My experience of my trip to Iraq during the Holy month of Muharram. The air itself was energized, excitement in every breath. For weeks, people in our town have been waiting for this day. Preparations for the Husseini caravan from my town heading towards Karbala were all that people ever talked about. The date and time was set, which was this day at nine oclock. My sisters and I dressed in black and went downstairs to eat breakfast with my parents. We couldnt eat anything because of how excited we were. We hurriedly finished and put on our head veils and niqab (many women who go walking to Karbala wear niqab and gloves for added modesty). We stepped out of our house on a beautifully sunny day, the air was a little chilly, but refreshing nevertheless. My father led the way, heading towards the town square in the middle of the bazaar. Walking from our house to the town square was an adventure in itself. I looked around and saw our neighbors coming out of their houses. Men holding flags, while veiled women followed close behind them. Everyone was leaving their houses empty, taking their entire families to this Journey Towards Paradise. Once we got to the town square, we saw hundreds and hundreds of people already there. The official procession had actors reenacting the tragedy of Karbala. Horses, camels, swords, and shields were used to portray the scenes more accurately. The actors portraying the enemys army were adorned in red clothing and feathers in their turbans. The ones representing Al-Hussein (a.s.) and his family were in white clothing with metal shields. The woman representing Sayida Zainab (a.s.) as well as the others were draped in black clothing, nothing showing from them - neither face nor hands. Drums were banging, speakers were playing a variety of different Latmiyat so loud, the actors speeches could barely be heard. I stood on my tiptoes to try to see the reenactment, but I gave up after realizing that the street was way too crowded, plus, I wasnt the most vertically endowed person in the crowd. I looked around, trying to absorb my surroundings, for surely this was a unique experience that needed to be engraved into my memory. I noticed an old lady standing to the side of the reenactment procession. She was shouting and waving her hands vigorously. I squeezed myself through the crowd to try to hear what she was saying. How dare you!! How dare you! she was yelling. How dare you hit Zainab when we are here! How dare you lay your whip on her when we are here! Back then, she had no one to stand up for her, but now her Shia are all here to defend her. How dare you hit Zainab! How dare you! she repeated. People all around were trying to calm her down and explain to her that this was just a reenactment, and wasnt real. No amount of convincing could calm the poor old ladys nerves. The actor playing the role of Shimr, who was the one whipping Zainab (a.s.), took off his helmet and put down his whip and came towards the lady to try to explain to her that he was just playing a role. The old lady had an apple in her hand at the time, and when the actor came close enough, she threw the apple hard towards his face, yelling angrily at him, repeating how dare you over and over as tears streamed down her cheeks. Some of the crowd began to laugh at the apple being thrown, but I began to shed tears at such an earnest scene. This lady saw a a mere representation of the whipping of the Pious Ladies of Al Mohammed, and she couldnt suppress her anger, so how would it have felt to have actually been there during the tenth of Muharram? The caravan of actors began to move then, and we started to follow, walking on the main streets that have been cleared specifically for the travelers to Karbala. All along the road, there were tables, tents, and buildings that were extremely inviting and hospitable to the Travelers (mashaya). Every step we took, there was a man, woman, and child - young and old - all asking, even pleading, us to come eat from their food or drink from their tea. I realized within the first kilometer we walked that I saw practically every type of food that could possibly cross my mind. From roast, to soups, to salads, to fruits, to chocolates, to rices, to every other food imaginable. A couple of hours into the walking, my mother became tired (being diabetic, she needed to have something to eat every hour so that her blood sugar level stayed normal). We stopped at the first tent that we came across. I read the sign hung on the tent. It said: The Youth Of The Iraqi Army At Your Service. Young gentlemen in camouflage ushered my mother, sisters, and I into the tent. Six or seven of them at a time welcomed us courteously and brought us food. My mother said to them, Please dont bring us anything, I just want a piece of bread to eat so I can take my medication. That, of course, was unheard of for them. They brought hot, freshly made bread (I could see one of the men making them right outside the tent), along with eggs, vegetables, lentil soup, and five different types of cheese. We thanked them profusely, and all shared one bread just to taste their hard work that theyve done in honor of Al-Hussein (a.s.). After finishing our meal, my mother told us that she kept losing track of us in the crowd because all the women were veiled in black, so we decided to tie a green strip of fabric that we had gotten from Karbala around our heads. My three sisters and I were now just black figures with nothing showing except our eyes and the green band around our heads. We headed back out in the street, walking with the hundreds, even thousands of people who would tread this honored path. I listened to the owners of each shack we passed by as they generously offered rest and nourishment to every single person that passed them. It was unbelievably heartwarming to witness. We were approaching an old man a few feet ahead of us, standing next to his table that was piled with an assortment of fruits. He was holding up a megaphone and speaking into it, his voice audible over all the hubbub around us. Hela beehum Ziwar Al Hussein! (Welcome, visitors of Al-Hussein!). Lovingly greeting the Travelers and sending words of encouragement to all the passerby. When my sisters and I passed him, he said loudly through his megaphone while looking at me: Always remain like this oh Zaynabiyat. You raise our heads in pride oh Hashimiyat! (women of the Prophet pbuh). I nodded once in his direction, whispering to myself that is the only path we take pride in. As we resumed our walking, I whispered to my sisters on either side of me at how amazed I was at everything around us. As I was leaning towards my sister, I felt a tug at the back of my head. My eyes grew wide at the same moment my sisters eyes grew wide. I knew she felt the same tug on her head as well. We slowly turned to see what it was. There were old ladies, two persians, and two iraqis, tugging at the green cloth that was tied around our heads, making a prayer and tying the tip of the cloth that was around our heads. I looked at my sisters and nodded towards them, indicating that we should just continue walking. As we walked on, more people started coming up to us and tying the tip of our head bands. Trying not to be too surprised, I carefully untied the many knots and kept going. I knew that there was a tradition where a person would make a prayer to God and tie the green cloth they get from Karbala, symbolizing the knot of their troubles, and it was customary for the next person to untie the knot (as to free and untangle that persons problem). I made it my job to be the official Knot Undoer. A woman came up to me and asked if we were part of the reenactment clan. I said no we werent, and she told me that that was why people were tying knots on our head bands - they thought we were representing the women who were taken as prisoners after the battle of Karbala. What should we do? I asked, bewildered. Nothing. she laughed, just keep untying as you go. And thats exactly what I did. What a journey this will be, I thought, and we were only at the beginning...
Posted on: Mon, 15 Sep 2014 18:12:23 +0000
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