There's something about these historical figures that doesn't leave you. Old, almost ancient names like Ali, Hussain & Abbas, sit within the fortitude of millions, a foundation that not even the distractions of the West can seem to burn out. Something I've noticed, many aspects of religious belief can be easily eradicated from daily life of youth who move to the West, but with whatever they may falter in, this Hussain, this Ali, this Abbas, are always a red line that can not be crossed. Keeping this fact in mind, it is due to these personalities (and for whatever reason, beyond every difference and division, beyond the political and the perceived religious scope) that you have the eyes of the most random people shedding tears and wailing for not being given the chance to visit a grave and a shrine in a country half-way across the world. Whatever Hussain is, whatever the religion is that surrounds him and whatever the realities of life are, this historical figure can make a Pakistani young man with a culture crisis (is he Pakistani or is he Iraqi? If he's Pakistani how does he speak Arabic? If he's Pakistani why does he have that big Najafi nose?), born and raised in the famous Western city of London, long to be in a desert land amongst the desert Arabs next to an ancient shrine that sits in the endless desert. It is a wonder that such a land far, far away, can be so embedded into the heart of a man who has only heard of it.
After years of waiting, longing, failed Visas and tickets, failed trips and friends who failed on me, I think one day I suddenly broke through the proverbial cracking point (I cracked, basically). My mind-set took a 360 degree turn. If my Visa failed, I'd search for an alternative. If no friends would come, I'd go by myself. It's a lesson to myself first and others after me, when someone has that true longing to visit that land of dreams, nothing on Heaven and Earth would stop him.
With such determination I painted a picture that I'll never forget. A Pakistani who has left the UK three times (Pakistan twice & France once), who speaks broken Arabic, I was left to stand and wander in that ancient city of Najaf at 4am in the morning all by myself. And I loved it. I dream about it, that place, that land, that dust. Is it truly anything more than Heaven? It's the most beautiful answer to that begging question, "When will I go?"
What was most staggering to me there was the morality of the people. Whilst awareness of the red line between right on wrong in Iraq is, to be frank, varied, the overcoat hospitality is unbeatable, especially in the months of mourning that are Muharram and Safar. People grab you apologetically if they brush past you, they'll smile and joke with you even though they may be old and you young, they'll look into your eyes with the respect given between long-time friends. In regards to the deeper believer, Iraq is a place where you can find the worst of people, but when you find a man of respect, faith and humility, you will never see a man like that anywhere else in the world. It's something to envy, living in the West in a world of opportunities, to be that man who is truly rich, having conquered himself.
The begging question: how did you react to the shrines? I'll leave that to my poetry to depict.
After visiting the grave of the prince, Imam Ali, and praying the morning prayer, I wanted to, still by myself, head out and walk toward Karbala. This was all fueled by passion, the ability to wander a strange city and even attempt to make my own way to another. But it was inert, I had to get to Karbala. Every since I got to Gatwick (depressing airport by the way) the previous night, I had that image of the dome of a certain companion of severed hands, continuously playing on loop in my imagination. I wandered around for a bit longer, a bit unsure of where to go. I asked one of the workers in the shrine, who replied, in Arabic obviously, 'do you want to take a taxi or walk?'. I looked at him and threw my hand in the air, I'm walking it mate. (Obviously didn't say it like that). He held my shoulder, like a father holds a son, as if I was worth a million dollars of gold, and told me exactly where to go, and not to forget him in my prayers. There may be a tear in my eye now, but then, it was just a sense of relief and true, raw happiness in my heart. I'm in Najaf, and I'm going to Karbala.
I set out, and there's something about this 3-day walk that is just wonderful. The people that were setting out with me were just laymen who decided get up on go, nothing but prayer beads in their hands and sandals on their feet. No-one brings anything with them, families don't even travel together, whoever gets that feeling to go, he gets up and he goes. On the side of the roads sat old men with ancient speaker systems, covered in dust and sitting on mats, reading poetry and eulogies in mourning of the tragedy of Hussain. Voices of angels, yet none went by the names of Bassim or Jaleel, of Sayed Jassim or Sayed Hadi. Laymen, nothing more.
Alongside all those walking, set up across the desert terrain were thousands upon thousands of uncountable tents, mosques and marques. All booming latmayat with speakers so old that they were once admired by us in the '90s, and, more importantly, all giving out tea and newly cooked food. To call these offerings free would be an injustice, the men behind these offerings were begging the millions walking to come and drink from their tea, their water, and eat from their food. If they didn't just shout it out as they worked, they'd stand beside their tents and shout. If they didn't stand beside their tents and shout, they'd come into the street and stand in front of those walking, begging. One man would cry, "Step on my head, step on my chest, step on my heart, but don't humiliate me. Come and eat from our food." It was just a beautiful experience I cannot begin to explain, one that every single lover of Hussain deserves to embark upon. And there are millions of walkers, millions. There is no set time to leave and arrive, in the space of about 13 days many choose to walk, leave when they please and arrive when they please. Yet in the random time that I left, I found myself amongst thousands. All dressed in black, some alone; some with their wives and children; some carrying flags; some in wheelchairs; the young, the old; the married, the single, I could go on. What an experience, nothing can beat it.
After a few hours of walking like a soldier my feet were in pain, so I took a number of rests. Sitting down with a random Iraqi man drinking tea, I took great pride in walking from 8am-3:30pm and being half way there. Just to make sure, I asked him so, how long left? He answers, "yumkin fed tes'een kilomeetr." (Basically I've only walked 10% of the way). It was here I broke another proverbial cracking point. The tiring walk didn't bother me, I can rest and take my time if I wanted to, what bothered me is I wanted to see the shrine, and I wanted to see it today, before the sun sets. With that in mind I faced a dilemma, asking my inner-self a deep and serious question: can you really be pleased with yourself knowing you never finished the walk?
So about 5 minutes later I found myself in a Taxi, 40min away from Karbala. I waved at the driver and he just drove past, but he came back feeling guilty. After 5min of conversing (and he spoke no English but we got on pretty well), it turns out he was Karbalaei and hadn't been allowed back into the city to see his family for three days, as all the road were closed. However, I had the golden ticket: a British passport (don't try that at home, that was a pretty stupid thing to do, but it worked out for the best). In fact he was so happy that because of me he was able to get home, as we drove past the checkpoint where all cars were turned back he ensured that I'd first come to his house, he ensured that I'd eat his food (which turned out to be traditional Iraqi sheep's head, which I gobbled down) and then he'd take me to the shrines.
Entering the city, he rolled down his windows, saying 'smell that, that's the dust of Karbala'. I have never felt at home. What dust, what beauty, what wonder. I used to wake up and stand on the street, just breathing in her dust. Is there really any other place to call home? Honestly.
Upon entering his sitting room we had to rush out into a side room, as his wife was having a majalis Husseini. As we ate and spoke, I heard 10 minutes of passionate mourning (or, as I would really say behind the curtain of my formal internet grammar: all I heard was 10 minutes of wa7shi dega Karbalaei latom), before they all went home again. What a beautiful way to be welcomed into the city of Imam Hussain.
Once again, regarding the experience of visiting the shrines for the first time, that's for myself.
I've been to Iraq twice in the past 6 months, simply because I can't bare its absence. Coming back from the second trip, continuously every morning for 6 days, every other morning for the following 2 weeks and every morning once in a while here and there, I dream. I dream I am walking next to the shrine of Abbas, I dream I am walking in the shrine of Hussain, I dream I am walking in the courtyard of Ali in Najaf, I dream I am in Baghdad, I dream I am sleeping next to Abbas like I once did, or sitting on the pavement and gazing at his dome beneath the starry yet irrelevant sky. And these dreams are so, so real, I wake up with fear that I have got up and gone to Iraq without informing family or work, and my first thought is how shall I contact them. Truly, the heart does not come back with the body. Truly. As a friend over there told me, 'I see you gazing at the sky sometimes. It shows that you're heart is relaxed.' The West is a place of hardship and tribulation, such as is life. We work, we learn, we provide for our families. But places like Karbala are nothing more than Heaven. You are pleased with yourself there, pleased with the world. It is beauty manifested into space and time. And that is just an expansion of it's only possible description: it is Heaven.
Whilst Karbala, Najaf, Samarra & Kathemiyya can be called Heavenly for spiritual purposes, away from the religious veil Baghdad is just as beautiful, and Iraq is as a whole. This entry was more about the shrines than the country, such as is the importance of the country to me personally. But, truly, Iraq is beautiful.
