Ashura

I wrapped myself in my grandmother's black shawl, leaned against the turquoise blue exterior tiles of the mosque and stared at the mourning ceremony. It was Muharram, the month of admonition and marking the anniversary of the battle of Karbala (a civil war between the Shiites and Umayyad). I was watching the Shiite Muslims commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Hussein. It was customary for mosques to provide free meals on certain nights of the month to all people. My grandmother and every one in that neighborhood had arranged long wooden tables in the narrow street with water pots on top- years later in Boston, I saw similar arrangements in an Italian neighborhood fest. The meals served during Ashura were viewed as being special and holy, as they have been consecrated in the name of Hussein. My grandmother's house was located close to a Husseinieh where men and boys were portraying the Battle. It was a musical act, an Iranian opera, a religious dramatic play and reciting poetry. In the wake of the incident, men in inspiring high and low movements overwhelmed viewers by respect, love, fear, pain and death. Some of them engaged in chest beating were moving in circle. It was an odd set of circumstances. I was eight or nine and mesmerist by the event and by one of Karbala's children, a slim and shaved head boy. He was on the center stage, built temporary in the middle of the narrow street. In the damp night the performer boy looked quite sensational. He moved his hands with such passion and individualistic rituals that he made it almost impossible not to think he implored to capture audience attention. The tiles of the mosque, the air and my body felt warm. The devised gates of a forbidden zone was unhooking . As the war drums pounded louder, men parading around the stage slapped their chests harder for Hussein. At that moment I came to realize, I have my own set of mind and belief system!