The Tragedy of Islam. Imam Mohammad Tawhidi

      I attended their dinner gathering in an Islamic center. I met the reciter, and found him to be very humble, welcoming, and charismatic. He was in his mid-20s at the time, and very mature for his age. As we began to speak, he inquired about my presence in Iran. After I informed him that I was a student at Al-Mahdi Institute and that I was a follower of the Supreme Leader of Iran, Ali Khamenei, his eyes and cheeks turned red. The entire room went silent, and it remained silent for at least another two minutes while we all continued eating dinner.

      I did not understand exactly what had happened at the time, but I knew that it had something to do with what I had said. A man named Haider, who now resides in Sydney, broke the silence by saying, “You follow Khamenei? I will rip Khamenei’s mother in half!” I was shocked, stunned, baffled and knew that I had come to the wrong place. I didn’t know these people and never imagined an opposition to the Iranian regime even existed. But I knew they were the bad guys, and I quickly finished my dinner and left the building. I walked back to my dormitory very slowly, pondering and reflecting on what had just happened. The reciter, a highly respected eulogist amongst scholars, had just remained silent as Ali Khamenei, the highest Islamic authority within both the country and the faith, was rudely insulted. This raised a question within me: Why did they hate Iran’s Supreme Leader so much?

      The next day, and out of curiosity, I returned to the center. I acted as though the day before had never happened. This time I was not here to make friends; I was here to analyze this strange community of highly religious individuals, some even descendants of Prophet Mohammad himself. I noticed that most of the people attending this massive Islamic event had family members who were imprisoned and/or had been executed. I became curious to find out exactly why. I asked the reciter whom I had gotten to know the night before about a portrait of a man on the wall. He told me that the portrait was of “Grand Ayatollah Sadiq Shirazi,” and it was the first time I had heard this name. I said, “May he rest in peace.” The eulogist responded, “No, he’s alive. Have you not met him yet!?”

      I thought to myself, a “grand ayatollah” would rank like the pope in the Catholic Church, so how does this eulogist expect me to have met him? I responded, “No, I haven’t.” He said, “Would you like to meet him tomorrow?” I said, “Yes, sure.” We set a place and time, and he took my mobile number. He called me the next morning and asked where I was. I said, “I am at Al-Mahdi school.” He said, “Come to such and such a location carefully, and make sure the sons of b*****s don’t follow you here, because they will f***k you if they find out you came here.”

      I got dressed quickly, and although I felt deeply that I should not be going, I trusted that my Australian citizenship would protect me if anything should happen. After all, I was just visiting a Muslim scholar in an Islamic country with an Islamic government. I was taken to the office of the Grand Ayatollah Sadiq Shirazi, where it was difficult to move around because of the large number of people who flooded his office. Hundreds upon hundreds were lined up to kiss the hand of one man, Sadiq Shirazi. I asked myself, who is this man that attracts so many people each day? And why does his office have no sign on it? And why is everyone here against the regime?

      A massive chapter within the current situation of Shia Islam and my faith was missing for me, and I was just about to discover it. It was almost my turn to enter the room in which Grand Ayatollah Sadiq Shirazi was sitting. I entered the room and saw a man in his 60s, white bearded and calm. He smiled peacefully at whoever entered the room and raised his right hand to greet them from where he sat. I approached him and kissed his hand – because that is what everyone else was doing, and I didn’t want to stand out as being disrespectful in any manner. I had never met a grand ayatollah before. I was not going to make independent decisions either at that time, so I was happy to be guided. The grand ayatollah pointed at me and invited me to sit beside him. I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because I was dressed somewhat differently so he wanted to hear from me, or perhaps he thought I had travelled a long way just to see him and wanted to give me the opportunity to meet him. He welcomed me and said, “Thank you for visiting me. What’s your name?” I replied, “Mohammad.” He asked, “Where are you from?” I replied, “Australia, but I was born in Iran.” He continued, “When are you going back to Australia?” I said I had no plans yet because I was still studying here. He enquired, “Oh, you’re a student here?” I answered, “Yes, I study at Al-Mahdi and will soon be transferred to study in an Islamic university here.” He responded by saying, “May God bless you. My prayers are with you.” He then gestured to his assistant and whispered in his ear. He bid me goodbye, and as I walked out, his assistant gave me an envelope with a gift – money, around $10, as a form of support to foreign students because many students were struggling financially. I took the gift, thanked his assistant and walked outside. The reciter saw me exiting the room and said, “How was the meeting?” I said, “It was very moving and special, but I have to get back to the school as they will become suspicious of me.” He said, “It’s prayer time now, so they will assume you have gone to pray your noon prayers outside at the sacred shrines. Why don’t we offer our prayers in the mosque nearby and I will introduce you to the grand ayatollah’s son, Hussain?” I agreed. After prayers, his son Hussain welcomed me, and asked me what my name was. I answered, “Mohammad.” He said, “Mohammad what?” I replied, “Tawhidi.” He said, “That is a beautiful name.” After informing him that I was an international student, he praised my efforts to migrate to a Third World country in order to acquire religious knowledge.

      Back at the dormitory, I innocently informed my teacher and roommates that I had visited Grand Ayatollah Shirazi. Their reaction can never be put into words, but the closest thing to describe their reaction would be that it was a shock that turned them into my vicious enemies. From that day onwards, life in Iran was never the same. The entire school was warned about me, and my friends stopped talking to me. I returned the next day to my dorm to find my cupboard broken into and my laptop stolen. Although I reported it to the dean of students and the principal, I discovered later that the school had planned to break into my cupboard to search for books, CDs, or photos of Shirazi. I didn’t know what to do, so I contacted my father