permitting. The apartment was big and comfortable, with three bedrooms and two sitting rooms. For the last few months, since martial law and the subsequent escalating street violence, Pettikin had moved in with them - he was single now, divorced a year ago - and this arrangement pleased them all.
A slight wind rattled the windowpanes. Genny glanced outside. There were a few dim lights from the houses opposite, no streetlamps. The low rooftops of the huge city stretched away limitlessly. Snow on them, and on the ground. Most of the five to six million people who lived here lived in squalor. But this area, to the north of Tehran, the best area, where most foreigners and well-to-do Iranians lived, was well policed. Is it wrong to live in the best area if you can afford it? she asked herself. This world’s a very strange place, whichever way you add it up.
She made the drink light, mostly soda, and brought it back. “There’s going to be a civil war. There’s no way we can continue here.”
“We’ll be all right, Gen. Carter won’t let…” Abruptly the lights died and the electric fire went out.
“Bugger,” Genny said. “Thank God we’ve the butane cooker.” “Maybe the power cut’ll be a short one.” McIver helped her light the candles that were already in place. He glanced at the front door. Beside it was a five-gallon can of gasoline - their emergency fuel. He hated the idea of having gasoline in the apartment, they all did, particularly when they had to use candles most evenings. But for weeks now it had taken from five to twenty-four hours of lining up at a gas station and even then the Iranian attendant would more than likely turn you away because you were a foreigner. Many times their car had had its tank drained - locks made no difference. They were luckier than most because they had access to airfield supplies, but for the normal person, particularly a foreigner, the lines made life miserable. Black-market gasoline cost as much as 160 rials a liter - $2 a liter, $8 a gallon, when you could get it. “Mind the iron rations,” he said with a laugh.
“Mac, maybe you should stand a candle on it, just for old times’ sake,” Pettikin said.
“Don’t tempt him, Charlie! You were saying about Carter?” “The trouble is if Carter panics and puts in even a few troops - or planes - to support a military coup, it will blow the top off everything. Everyone’ll scream like a scalded cat, the Soviets most of all, and they’ll have to react and Iran‘11 become the set piece for World War Three.” McIver said, “We’ve been fighting World War Three, Charlie, since ‘45…” A burst of static cut him off, then the announcer came back again. “… for illicit intelligence work: It is reported from Kuwait by the chief of staff of the armed forces that Kuwait has received shipments of arms from the Soviet Union….”
“Christ,” both men muttered.
“… In Beirut, Yasir Arafat, the PLO leader, declared his organization will continue to actively assist the revolution of Ayatollah Khomeini: At a press conference in Washington, President Carter reiterated the U.S. support for Iran’s Bakhtiar government and the ‘constitutional process’: And finally from Iran itself, Ayatollah Khomeini has threatened to arrest Prime Minister Bakhtiar unless he resigns, and has called on the people to ‘destroy the terrible monarchy and its illegal government,’ and on the army ‘to rise up against their foreign-dominated officers and flee their barracks with their weapons.’ Throughout the British Isles exceptionally heavy snow, gales, and floods have disrupted much of the country, closing Heathrow Airport and grounding all aircraft. And that ends the news summary. The next full report will be at 1800, GMT. You’re listening to the World Service of the BBC. And now a report from our international farm correspondent, ‘Poultry and Pigs.’ We begin…”
McIver reached over and snapped it off. “Bloody hell, the whole world’s falling apart and the BBC gives us pigs.”
Genny laughed. “What would you do without the BBC, the telly, and the football pools? Gales and floods.” She picked up the phone on the off chance. It was dead as usual. “Hope the kids are all right.” They had a son and a daughter, Hamish and Sarah, both married now and on their own and two grandchildren, one from each. “Little Karen catches cold so badly and Sarah! Even at twenty-three she needs reminding to dress properly! Will that child never grow up?”
Pettikin said, “It’s rotten not being able to phone when you want.” “Yes. Anyway, it’s time to eat. The market was almost empty today for the third straight day. So it was a choice of roast ancient mutton again with rice, or a special. I chose the special and used the last two cans. I’ve corned beef pie, cauliflower au gratin, and treacle tart, and a surprise hors d’oeuvre” She took a candle and went off to the kitchen and shut the door behind her.
“Wonder why we always get cauliflower au gratin?” McIver watched the candlelight flickering on the kitchen door. “Hate the bloody stuff! I’ve told her fifty times…” The nightscape suddenly caught his attention. He walked over to the window. The city was empty of light because of the power cut. But southeastward now a red glow lit up the sky. “Jaleh, again,” he said simply.
On September 8, five months ago, tens of thousands of people had taken to the streets of Tehran to protest the Shah’s imposition of martial law. There was widespread destruction, particularly in Jaleh - a poor, densely populated suburb - where bonfires were lit and barricades of burning tires set up. When the security forces arrived, the raging, milling crowd shouting “Death to the Shah” refused to disperse. The clash was violent. Tear gas didn’t work. Guns did. Estimates of the death toll ranged from an official 97 to 250 according to some witnesses, to 2,000 to 3,000 by the militant opposition groups.
In the following crackdown to that “Bloody Friday,” a vast number of opposition politicians, dissidents, and hostiles were arrested and detained - later the government admitted 1,106 - along with two ayatollahs, which further inflamed the multitudes.
McIver felt very sad, watching the glow. If it weren’t for the ayatollahs, he thought, particularly Khomeini, none of it would have happened. Years ago when McIver had first come to Iran he had asked a friend in the British embassy what ayatollah meant. “It’s an Arabic word, ayat’Allah, and means ‘Reflection of God.”’
“He’s a priest?”
“Not at all, there are no priests in Islam, the name of their religion - that’s another Arabic word, it means ‘submission,’ submission to the Will of God.”
“What?”
“Well,” his friend had said with a laugh, “I’ll explain but you’ve got to be a little patient. First, Iranians are not Arabs but Aryans, and the vast majority are Shi’ite Muslims, a volatile sometimes mystical breakaway sect. Arabs are mostly orthodox Sunni - they make up most of the world’s billion Muslims - and the sects are somewhat like our Protestants and Catholics and they’ve fought each other just as viciously. But all share the same overarching belief, that there is one God, Allah - the Arabic word for God - that Mohammed, a man of Mecca who lived from A.D. 570 to 632 was His Prophet, and the words of the Koran proclaimed by him and written down by others over many years after his death came directly from God and contain all instruction that is necessary for an individual or society to live by.” “Everything? That’s not possible.”
“For Muslims it is, Mac, today, tomorrow, forever. But ‘ayatollah’ is a title peculiar to Shi’ites and granted by consensus and popular acclaim by the congregation of a mosque - another Arabic word meaning ‘meeting place,’ which is all it is, a meeting place, absolutely not a church - to a mullah who exhibits those characteristics most sought after and admired amongst the Shi’ites: piety, poverty, learning - but only the Holy Books, the Koran and the Sunna - and leadership, with a big emphasis on leadership. In Islam there’s no separation between religion and politics, there can be none, and the Shi’ite mullahs of Iran, since the beginning, have been fanatic guardians of the Koran and Sunna, fanatic leaders and whenever necessary fighting revolutionaries.”
“If an ayatollah or mullah’s not a priest, what is he?”
“Mullah means ‘leader,’ he who leads prayers in a mosque. Anyone can be a mullah, providing he’s a man, and Muslim. Anyone. There’s no clergy in Islam, none, no one between you and God, that’s one of the beauties of it, but not to Shi’ites. Shi’ites believe that, after the Prophet, the earth should be ruled by a charismatic, semidivine infallible leader, the Imam, who acts as an intermediary between the human and the divine - and that’s where the great split came about between Sunni and Shi’ite, and their wars were just as bloody as the Plantagenets. Where Sunnis believe in consensus, Shi’ites would accept the Imam’s authority if he were to exist.” “Then who chooses the man to be Imam?”
“That was the whole problem. When Mohammed died - by the way he never claimed to be anything other than mortal although last of the Prophets-he left neither sons nor a chosen successor, a Caliph. Shi’ites believed leadership should remain with the Prophet’s family and the Caliph could only be Ali, his cousin and son-in-law who had married Fatima, his favorite daughter. But the orthodox Sunnis, following historic tribal custom which applies even today, believed a leader should only be chosen by consensus. They proved to be stronger, so the first three Caliphs were voted in - two were murdered by other Sunnis - then, at long last for the Shi’ites, Ali became Caliph, in their fervent belief the first Imam.”
“They claimed he was semidivine?”
