Voices of Islam (88 page)

I look up to see the rugged, sun-dried face of a village woman who had obviously spent much of her life toiling in a field.

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‘‘
Khanoom,
Ma’am. Who are you crying for?’’ she asks. ‘‘
Dohktareh baradar-eh man.
The daughter of my brother.’’ ‘‘What happened?’’

‘‘Her friend died, and she was hurt,’’ is all I can say before crying again. The woman stands up and walks to the wall that separates the men from the women. It is just a couple of feet taller than the top of our heads, and she must have heard her husband’s voice on the other side of the wall. ‘‘Hossein,’’ she calls.

‘‘Yes?’’

‘‘Tell all the men to pray for the foreigner’s niece.’’

I hear the sound of a man telling everyone to pray for my brother’s child. The voices of at least a hundred men hum with prayer. On our side of the wall, the other women look at me, raise their palms in the air and pray. It is then that I realize that I am the only person who came to this shrine alone; everyone else is with family and friends. They sit in tightly knit groups and comfort each other—sometimes laughing, sometimes crying—and I sense an enormous loss for not being part of a group of women this day. Yet I am surrounded by their loving prayers, and I feel threads of destiny weaving us together in an endless tapestry of mothers, daughters, and sisters who have shared this blessing of life since the dawn of time. My loneliness drifts away like embers in the night.

Those seated along the wall inch toward me until I am embraced between the shoulders of two women I would share this moment with, but never get to know. They have powerful shoulders that speak of strength—of lifting rocks and sowing fi before the setting sun allows them to surrender to the day’s exhaustion.

I find comfort in our shared silence as we wrap chadors over our faces and peer out at the crowd that moves past us like moments in eternal time. Because I am seated on the floor, what I see first is the women’s feet. As they move along, their veils open up just enough to reveal their life stories to me. There are ancient feet with bony lumps bulging from the side; feet that have walked so many miles of life that they seem weary and ready for eternal rest. There are delicate city feet with golden bracelets resting peacefully on the ankle. One woman hobbles along with a wrinkled clubfoot covered in the brown-black skin of southern Iran where Arab tribes have lived since migrating there centuries ago.

Shimmering fabrics in red and green swish past me as Qashqai tribal women take time from their mountain migrations to seek the blessings of the venerated man whose body rests a few feet to my left. The gold threads that are woven into their skirts flash rays of light across space and time as the women seem to float along the marble floor. I am in awe of their ability to maintain traditions in the onslaught of our televised McWorld. Enormous silver bracelets jingle around their wrists as they move to the back of the shrine to perform their prayers.

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The women next to me slowly drift into a gentle slumber and I rise to say goodbye to this mystical place before heading back to the outside world. I wander in silence and take in the sights for the last time. Prayers are engraved in marble slabs along the walls that women touch as they recite the Qur’an. Ceramic tiles in brilliant blue and white reflect the flood of light that pours down from the mirrored ceiling, filling the room with a blaze of white. I watch two little girls in blue jeans and pink sweatshirts dancing in front of a floor fan as their grandmother looks on affectionately. There are grown women lying with their heads on their mother’s laps. Their heavy eyelids rise and fall in an effort to take in all the sights and sounds before it is time to depart. I understand their need to make the experience last.

Meandering slowly toward the door, I recall one of my favorite verses of the Qur’an, the verse about light:

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The parable of His Light is as if there was a niche, And within it a lamp: the lamp enclosed in glass

The glass, as it were, a brilliant star lit from a blessed tree An olive, neither of the East nor of the West

Whose oil is well nigh luminous, though fire scarce touched it Light upon light! God doth set forth parables for people

And God doth know all things.

(Qur’an 24:35)

I take one last look at the women who surround the tomb and bend down to reenter the black cloth that leads to the outdoor courtyard of the shrine. Suddenly, a clap of thunder shatters the air and shouts of ‘‘Alhamdu Lillah!’’ (God be praised!) echo through the crowd like a wave of joy. I step into that enchanted mixture of sunshine and rain that has puzzled me since I was a child. Wrapping my chador around me, I run across the glistening pavement to the columned portico on the other side of the courtyard. The delicately carved wooden pillars have eagerly absorbed the rain and are already filling the air with the musky scent of their ancient lives.

I turn around and feel a joy like I have never encountered before. It seems to rise on wings from the horizon of my soul and embrace the sunlight, the raindrops, and the whimsical scene before me, where people are laughing and covering each other with jackets, chadors, and oversized purses. I see the touch of God’s plan for our salvation and it is Love.

It is time to leave, and yet I have no remorse. A content serenity embraces me as I lift my hand and quietly call for a taxi. A young Mullah jumps out from the passenger’s seat to open the back door for me, hesitating momentarily when he notices my foreign features. Smiling sheepishly, he waits till I am seated and then jumps back into the car. In typical Iranian fashion, we will share a taxi through this wonderful city and then never see each other again.

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I smile behind my veil and watch the taxi driver and the Mullah trying to make sense of me without staring; the rearview mirror seems to hold a new fascination for them. They give each other puzzled looks and then we joyfully splash through puddles of God’s mercy as we pull away from the shrine, listening to the comforting rhythm of the rain on the roof of our car.

10
‌

T
HE
P
ASSION OF
‘A
SHURA IN
S
HIITE
I
SLAM

•

Kamran Scot Aghaie

Shortly after American and coalition troops removed Saddam Hussein from power in Iraq in 1983, people around the world witnessed an amazing phe- nomenon. In the days leading up to the Shiite commemoration of ‘Ashura, hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of people poured onto the Iraqi streets and began passionately beating their chests and heads with their hands and chains, while chanting religious elegies, prayers, and slogans. A few even used blades to draw blood as the world watched in confusion, shock, and disbelief. This massive outpouring of religious sentiment was due in part to decades of frustration at the restrictions that were placed by the Sunni but largely secular Baathist regime of Hussein on Shiite public religious practices in Iraq. Being able to commemorate ‘Ashura freely was an important event for the Shiites of Iraq. But what was the world to make of the apparently violent and self-abusive rituals of ‘Ashura? Many Sunni and non-Muslim observers thought that the participants must be crazy. Many thought that they must be extremist religious zealots. However, those who were familiar with Shi‘ism and its distinctive rituals realized, despite the shocking impres- sion these rituals left in the minds of many people around the world, that by and large the participants were ordinary Shiites involved in traditional expressions of piety and spirituality. In order to properly understand these rituals it is first necessary to understand the historical development of the symbols and rituals associated with the day of ‘Ashura, which is at the core of the beliefs of Shiite Muslims.

‘Ashura is the 10th day of the month of Muharram, which is the fi month of the Islamic calendar. The day of ‘Ashura is important to Muslims for two main reasons. First, the Prophet Muhammad identified the 10th of Muharram as a holy day of fasting.
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Second, it was the day on which the tragic massacre of Karbala took place in 680
CE
, in which the Prophet’s grandson Husayn was killed along with most of his close family members. The symbols and rituals of ‘Ashura have evolved over time and have meant different things to different people. However, at the core of the symbolism

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of ‘Ashura is the moral dichotomy between worldly injustice and corruption on the one hand, and God-centered justice, piety, sacrifice, and perseverance on the other. Also, Shiite Muslims consider the remembrance of the tragic events of ‘Ashura to be an important way of worshiping God in a spiritual or mystical way. The emotional reactions of believers to the tragedy of ‘Ashura are thought to build a closer relationship between the individual Shiite Muslim and the martyred Imam Husayn, who serves as an intermediary between God and the average believer. It is said that if a believer sheds even one tear for the tragedy of ‘Ashura, he or she is guaranteed admission to Paradise.

Politically, the symbolism of ‘Ashura has been important in many rebellions and reform movements throughout Muslim history, such as in the overthrow of the Umayyad caliphs by the Abbasid caliphs in 749–750
CE
. More recently, in Iran, the symbolism of ‘Ashura was a central part of the antimonarchy discourse of the Islamic Revolution of 1979, and in Lebanon the symbolism of ‘Ashura played an important role in promoting Shiite communal identity and in mobilizing Shiites against the Israeli occupation of southern Lebanon. Central to the political dynamic of ‘Ashura has been its association with the tragic massacre of Husayn and his followers at Karbala. As a commemoration of Karbala, ‘Ashura serves as a vindication of the Shiite cause and also provides the foundation for a diverse array of beliefs and rituals, such as mourning rituals, funeral-style commemorative processions, verbal and performed reenactments of the events at Karbala, self-mortification rituals, and of course, politically oriented rallies and speeches. However, the commemoration of ‘Ashura has not always been associated exclusively with sectarianism or even with Shi‘ism. Many non-Shiite Muslims, especially those oriented toward popular Islam, also commemorate ‘Ashura. For example, in Sunni countries like Egypt and Morocco, Muslims commemorate ‘Ashura in ways that are distinct from Shiite practices. In the twentieth century, Sunni involvement in the commemoration of Karbala has gone through a relative decline, whereas among Shiites it has continued to evolve and change as it did in previous centuries.

This being said, the sectarian aspect of ‘Ashura is critically important to understanding the signifi e of this commemoration. Islam, like other world religions, has always been characterized by a great deal of internal diversity. One of the most important examples of diversity in Islam is the Sunni–Shiite divide. Today, Sunnis make up approximately 85 to 90 percent of the Muslims in the world, while Shiites constitute approximately 10 to 15 percent. While Shiites live all over the Muslim world, approximately half of them live in Iran. The other major concentrations of Shiites are in Iraq, Lebanon, Yemen, Bahrain, Azerbaijan, eastern Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Afghanistan, and various parts of South Asia. In many of these countries, Shiites are either a minority or a majority who have little or no infl in the government. Today, the only explicit Shiite government is the Islamic