in between, to separate himself from his home.

As they climbed a knoll, Musa stopped to survey a cluster of mud homes in a beehive-like village, surrounded by patches of brown wheat and barley fields, farther ahead. To his side, the donkey, with its head down and the beads jingling, blinked its long eyelashes to keep the unseen flies away. The tall plane trees, their tops touched by the glowing sun, stood solid like a wall. Somewhere in the still dawn, a man from an invisible minaret