Early in 2025 I was invited by artist Peter Wright to respond with some creative writing to one of his wood cut ‘Stations Of The Cross’. He chose for me Station 11 “Jesus is nailed to the cross”. A number of poems, prayers and reflections were written and bought together in a booklet. Here is a short story from that collection. It explores the cross as a powerful architype. As Holy Week progresses I may share other writing from that booklet.
Encounters Forbidden and Eternal
Arash rested himself in the shade of a small wizened tree and eased his back on a rock. He had just climbed a rough track leading to the top of some high ground to the north of Tabriz. It had been a particularly hot day and soon he would need to find himself a place to rest over night. As he gazed over the horizon, lights began to flicker on from the scattered farm settlements in the valley below. It was at this time, the moment between daylight and darkness, when the earth seemed to wait in silence, that Arash’s thoughts turned to his home and particularly to his parents and brother. His mother would be preparing the evening meal now, sweet smells would be escaping from the house and hanging over the land on which his father worked. His father would be washing himself, making himself ready for food, and his little brother would be doing school work in his room. How he missed his family.
Arash had been travelling now for over two weeks. He had decided to avoid the cities and larger urban areas preferring instead to collect water and food from villages and small family farming compounds. He slept in orchards or outbuildings and would often walk into the night or set off early in the morning before sunrise. Anything to avoid being noticed and the inquisitive questions to which he always answered with a lie. At least the village and farming folk were less enthusiastic about their religion. It was as if these simple people of the land had a more lasting connection with the olden days, the old Persia and the stories which shaped this vast land and rested in the chest of those who loved and cherished them.
It was these very stories which inspired Arash and drove him forward each day to the border and away from Iran. After all, he was Arash, named after the brave strong archer who launched his arrow across the land, thus marking the boundary of this proud culture and land. He felt himself to be the new Arash who now seeks to trace that border and go beyond it.
He had been planning this for almost a year, saving as much money as possible and only telling his family a few days before he left. He was heading North-West towards the Turkish border and who knows where after that. His decision to leave Iran was born out of his exhaustion and fear. It was as if he was being suffocated at home and the neighbourhood. His chest felt tight sometimes and it was hard for him to breath. His mind wanted the freedom to think and explore new possibilities. His body was calling him to deeper and forbidden encounters and relationships. Such creativity and intimacy was impossible, and like a noose ever tighter around his neck Arash was suffocating. He was fighting for breath and a richer more fulfilled life beyond the constraints of Shia Islam. Just a month, before he left, a friend had been found in a forbidden intimate situation. Both men were flogged publicly and may now face death. It was time for him to leave, already rumours and speculations were being circulated as to why Arash, a man of 24 years, was not married. He needed to go.
Rested and refreshed by water Arash set off heading towards a remote pomegranate orchard he could see further along the hillside. Here he could set up his hammock and sleep for a few hours.
Of course Arash and his family were Shia but they could find no place in their heart for the Islamic revivalism of Khomeinism. They were simple rural folk, Arash’s mother would tell him and his brother stories from mythology. It was these splendid stories which crept into Arash’s mind as he lay in his hammock. He would picture Gilgamesh fighting the monsters of the forest with Enhidu the madman. But it was particularly Gilgamesh’s journey to discover everlasting life which animated Arash most. He could almost feel Gilgamesh’s restless desire to know the secret of eternal life. Maybe even his journey, at least in his imagination, now mirrors the journey of Gilgamesh to find eternity. In Arash’s mind he hoped his journey would include ferrymen, gardens of paradise, boat journeys to secret islands on which the mystery of death and life would be revealed.
The next morning Arash followed a path down to the valley and was offered a lift by a passing tradesman on his way home near the Turkish border. He had had business in Tabriz and was glad of the company on the long trip home. They passed the customary pleasantries, but soon the conversation struggled. It was almost as if both of the two men were holding back from the details of their lives. It was only when Arash noticed the business man did not stop for Zuhr prayers that he began to relax a little. Sharing a meal in the early evening Arash also noticed the man bow his head for a moment, maybe a prayer of blessing for the food.
Arash’s mother had told her children other stories. Stories about the humble prophet Isa Ibn Maryam (Jesus son of Mary) who walked in the wilderness, and like Gilgamesh, spoke about eternal life. These were stories told on special occasions and always quietly. There was something secret and powerful about the humble Isa stories and Arash noticed how they would end, like Gilgamesh’s stories, with death.
The simple meal shared was packed away and the afternoon found Arash more relaxed and certainly more comfortable with Farhad, the kind man giving him a lift. Arash and Farhad talked about their families, memories of childhood and the local countryside, but always careful to steer clear of more sensitive issues. They had made good time, the traffic was light and time seemed to pass quickly and they were not far from the Turkish boarder.
Arash didn’t quiet understand the stories his mother told him and he certainly didn’t know about crucifixion. He couldn’t quite understand his mother’s telling; the stripping and stretching out, nails through the hands and feet. Then there were stranger stories, the calling “Father forgive them” “today you will be with me in paradise” He found himself strangely drawn to the death of Isa, it seemed to linger within him like the stories of Gilgamesh, except with these stories there was an aching longing in him. He hoped he might one day see a picture of the dying Isa and understand it more deeply.
Maybe Farhad, Arash’s travelling companion, had guested the situation. As they approached the village where Farhad lived he suggested to Arash he could take him over the boarder in his vehicle. Being a local Farhad knew the back roads which crossed the boarder without the usual checks. He said he knew a small village just over the boarder where he had friends, Farhad could take Arash there, stay the night, he would be safe.
So they travelled on. The road began to climb become twisted and narrow. Farhad certainly know the way and without any problems they had soon crossed the border and were heading downhill towards the lights of a small village. He pulled the truck off the road and the two men jumped down onto Turkish soil. Farhad led the way into a small timber single story house. The interior was dark with pictures and carpets hanging on the walls and draped over the furniture. There was a log fire burning in the hearth and the smell of cooking.
Farhad greeted the owner warmly; Yahya was a tall man with a coloured turban around his head and remarkably had no beard, indeed no facial hair. They spoke in Turkish, turning now and then to contemplate Arash the object to their conversation. Arash began to feel anxious; what were they saying about him? Surely his situation of obvious, the truth was laid bare and Arash was vulnerable wishing now he had never taken the lift with Farhad.
Yahya broke off the conversation and drew close to Arash, placed his arm on Arash’s shoulder he said in Farsi “brother, you are welcome in this house, there is nothing to fear here, you are safe”. Indicating to Farhad he said “We are both followers of Isa, we must welcome the stranger”. The ice was broken, Yahya had made himself and Farhad vulnerable but there now was an understanding between the three men, an understanding about who Arash was and why he was escaping. There was no further need for questions or examination, there was a companionship and respectfulness about what had been spoken and that which had been left unspoken. Warming stew and bread were bought from a small kitchen at the back and the three men ate in silence gazing into the fire.
Farhad had made his goodbyes and returned over the border sometime during the night leaving Yahya and Arash asleep on mats in front of the fire. In the morning milk was warmed and fresh bread made for breakfast. Yahya seemed to have a plan for Arash. He cleared away breakfast and hurried to find Arash a clock and hat, “I am not quite sure why”, Yahya said, “but before you travel on, I need to show you the most important treasure in our village”.
They walked in silence into the village, Yahya nodding at neighbours who seemed interested and maybe nervous that Yahya was with a stranger, an obvious Persian. They arrived at a plain but well painted wood building. Yahya moved forward to open the door but stopped and turned back to Arash. “Arash” he said, looking intently into Arash’s eyes, “I have bought nobody outside of the village to this place, but for reasons I do not know or understand I must show you this”.
The two men entered the rough church building, Yahya leading the way to the front and a small table with a ornate gold cloth laid over it. With Arash at his side Yahya took a breath and slowly lifted the cloth. Instinctively Arash bend over to look more closely in the dim light, but immediately stepped back releasing a high pitched gasp and then a whimper. His heart began to beat loudly in his chest, he gasped for another breath and steadied himself by grasping the arm of Yahya. It was a picture of Isa, but more than a picture, it was an icon, a drama unfolding, a horror, a balm, a bullet to the chest .
Isa Ibn Maryam was stretched out and nailed to a cross with his arms open which seemed to invite Arash to draw closer. Isa’s head was bleeding and his body was twisted and Isa was looking at Arash. Kneeling now at the image before him Arash looked at Isa and Isa looked at him and loved him. Tears slowly ran down Arash’s face, Isa was nailed to the cross and in some part of Arash’s consciousness Isa spoke to Arash “father forgive” “today you will be with me in paradise”.
There was much Arash could not understand about Isa, but the strangulation of Iran, the fear, the judgement and the pointing of the finger had seemed to melt in the love of Isa nailed to the cross. Arash felt sure that the drama, forever played out in that picture, touched an eternity and a new kind of living which he now needed to explore.
Coda Maybe paradise is not a location, a spiritual kingdom of bliss beyond earth and in another dimension. Perhaps paradise is perceived in a spark, a glancing moment of tenderness, a sudden revealing of truth, or a touch of intimacy if only for a brief moment. Surely we are never quite be the same afterwards, or at least we are changed – our humanity made more divine.
Arash continued his journey onwards seeking a home, a place where he could love and be loved. Whatever happened to him in that wooden church, supported by a stranger, he had glimpsed eternal life with Isa nailed to the cross, and beyond Isa, the opening of a gate of love.
