Chapter 11

DEATH

19th of Safar 1436

(December 13, 2014)

It’s hard to say whether the Imam spotted the speeding taxicab as it approached. He could have moved out of the way. He could have returned to New York. He could have led his small following at the mosque and perhaps could have been a great spiritual leader for his people. Death, however, no matter the age, must come as a course of life, and death inevitably must be accepted. Arguably things may work in cycles: death as a movement towards a greater life far removed from us. And if death overcame him, Mustafa might have been content to leave this world, because life is such that dreams rarely manifest themselves to people who yearn for them most.

There must be a reason for this disturbing trend. Reality has a way of whittling our true dreams down to size, like a lump of clay shaped or the piece of wood carved by skilled hands. And if we’re lucky, we hold our dreams sacred despite the cuts and scars, the flaws in character, the plans which count for nought. The Imam, assuming he had died that day, would have held his wild dreams to heart and would have never let go.

There must be a place in the darkest fires of Hell where these dreamers stay. The flesh must singe, and the brain must boil. The darkness must be complete, and the depressions maddening. And within this dark place, the Imam must have heard the cries of millions, withstood the heat, or found another dream to follow. And because of his terrible location, he must have prayed until his mind smoldered. Perhaps he fell to his knees and offered Allah verbosity, idiom, and dangling participles, all of it rushed and too convenient. Or maybe he fell to his knees and simply wept. Regardless, he must have dreamt of something greater than himself, as all dreamers do the same. He must have endured the fires, the blood, the slings and arrows, never ducking or running, but enduring. But just like a good rain extinguishes the longest fire, so he must have escaped Hell with the help of visiting angels who heard his dream and delivered it to the All Mighty. And when the cards come up empty, the chin falls upon a cold pavement, a mere nickel lines the pocket, the cell padded, the straight-jacket tight, the fires fuming, the women disappearing, and the tender heart folds, there must always be a reason, and the Imam must have found Allah instead of the world he imagined.

Within the fires he must have seen an awkward light, a dazzling light. Then a hand which gripped his own. Suddenly an effortless tug to higher ground. Finally, a warm embrace by an entity which soothed him with kind words and understood him absolutely and infinitely. Yet if there exists a duty to one’s dreams, and if those dreams are good, just, and pure, then the person must act upon them. The Imam, in his deliverance from the fires, must have questioned his Creator and believed instead in those dreams given to him, regardless of Hell’s consequences.

And his were only dreams, just dreams, preposterous and absurd, grandiose and misunderstood, never overt but always kept in the vault of a young person’s heart. Just simple, childish dreams.

It’s hard to say whether or not he moved out of the way of that speeding taxicab. In all likelihood, though, he survived.

THE END.

About the Author

Harvey Havel is a short-story writer and novelist. He is formerly a writing instructor at Bergen Community College in Paramus, New Jersey. He also taught writing and literature at the College of St. Rose in Albany as well as SUNY Albany.

Copies of his books and short stories may be purchased at most of the major online book retailers.

An Apology by the Author

Perhaps this is a novel that was never meant to be published. Although the final version of this manuscript was completed in the summer of 1999, the actual writing of it began in the summer of 1992. I went on a small pilgrimage to Mecca, Saudi Arabia with my relatives who were residing in Jeddah, and there the inspiration for the novel took hold. I worked on the manuscript for five years, and I knew it had to be good, since it was my first. The finished manuscript, however, weighed in at over a thousand pages, and I had to cut much of it for publication. Several revisions followed.

When I thought I had completed the final version, a skeleton of the original manuscript, I hired a submission service to target literary agents and publishers alike. No one accepted the manuscript. Throughout this trial I also applied for several literary awards and writing fellowships. I also pressed my connections at CBS News, but the novel fell on deaf ears, and so I abandoned the project and wrote instead a more publishable work, entitled Noble McCloud.

After the McCloud manuscript was accepted, I had the option of resuscitating The Imam, and I exercised that option, because I believed in the work, and I dare say that I was also proud of it. I was reluctant to abandon the project, since I had spent much of my youth working on it. It was like a dying companion I hoped to bring back to life. The process of publishing the work, however, was met with many formidable obstacles.

The publishers printed their titles in India due to the prohibitive costs of printing in the United States. The printers in India, after eagerly printing Noble McCloud, refused to print The Imam. They feared death threats and bombings should their anonymity be compromised. Also, the liaison to the printers refused to handle the project for the same reasons. I sympathized with their concerns, as I was not about to put anyone’s life in danger for my own artistic objectives, and I never expected anyone affiliated with this project to risk their lives. The novel had been scheduled for India, but we basically pulled the plug, and this was a very good idea. Nevertheless, I was again faced with the grim possibility of scuttling this project.

The refusal of our printers in India was a crisis but also an opportunity. The publishers were paying extraordinary freight charges to and from India and decided to move their printing operations to the United States. Thus, the Imam was again in business, and it was my task to revise the manuscript again to make it even more publishable.

There remained several more obstacles, as publishing a novel of this sort deserves. For instance, we had to convince our publicist to take the project, and after alerting her of the many risks involved, she decided in the novel’s favor. The same went with everyone affiliated with this project.

Also, there was the idea that this novel should be published anonymously. I, however, disliked this idea from the get-go for two reasons. First, for the reader, it would have interrupted a thematic continuity established with Noble McCloud, and second, it wouldn’t have allowed the reader to chart my literary development, or more importantly, find justification for what I may write in the future in the pages of my past.

Certainly there are risks and dire consequences for publishing this work under my present pseudonym, but I thought the positive reasons outweighed the negative. If there is anyone to blame for this novel, the trail ends with me, as I have always been a staunch and ingenuous advocate of this novel since its inception. Hopefully, no one will find reason to blame me, or by degrees of separation, the publicist, the graphic designers, or the publishers. If there happens to be someone to blame, the fault rests with me and myself alone.

Then a major blow. Apparently, just on the verge of going to press, the new printers in Michigan didn’t like what they read. I got word a few days ago that the printers refused the printing of, not only The Imam, but also Noble McCloud. Their reason: Objectionable Content. I respected their decision, and we had no idea they also printed a lot of Christian, religious publications. It was in their perfect right to refuse The Imam. But Noble McCloud too? I don’t think they decided against these novels for religious reasons. It’s more the case that if their Christian clients ever found out they had a hand in printing these books, the printers would lose their customer base.

It’s an irony, then, how I’m not even sure anyone will be reading this novel. I’m not sure what obstacles remain between now and the publication date. Regardless, I believe that someone will be reading this. I sometimes feel like Colonel Sanders trying to sell his recipe for fried chicken.

Our aim with this novel was not to make a huge splash in the literary marketplace as other Islamic-oriented novels have done. On the contrary, our aim is to publish this novel quietly, quickly, and cleanly, and hope that it doesn’t gain the same unbridled attention and enthusiasm as its predecessors.

There is a good explanation for this approach. First, by publishing this work, I am putting my life in danger, and should this novel take off, I would be forced underground. Writing in fear limits my potential as a novelist. This is an understatement. Second, novels of this type usually attract more controversy than committed readers. I would rather have but one genuine reader than the scores who contribute to and inflame a controversy but have not read a single line. Third, I do not wish to be perceived as a writer who seeks attention, or its partner, financial gain for a novel that will not be my last.

It should be known to the dear reader that the decision to publish it was made on the basis of a belief in this work and not its potential for profit or the fulfillment of vanity, recklessness, arrogance, or the imitation of several other novels which have spoken critically of Islam, its culture, and/or its people. Such a misperception would severely compromise my artistic integrity, or at least my integrity in its nascent form.

I yearn for this novel to stand as a work of literature on its own two feet and not to be used otherwise. The writing must speak for itself. Otherwise, my death will be a slow, unmerciful one instead of the murder a controversy will bring. And so we have decided on a short-run printing of this novel in the hopes that we attract those few committed readers who are interested, less in controversy, but more in a damn good story. It is important, then, that I dispel a few myths before they take hold. Although I defend this novel, I see little or no crime in the first place. Such is the nature of pleading innocent.

This novel was never meant to insult or offend the religion of my birth. It is an attempt, on the other hand, to complement it and to humanize the character of a religion perhaps too mysterious, too outlandish, too unknown in its contribution to the paradigm of Western thought and belief. In a sense, the failure to communicate is most at fault, not a failure of expression necessarily, but a failure to introduce Islam within a workable and sustainable form which guides the reader through the many issues of a religion misperceived but on the verge of a great change. This form is the narrative form, and I would humbly assert here that the fiction novel, to this date, is the most formidable vehicle of expression that handles difficult and sometimes controversial issues with an empathetic grace and truth more so that academic, historical, or theological discourse can offer. In short, the attempt is to tell a story and tell it well. Remove the patina of Islam, and this story very well could have been any other tale of a reluctant prophet. Many such narratives fill the library shelves already, which begs the question: why Islam? Why not Christianity, Buddhism, or Judaism to tell a story of a reluctant prophet?

Let me preface this by stating the obvious: that throughout the development of human consciousness there have always been archetypes that bind together monotheistic religions by default. For example, there is the search for meaning in existence. Another is a longing for purity and innocence in an allegedly corrupt world, and this pertains particularly to youth but also to those advanced in their years. Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, for instance, is an allegory that deals with such issues through metaphor.

In The Imam the protagonist faces a choice between the ideal and the real, or more aptly put: the dream of an harmonious and perfect world at peace and the reality of needs and preferences, even the assumed need to fight for justice, even to fight for peace. The real and the imaginary are on opposite sides in this novel, and in religion they tend to reside in opposite camps more often than not. The supplicant must somehow accept the reality while embracing and furthering the ideal, either by thought or by deed. And this essential conflict, this recurring archetype, leads to the questioning of faith, and in extreme circumstances, the questioning of God’s existence, His or Her purpose, His or Her sense of justice, or even His or Her perfection.

Although many archetypes could have been otherwise dominant in this novel, it is this essential rift within the human heart that is addressed, and it is this writer’s belief that no matter the religion, be that Christianity, Judaism, or Islam, such questioning is at the epicenter of religion in Western thought. So it actually does not matter that this novel is an Islamic novel, because it could have very well been a Christian or a Judaic one. It is in a sense irrelevant what religion this narrative depicts, because it actually depicts every religion, or specifically that battle within the human heart to accept or reject the existence of God.