Love and the hidden imam
She was 34 and still unmarried. Seven suitors had presented themselves and they were all rejected. But when she saw Sayyed, she knew instantly she had found her husband. The Hidden Imam had introduced him to her in a dream.
The former living quarters of the late imam Khomeini (1902–1989) in North Tehran are startlingly modest for a man of his stature: a simple room with a sofa bed and a tiny kitchen, hidden by a curtain.
Well, of course: the popular narrative of a revolutionary ascetic bringing down a vain imperial despot could not have been illustrated more poignantly.
A footbridge connects the abode with an equally unassuming mosque, where the ayatollah preached to his most devoted followers. Now there’s a sound of wild sobbing, coming from a dark figure hiding its face behind a veil — a grieving spectre. “My daughter,” a woman says apologetically. “Every time she comes here, she loses control. No matter how long the imam has been dead.’’
Shia Islam, to which 90 percent of Iranians subscribe, is a faith of mourning, martyrdom and revolution. While Sunnism embodies orthodoxy, rigid jurisprudence and theological establishment, heterodox shiism is the province of the oppressed and the rebellious, whose religious experience is emotional, mystical, irrational, often militant. Their colourful processions, including flagellants, inevitably bring catholicism to mind.
Actually, there’s also a Jesus-like character in Shia islam, a saviour whose return is eagerly anticipated: the twelfth descendant of the prophet Mohammed, or Hidden Imam. Since he disappeared many centuries ago, he has been living ‘in occultation’. But this does not prevent the Hidden Imam or Vali Asr (‘Guardian of Time’) to incidentally play an active role in the lives of the Iranians, as the story of Sayyed, my guide, shows.
Sayyed is a cosmopolitan. He has a degree in child psychology and has translated Persian poetry to English. In the seventies he studied architecture in the United States. He was making a living as an ice cream vendor. When he reminisces on this episode in his life, his vocabulary becomes suddenly — and almost unconsciously, it seems — laced with words like ‘fucking’, ‘black dudes’ and ‘pigs’ (meaning the police). It makes one wonder what circles the academic/poetry translator/ice cream vendor frequented at the time.
Sayyed is also a deeply religious man and a great admirer of ayatollah Khomeini. The vile suggestion that the latter was of Indian descent is categorically refuted. “That’s just a totally unfounded rumour.’’ Why Khomeini never smiled? Sayyed is too civilised to show anger. ,,What makes you think he never did, mister Carl?” he retorts politely. ,,The imam offered his smile and warmth to the poor and dejected. Believe me: he could smile.’’
At Sayyed’s home I’m treated to rice with olives and dried dill, chicken in garlic marinade and lentils with minced meat in tomato sauce. The cook remains almost invisible. Dressed in a white chador, the long veil that only allows bareness of face and hands, she skittishly puts the dishes on the table. When we prepare to leave, she briefly comes out of the kitchen to wish us ‘salam’ (peace), then disappears again.
She is Sayyeds second wife. His first marriage broke down because of ‘unreasonable demands’ by his spouse.
“I thought my wife felt the same way, but she chose the wrong path.’’ The wrong path? “Emancipation’’, he says drily.
“She thought I earned too little. But she wasted her own salary on clothes and cosmetics.’’ Sayyed is far more content now. For example, he’s very happy that his wife wears the chador. “She takes it off when we’re alone, you know,” he explains. And without a hint of mischief or humour in his eyes: “In private she is scarcely dressed, to gratify her husband.’’ He comfortably leans backward: ,,Oh, she’s so sweet. I’m the master of my home again.’’
Sayyed met his first wife during the protests against the shah which led to Khomeini’s ascent to power. “That’s when I became religious. I thought my wife felt the same way, but she chose the wrong path.’’ The wrong path? “Emancipation’’, he says drily.
After Sayyed had suffered ‘hell on earth’ with her for 18 long years, his father intervened. “He gave me money to do the haj, the pilgrimage to Mecca, so I could get a grip on myself.’’ First, though, he had to attain the required level of piousness and to that end he started to frequent a mosque in the holy city of Qom. And he was saved. “I became friends with some twenty men who visited the mosque every week. We founded a brotherhood. Since then we support each other in personal as well as in business matters. We even have our own bank. And yet we have very different backgrounds. I am an academic, but there’s also a software engineer and a carpet weaver in our midst.’’
It needs to be pointed out that the Jamkaran mosque isn’t a run-of-the-mill mosque. It was erected centuries ago at the request of none other than the Hidden Imam. Very pious men can miraculously get in touch with him. One of them was invested with the honourable task of building a house of prayer.
Of course Sayyed’s friends knew that he wasn’t happy with his wife and tried to help him. They made an attempt at reconciling the spouses. When this failed, they went looking for another wife. They arranged a meeting with a niece of one of them. “Instantly, before even uttering a word, we knew that we were destined for each other.’’
This thunderbolt of love appears to have had a strong religious element: “Just before she met me, my wife had a dream. An old, handsome man with a green turban came to her door in the company of a younger man. The old man said: when this young man proposes to you, don’t reject him. My wife was 34 and still a virgin, she had rejected seven suitors. But when we were introduced to each other, she immediatly recognised me as the young man in the dream.’’
What about the old man, I ask, though I already know the answer. “My wife thinks he was the Hidden Imam. The Vali Asr, the Guardian of Time. She is too modest to say she is absolutely sure. But of course it was Him. How couldn’t it not have been Him?’’
Little by little I get to know more about Sayyeds life. For instance, it dawns on me that he has repudiated his first wife. In islamic countries this is a customary kind of divorce in which the wife’s consent is not needed, alhough formally it should be asked and a third party reconciliation effort is obligatory. Women, on the other hand, are not granted this possibility to get rid of their husband.
After a while it also transpires that Sayyed prefers to stay in the office of his employer — the Iranian state press agency Irna — till late at night, to surf on the internet, rather than to be at home with his wife. Maybe he has not a lot to discuss with her. But when he talks about her, I have no doubt it is with genuine affection.
Sayyed may seem a man of paradoxes to someone like me, but he shows no signs of having any problem combining Western modernity and Eastern tradition.
I can talk with Sayyed about a wide range of topics. He knows a lot about — and seems to admire — European history and philosophy. In truth, he has a broader perspective than I have. He is more of a global citizen than I can call myself. You could consider him an intellectual. Sayyed may seem a man of paradoxes to someone like me, but he shows no signs of having any problem combining Western modernity and Eastern tradition. He may have been a troubled soul for some years, but he now looks quite at ease with himself.
I keep interrogating him about Vali Asr, the Guardian of Time. Does he really believe in such a myth? Sayyed’s intensely religious side resurfaces. “He led me to the mosque in Qom, brought me into contact with my second wife. I don’t need any more proof.’’ Did he, too, dream about Him? “No, but I hope that I once will meet Him in the flesh.’’
I realise Sayyed is not an exception, that this is a deeply religious country. Its conspicuous manifestations aside, religion here is also an invisible force that pervades social layers and cultural influences in a way that will remain inexplicable to me.
While steering his car through the frantic traffic rodeo of the endless Vali Asr Street in Tehran, he adds: ,,Belief in what is imperceptible is crucial in religion. That is the meaning of the Hidden Imam. Such things go beyond intellect, dear mister Carl. Maybe that’s why we’ve been so patient with this regime which has not fulfilled its promises, decades after the islamic revolution took place; which may even have squandered the heritage of imam ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini beyond repair. Shiites have been waiting for salvation for so long. We don’t mind waiting a little longer.’’
