Oh my beloved Samira... I can still remember her sweet face; her dark, doe-like eyes and those deep, ruby red lips. She stole my heart, and one day,
inshallah
, I will return to Iraq and find her again. I suppose that for many of you Americans, Brits and other westerners reading this right now, the idea of Iraq as being a 'romantic' place might seem more than a little unusual. And a couple of years ago, I might have even agreed with you on that one. But maybe after you read my story, you will understand how I lost my heart back on that rich Mesopotamian soil, where the Tigris and Euphrates meet.
It all happened last year at
Muharram
, the first month of the Islamic calendar, which corresponded to December and January last year. In case you haven't figured it out yet, yes, I
am
a Muslim; a Shi'a Muslim in fact. My parents were born in Iran, and fled to the west after the fall of the Shah. It was from them that I inherited my faith in 'Ali and the Imams, and our very rich, beautiful Persian culture.
You see, the earth itself takes on a special significance to us. The holy cities of Kerbala and Najaf, both in Iraq, are some of the most important sites for us, after the holy city of Makkah (or Mecca) of course. According to tradition, the first Imam, Ali ibn Abi Talib, was buried at Najaf, while his son Husayn was martyred and buried at Kerbala. As such, both are major pilgrimages for us Shi'a Muslims. Moreover, many of us (myself included) even pray on
turbah
, or tablets made of clay from Kerbala, following in the tradition of the Prophet (PBUH).
Perhaps now that you know this, you will understand why I would spend my winter in Iraq. In fact, it was actually my first time in the country. I had been overseas before, even visited family in Iran, but visiting a country that is still in the middle of a war was... an interesting experience. The process of getting into the country in the first place was long and convoluted. I just wound up joining a caravan of pilgrims heading west from Shiraz, in southern Iran.
As might be expected, the bus ride was long, tedious and boring. My Farsi was still good enough where I could make conversation with the old man sitting next to me, at least, when he was awake. Mostly, though, the conversation consisted of him asking me what life in America was like, and whether I knew anyone famous. I had to disappoint him and tell him that I didn't. Just because I live in L.A. (or "Tehrangeles" as many of us Iranian-Americans affectionately call it) does not mean that I've ever met anyone from TV or movies. Still, at least he was nice enough.
As we got closer to the Iraqi border, some of the passengers began to chant the familiar praises:
"Kul yum Ashura, kul ard Kerbala!
or
"Every day is Ashura, every land is Kerbala!"
I chanted along with them for a while. Like most chants, it was fun at first, but eventually it wound up getting a bit repetitive. In fact, truth be told, I was a little glad when the bus driver finally stopped at a little travelers inn somewhere out in Maysaan province. Actually, calling it a 'traveller's inn' might be a little
too
generous on my part. It looked more like some sort of dilapidated estate, maybe even a Saddam Hussein-era government building that had been reclaimed by the locals. Maysaan is a predominantly Shi'a province right next to the Iranian border, and it suffered heavily under Saddam. I really can't say that I blame the locals for being pissed at the government.
Whatever the case, the sun was starting to hang low on the horizon, so we had to stop for Maghrib prayers and rest. We would be continuing onward to Kerbala tomorrow. I was just happy that we would get a few hours off the bus. Time to stretch my legs and maybe see what the local culture was like. After all, this was my first and perhaps only visit to the holy land of Iraq. I wanted to make the most of the trip while I still could.
Of course, as anyone who has spend any amount of time travelling through the Middle East can tell you, when things go wrong, they all go wrong at once. At some point in the middle of the night, someone stole our tires! This wasn't a huge deal, mind you, but it was rather inconvenient. It was only a couple of days away from the 10th, and while the bus driver assured us he could get new tires, it didn't look like we would make it to Kerbala on time. Our local host assured us that this sort of thing
never
happens in his village, but under pressure, he conceded that this sort of thing had become relatively commonplace in the country since the invasion.
Some of the other passengers managed to hitch rides with other caravans of pilgrims, and I can only assume that they ultimately made it to Kerbala. But as for myself, I decided it was an exercise in futility. Maybe I'm a pessimist or something... I don't know. But in a way, I guess I'm glad that I decided to check out the town, because that was where I wound up meeting Samira.
As you might have guessed, pilgrimage is a big deal in Iraq, and a corresponding tourist industry has grown up alongside it. In almost any
souk
or market-place, there were literally dozens of vendors peddling everything from posters of the Imams and Ayatollahs (both Muqtada al-Sadr and the late Ayatollah Khomeini were popular at the time) to religious tracts and
turbah
for prayers. Often, these were arrayed beside other goods that were seen as "traditional" handcrafts from Iraq, as if to appeal to Iranians, Lebanese and other non-Iraqi pilgrims.
From the way that the American media portrays Iraq, you'd never know that women ran many of these stalls. Hell, you'd never know that women freely walk the streets of Iraq. But then again, the media says the same sort of bullshit about Iran too, so I suppose that I shouldn't be surprised. The truth is, many women have little choice but to work such jobs. Years of Saddam Hussein, two Gulf wars, and the subsequent ethnic and religious violence that ripped through the country following the invasion left many people dead, particularly the men. Many of the women were widows who had no choice but to try and support their families alone.
And that was how I met Samira. She was operating one of the many stalls catering to pilgrims. Its just that through some amazing, cosmic coincidence, I happened to choose her stall. I don't know if I'm comfortable labeling it as fate, but what the hell. It certainly sounds a hell of a lot more romantic that way, so we'll just run with it for now.
Samira was a cute Iraqi Arab woman, somewhere in her early to mid-thirties, wearing a simple hijab and a traditional embroidered women's
'abaya
. Of course, I wasn't really in Iraq to meet girls. I don't expect that sort of behavior would go over to well with the locals, especially in the countryside, and I assumed she was probably married anyway. So I was more than a little surprised when she started making small talk with me as I browsed over her wares.
"Do you see anything you like," she asked me.
"Yes," I said, picking up one of the
turbah
s with the names of the
Ahl al-Bay't
imprinted on it, "How much for this one?"
"Only seventeen thousand Iraqi dinar," she said.
There was a short paused as she looked me over.
"Are you an American," she asked after a while, "You speak Arabic so well..."
"
Shukran,
" I responded, "Yes, I am American, from California, but my parents came over from Iran. I am a Shi'a Muslim. That's why I came over here for Ashura."
"I see," she said, her interest clearly piqued, "My name is Samira."
We wound up having a very nice little conversation, making quite a bit of small talk. Its pretty much the only way that you can get anything done in the Middle East, really. We talked about our families, what life is like in America and Iraq, even our views on politics, which was a little surprising given how sensitive such matters can be. I learned that Samira was a widow, that her husband had been killed shortly after the American invasion, and that she had two children she had to support by working odd jobs. Her cousin had actually helped her set up her little stall to cater to pilgrims during the pilgrimage seasons.
