“Space Imam” is a story excerpted from Hassan Blasim’s forthcoming collection entitled The Buried, to be published at the end of the year, by WSOY in Finland, and Comma Press in the UK.
Hassan Blasim
Translated by Hassan Abdulrazzak
They said, “Read!”
I said, “I won’t read!”
They punched me, and I fell off the chair.
They said, “Read?”
Anoko, the planet of the mixed ones, was near the border of the Free Peoples’ planets. It was a place that gathered migrants from across the galaxies. Humans and machines lived together in a strange balance. It’s true that the planet was suffering from resource crises, but life went on, and the crime rate was moderate. I was one of the envoys of the “Space Imam.” My mission was clear: to reach the planet Anoko and offer guidance to our fellow believers. But the journey was never easy. Distance wasn’t the only problem — there were also many religious questions that arose in this new chaotic and cosmic reality. My companion on the ship, Mansa, was half-human, half-machine, and was being pursued for being smuggled from the Free Peoples’ planets and reprogrammed. We seized him in a successful act of piracy that took place years ago.
As we were traveling through this vast space, we began discussing religion. How do we apply religious rulings in this strange world? Mansa was eager to know whether a human could marry a being from another species. I told him that questions like this are addressed in the Jurisprudence of Space by master al-Sadr. The believers had taken his rulings further, but his work served as the foundation. It covers matters like purity, prayer, inheritance, food, marriage, and other rulings. And in answer to your question: yes, marriage with other creatures is permissible. And in point 15 of the marriage rulings, the master states:
“If a marriage occurs between a human and a non-human, the children may be male or female from the human species, or they may be from the other species, or they may be a hybrid created between the two — in any case, they are entitled to the rulings, rights, and inheritance applicable to children.”
After several days of travel, we arrived at Anoko and the planet was unlike anything I had imagined. Half of the planet was immersed in advanced technologies, while the other half lived a primitive life. Everything was intermingled: humans, machines, extraterrestrials — but without clear values governing them.
Mansa accompanied me to a meeting with some brothers, who offered us a small apartment with an office for receiving visitors. The next morning, Mansa went out to explore the city, while I remained, waiting for believers to visit. I was only required to consult with specialists in two cases.
The first was a visitor from a sentient animal species, who had a romantic relationship with a half-human female. His issue was that he could not ejaculate during intercourse unless she played with his tail at the same time, which his girlfriend considered forbidden. The second visitor was a human descended from the first settlers on Mars. He told me that on a nearby moon, intelligent creatures were being bred, and their meat was sold here on the planet at bargain prices compared to lab-grown meat available in the markets. He said to me: “We are poor and need to feed our children. I know the Jurisprudence of Space prohibits eating human flesh as well as the flesh of sentient beings from other celestial bodies, but we have no other option. We won’t survive without this meat.” As for the rest of the believers, their issues were simpler — related to almsgiving, fasting, prayer, and common questions about marriage, divorce, praying in zero gravity, and the rules of ablution.
After finishing my meetings with the believers, I called Mansa, but he didn’t answer. I tried again, but he wasn’t reachable. I grew worried and left for the city to search for him.
They said: “Enough, you scumbag — don’t continue!”
They brought out a hair clipper, shaved my head bald, and filmed me with their phones. A week earlier, I had posted my short fictional story on Facebook, inspired by the rulings in the Jurisprudence of Space book. My dad always used to say: “Your Facebook posts are going to get us into trouble one day.” I was just heading out to work, trying to make an honest living — I had a small shop in the market where I sell children’s clothes. A white car pulled up, and three men got out. They took me to a nearby house. They weren’t masked — I knew them. They were members of the Imam’s group, led by Sheikh Mazali, who controlled our neighborhood.
I told them: “I didn’t mean to mock anyone. The master’s writings show a great imagination, and he wrote about many scientific details that could be useful to humanity. And even if my Facebook writings were a bit bold and weird, that’s what makes the book stand out and draws attention to the master’s work.
They said: “Look at this smartass trying to lecture us! First — delete your Facebook and Instagram accounts. Now. In front of us! And the Second punishment — you’ll be sweeping the street with the workers every day for a week. And if you open your mouth again, your end will be at our hands.
They humiliated me. I was boiling with rage. You can’t report them to the police, and even your family and tribe can’t do anything. Their militias had total control of the area. They didn’t post the video of me being shaved bald and said, “This is out of respect for your father.” That was because of my father’s generous donations of sheep and chicken during religious occasions. I thought about grabbing my dad’s gun and killing them all. But I thought of my mother, my sisters, and the consequences. I swallowed the bitterness of humiliation and endured.
I went out to sweep the streets, and they assigned a young street cleaner named Alawi to train me. I asked him, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“I’m five years older than you — what could you possibly teach me? It’s just sweeping trash!”
“Everything needs to be learned. Trash is a treasure if you have half a brain.”
I had my brother attend to my shop, and I stayed on the street, sweeping with Alawi. Little by little, I started getting to know him and discovered his personality. What caught my attention most was how passionate he was about the idea of generating electricity from waste. He had finished high school but didn’t continue his education because his family was struggling financially and he needed to work and support them. He told me he had studied on his own online and was ready to produce electricity from trash — he just needed a little support at the start.
My relationship with Alawi eased some of the bitterness I had been carrying after what the Imam’s group had done to me. I grew to admire him and tried to understand more about his ideas and project. I invited him to dinner at my house. We sat in my bedroom, and he started showing me videos and explaining how to generate electricity.
Alawi said, “Listen… in many places, they use garbage landfills to generate electricity. The idea is simple: waste decomposes over time and produces methane gas. This gas is collected through underground pipes, then burned to power a generator. The result? Clean electricity from garbage. But here, we don’t have a large landfill — just open spaces that were originally designed for recreation and now used by people to dump their trash. We can do something similar, in a simpler and more accessible way. Instead of waiting for the waste to decompose underground, we can speed up the process through biological fermentation. We need a sealed container, place it in an open space, fill it with food scraps — we can even use sheep droppings — anything that rots quickly. Inside, bacteria will break down the organic material, and gas is released. A small pipe collects the gas, and we store it in special gas canisters. After that, we can use it for cooking, heating — or even to run a small power generator with it. The idea might seem basic, but it’s already been tested in many places.
I asked him, “How much would it cost if we wanted to start?”
Alawi thought for a moment, then said: “First, we need funding to generate electricity for one house. If the experiment works, people will get excited and start donating so we can power the whole neighborhood. And if things go well, the bank might give us a loan and we can expand the project. We can start small — producing biogas — with a budget of $4,000. We’d need a fermentation container, gas pipes with a safety valve, and a storage tank, like a modified gas cylinder. The rest of the materials — filters and assembly tools — aren’t too expensive.”
I said, “Are you sure it’s just $4,000? That seems really low for the idea.”
He smiled and said, “No, I’ve calculated it. And we don’t have to buy everything new at the beginning — what matters is that people see the experiment, and they’ll definitely be impressed. First, we will be getting rid of the trash, and second, we will generate electricity.” I stayed up with him that night — he explained more about the project, and then we watched a series on Netflix. He told me about his father, who had volunteered to fight ISIS and was killed. He asked me, “What’s your dream?” I said, “I don’t know. Sure, I love writing, but that’s just a hobby. I want to travel, see new places. I love nature. Or maybe my dream is to escape from everything into nothing.” Alawi laughed and said, “You’re out of it. ‘Nothing’? What does that even mean?!”
After I finished my street-cleaning punishment, I went back to the shop, but I stayed in touch with Alawi and we developed a strong friendship. One day, I was chatting with my sister — she’s a biology teacher — about Alawi’s electricity project. She thought for a moment and said, “I have an idea for funding. There’s an advisor from the Imam’s group whose wife is a young woman and a friend of mine. He’s married to two women, and my friend is the second wife — she’s young, educated, smart, and super sweet. Her husband never says no to her. She might give you the money.” I hesitated and reminded her what the Imam’s group had done to me. She said, “Come on, it’s not like you did anything really bad! They forgot. They’re all busy now with the elections and stealing money.” She promised to talk to her friend and get back to me.
After some time, my sister came back and said her friend would give us the money — but on one condition: that the first electricity-from-trash experiment be done at their house, so her husband would be convinced and maybe the Imam’s group would adopt the project. We agreed. Alawi was overjoyed, but I was still a little hesitant. We got the money. For a full month, we worked non-stop — collecting and buying materials. Then we set everything up in the garbage open space and started working. The neighborhood kids kept mocking us, but in the end, we managed to produce methane gas and fill it into special cylinders… and the moment of truth drew near!
We went to the advisor’s house. His wife welcomed us. We finished the wiring and hooked up the lightbulbs, refrigerator, and television. After half an hour of work, her husband came in with an aide. Before he even spoke, the aide gave me a sharp look and asked, “Aren’t you the one who wrote Space Imam on Facebook?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He looked at me with disdain and said, “How do you have the nerve to come here?”
The advisor asked about my family and turned out he knew them. He laughed and said, “Your folks are good people. I hope you’re doing something worthwhile.” Finally, we got everything working — Alawi’s test succeeded, and they were impressed by the idea. The advisor ordered the media committee from the Imam’s group to cover the story and pay attention to it.
Overnight, we became famous. In the video they released, they talked about “the achievements of the youth of the Imam’s group despite poverty and government neglect,” and they blamed corrupt officials for stealing resources. They even connected the topic to the past — praising their scholars who, they claimed, had written about space and science years ago, pointing to the Jurisprudence of Space book. A few days later, we received a gift: three hundred dollars each. They promised to assign specialists to help develop the project. We were thrilled. Messages and offers started coming in from other provinces. After two weeks, we installed the gas canisters and hooked them up to the advisor’s house, waiting for funding.
Then one morning — disaster. A gas leak had happened, and when the advisor’s wife had turned on the stove, the house caught fire. She escaped, thank God she didn’t have kids, and her husband had a TV appearance at the time. The house burned down completely. Nothing was left. I called Alawi. We were scared and that same day both he and I escaped down south to the marshes, where his uncle lived. I had a go at Alawi and he started crying, poor thing. I consoled him by saying, “The important thing is no one died. We’ll find a solution.”
His uncle was a good man — they called him Abu Fadhel. We told him the whole story, and he understood. He said, “Come fishing with me, relax a bit, and we’ll figure out how to solve this, once things settle down. Most importantly, don’t go around telling strangers about it. Just say you’re from Basra and came to help out your uncle.”
He had colon cancer, and his condition was serious.
The water shimmered under the sunlight, and the scent of the marsh filled every breath — the smell of mud, reeds, and water. On our first day of fishing, Alawi and I were in the mashoof (a narrow canoe), and Alawi’s uncle was talking about fish; about the birds that flutter over the reeds, about the marshes that you have to understand, listen to, and feel. You have to live with it, become part of it, so it will offer its sustenance. The fishing net was heavy in my hands — it kept slipping through my fingers as I lowered it into the water. I felt like my heart sank with it, waiting for that first fish to be caught. Alawi laughed and said, “So, new fisherman — how does the sci-fi guy feel now?” Abu Fadhel lit a cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and said in a low voice filled with sorrow: “The marsh is sick today, dying. The drought will kill everything.” He paused, then continued: “The water is low, the fish lost, the birds disappear. And if the marsh dries up… how will we live?”
We saw the marsh as life but Alawi’s uncle looked at it with fear. The fishing wasn’t great. We rested and grilled some fish for lunch. I asked his uncle: “How can this country change? Isn’t it a shame — all these resources, yet all this poverty, fear, and deprivation?” Abu Fadhel said, “These marshes have sheltered many armed movements in the past — the communists, the Islamic parties, even army deserters during the dictator’s time. This country is divided — full of sects, ethnicities, and religions. Armed movements won’t help — they’ll just increase violence and division.” I said, “We need a peaceful revolution.” Abu Fadhel replied: “Even a revolution won’t help. What’s the alternative? The revolutionaries are raised in the very farm of corruption. This country’s history has never changed through reason or reflection — it always changes through catastrophe. From the Mongols to the Americans. Invasions and coups have been nesting here for centuries. Things change only on the surface. Because the change doesn’t come from the minds of the people. Change through invasions and coups comes with consequences — it takes years to heal from. The only solution in this country is to save yourself — by yourself.”
After two weeks of our life in the marshes — which had started as tourism and wonder but gradually turned into hardship, heat, mosquitoes, and boredom — the issue of the fire at the Imam’s advisor’s house was finally resolved. My tribe and Alawi’s tribe paid compensation to the advisor. Alawi decided to flee Iraq and leave through smuggling. I sold my shop and returned to the marshes to stay with Abu Fadhel. Despite the difficulties of life, I decided to be patient, stay here, and integrate with the marsh. I met a group of young men who had formed a small grassroots organization with limited means to protect the marsh birds — many of which were endangered due to drought and illegal overhunting. I rented a small mud room from Abu Fadhel, fixed it up a bit, arranged and secured it, and started volunteering with them. The money from selling the shop covered my expenses, but I knew I couldn’t stay unemployed for long. Sometimes I went fishing with Abu Fadhel, but most of my time was spent learning from the marsh bird association.
I started seeing birds differently — as I began to learn their names, their migration patterns, which ones were wild or aquatic, their lifespans, their beauty, and their stories.
Alawi came to visit me to say goodbye before fleeing Iraq for Turkey, and from there to Europe. We chatted and laughed about ourselves and the miserable state of this country that lives in a spiral of violence and fear. Alawi asked me, “Is it true that the master in his book about space says it’s possible to throw a corpse to animals so they eat it?” I said, “Yes, it’s true — but he explains the topic in detail. He says that if burial isn’t possible, and if there’s no liquid, like water or something else to throw the body into — like a lake or even a valley — and if that’s not possible either, then yes, it could be thrown into space. Of course, he says it should be moved if the corpse poses a danger to others — like if the corpse is inside a spacecraft for a long period — and the last resort would be to give it to animals to eat.” Alawi stared, worried, and then said, “The master’s mind is wild — like you, he loves science fiction.” Then he asked me about my story: “So, what happened to the Imam’s Messenger and Mansa? You didn’t tell me the ending.”
I said, “The story is long. I was thinking of posting it in parts on Facebook — but you can’t write freely in this country. Anyway, listen — two days later, Mansa appeared in front of the Imam’s Messenger and told him what had happened:
Sir, I apologize for my absence. I was unable to send any distress signals because the gang that kidnapped me disabled my remote system. Then they took me to a place called “The Valley of Reverse Burial.” They intended to bury me, thinking I might come back, as I had transformed into something beyond my own capacity. Sir, the valley is no ordinary place. It is a vast force of metallic clay, shimmering under the sun of “Omis Three.” At dawn, every crack in the valley turns into lines of light, as if the sun itself were merely a reflection of what the earth has buried. The gangs control the place. They say that anything buried there at night will reemerge at the first light of dawn —as something magical and precious. But not everyone is lucky. Some only find an empty hole, and others never return at all.
I saw someone bury an old, augmented reality headset from the “Blue Settlements” era. When he dug it up, its lenses had turned into holographic projectors displaying maps of paths not yet discovered in distant star systems. Another buried a broken power disc, only to find it pulsing with a deep blue glow, generating clean energy from an unknown source and radiating a light that changed the color of the horizon at sunset. Even an elderly woman, sir — I saw her bury a handful of soil from her original planet, which died a century ago. By morning, the soil had turned into seeds of a plant unknown to recorded star catalogs. The seeds sprouted instantly, as if they came from another era. People harvested them cautiously, as if the plants carried a mysterious legacy. Even the gangs, sir, no longer content themselves with stealing from dreamers — they’ve begun experimenting on beings like me. They collect discarded mechanical limbs, malfunctioning control devices, half-organic remains from ancient Martian wars, claiming they’re assembling a monster from the future that waits to awaken. It seemed as if they were creating wonders and sins together. I heard that the government is preparing to reclaim the valley. They say it’s called the “Restoration Campaign,” but there’s hesitation in the decision. They know the gangs don’t just control the valley — they’re part of a broader informal economy that empowers them across the planet.
If the government tries to seize it quickly, it might find itself in a devastating war. Tensions are already rising on the horizon. The government knows that any rash move could destabilize the planetary balance. As they always say: “A fragile peace is better than open war.” It’s said in back rooms, there are some who support swift reclamation of the valley, while others resist, warning it could lead to an unpredictable disaster. Mystery still shrouds that cursed land. What’s buried at night may carry a power no one can predict. Some say the government is deliberately cautious because they understand that the valley isn’t just about controlling a place or a resource — it’s something deeper, sir. It’s about time itself, about fading memories and irretrievable moments. Some speak of “messages” in buried objects. Rumors swirl of a force capable of controlling the burial itself — suggesting that not everything is buried by choice. Perhaps it’s all part of a larger plan we can’t yet comprehend. Is this part of a government scheme? Or is there a third force behind it all? Questions with no answers.
Sir…I think I’m lucky because I managed to escape — and because I’m here, speaking to you now. Or, at least, I believe I’m in a strange state of awareness, after the days I spent there. Maybe I’ve changed a little, or maybe I simply see things differently now. But let me tell you this: the valley is not just a pit, nor merely a burial site. It is a battlefield of time, and it lies within reach of anyone who understands how to dig into the depths of the future — not as it appears, a place to bury the past and retrieve it anew.
* The Jurisprudence of Space is a book authored by the cleric Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr. In this book, the author presents his unique vision regarding Islamic legal rulings in space, along with his ideas about what may happen in the future, in an attempt to link Islamic jurisprudence with advancements in science and technology. Muhammad al-Sadr is considered a significant religious authority and is influential among most of the Shiite parties that dominate power in Iraq today. Many of these parties possess armed militias.
His son, Muqtada al-Sadr, leads a broad religious movement known as the “Sadrist Movement,” which enjoys wide popular support and has an armed wing. Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr himself was assassinated in the 1990s. Some blame the dictatorial regime at the time of his assassination, although no conclusive evidence has ever been presented.
