مئة الخطايا (A Hundred Sins)

I'm not really entirely happy with this, but I don't know why. Something about it bugs me, so I'm hoping you can tell me what that is. Also, you'll have to ignore the lack of footnotes for the time being and pretend you know what I'm talking about without them Thanks!





مئة الخطايا

Karbala, Iraq - 10 Muharram, 1429 A.H. - 12:41pm

It was a sea of black on the morning of Ashura. We all bent in prayer at Mashhad al-Husayn in honour of our fallen hero, Husayn ibn Ali. Hundreds of thousands of Muslims had come to Karbala just for today—just like every year prior. Somewhere men were reading the soaz and latmiya, and the Sheikh was reliving the battle of Karbala to all his willing, prayer, silent following—even the baby was quiet on this day.
We were meant to be thanking Husayn for his sacrifice as the battle was told, but I was neither prayer nor listening—I could only think of what was to come. In just a short bit of time, the zanjeer matam would start; our mourning clothes would be stripped and replaced by bright white to be stained in red. Hafeez and Umar were still too young to participate, and with our father in the military this year it would just be Qasim and I running with the other Muslim men while our mother and sisters watched and read surahs from the Qur’an.
I was thrown out of my thought process as we were released from prayer. As we stood, our family collapsed in together and began babbling about the rest of the day. A tap on my shoulder pulled me away, “Hey! Khaliq!”
I spun directly into a friendly hug from a family friend, Ibrahim, “Hey Ib.” Ibrahim was to marry my sister, Fatima, at the end of Muharram (we weren’t allowed weddings near Ashura) as my father had promised before he joined into the military.
“Where’s Fatima?” He was genuinely happy with the arrangement, at least there was that much. And for a first wife my sister was perfect. I pointed her direction and was immediately left in the dust.
Qasim and I stepped off to the side into a small room where we had left our garments for zanjeer matam, “You ready for this, little bro?” Qasim smiled my direction as he changed his black pants into white and motioned for me to do the same.
I nodded and pulled my shirt off, replacing it was a white tee shirt which had had the back cut out of it—fabric would defer the ceremony, “First year doing it without father.”
“He’ll be there, somewhere, wishing he was with us. We’re the lucky ones.” Qasim was always the more mature of us, always made any situation more comfortable just with his presence. Ever since I was a boy I followed his footsteps wherever they led, and I would do the same today. “Here.”
He tossed me a chain, string and knife from the pile in the corner to make my zanjeer from. I watched him carefully as he constructed his own. I had done this for nearly ten years on my own, but every year I felt as though I had to relearn the process or all would fall apart. Qasim lay his aside and helped me tie the knife to the end of the chain tightly. He ran his fingers over the blade carefully, pulled a tiny line of blood from his fingertip as he did so. He nodded, handing it back to me, “It’s ready.”
“Let’s go.” Qasim grabbed his zanjeer and we headed out into the streets with thousands of other men dressed in white, blood dripping from their backs as they celebrated.
We stopped on the sidelines for a moment, taking in the thrill of Ashura as if it were a fragrance to be inhaled. Men danced around in circles, ran in packs, jumped up and down. Screaming, yelling, praising as she struck their own and others backs with their zanjeers. Littered sparingly among them were both Iraqi and American soldiers, dressed in full camouflage attire and armed with weapons.
Glancing to my right I found one such American standing beside me, shaking his head slightly. For the past four years these soldiers have invaded our home, patrolled our streets, and sacrificed our people—but they could never understand us, and they would never try.


Karbala, Iraq - 19 January, 2008 A.D. - 1:15pm

Since the fall of Hussein and the shift of power from Sunni to Shi`i, the day of Ashura had become more and more violent. This year was no different than any other as I stood in the crowd, watching boys as young as six years old striking themselves with axe heads, chain, knives, whips and anything else that would cut the skin. It didn’t matter to them that it was illegal—not in the least—and we could do nothing to stop it.
I felt eyes watching me and turned to my left, where a young boy looked me over, unsure of what to think (or what I was thinking). He nodded to him and let out a small smile, but I was not happy to see him in matam gear. Looking over his stature a bit, he couldn’t have been much older than my own son who had just started and seventh grade. I couldn’t even begin to imagine Adam out here in pain with blood running down his back proudly, all just to feel physically what the Muslims felt emotionally thousands of years ago. That didn’t make sense—not for anyone, no matter how young of old.
The boy cocked his head to the side and gave a glance up to the boy beside him. They looked similar, and I guessed they were brothers—but, that was an easy guess here. The other boy was quite a few years older and had a proud look about him, while the younger expressed more fear than anything, but possibly a bit of pride for his brothers attention.
The elder whispered something to the younger, and they ran off into the crowd with chains flying. Such violence for something that happened so long ago. I often wondered about the chain of thought for events like these. Didn’t prophets die so that others wouldn’t have to feel pain?
I shook the thoughts from the head and brought myself back down to my position, surveying the area a bit and looking for suspicions. Since the power change, there was frequently violence other than that of self mutilation on Ashura, and that was our job. We had made a clean sweep of the area earlier that morning, but there was no way to stop one of the millions of people crowding the streets of Karbala from bringing their own explosive—and that’s what we were on the look-out for.


Karbala, Iraq - 10 Muharram, 1429 A.H. - 1:30pm

The first time the zanjeer strikes the back is the worst. I let out a cry as the knife sliced my skin, but no one could hear it—everyone was yelling and crying out. We stood in a group of about thirty men, and the next few hits on my back came from strangers. I nodded to thank them and returned the favor. They say “a single tear shed for Husayn washes away a hundred sins” and that is what we are all about.
Qasim smiled and howled in excitement as he turned to me, silently telling me to turn around. I obeyed and another cut ran through my back. I could feel the blood running down onto my white pants as I returned one for my brothers—an honour we had both saved until this moment and cherished, as we would not touch each other throughout the rest of the ceremony. That was the last strike I would feel the rest of the day; the rest would blend in with the numbness.

We didn’t see it coming. There was a man dressed in white in the middle of the crowd. He was smiling and holding his rather large stomach as he bounced on his feet. It didn’t occur to us that he wasn’t carrying a zanjeer, nor was he missing the back of his shirt. Qasim was on a roll, spinning in circles and twirling his chain above his head before dropping it on a friends back. He didn’t stop to examine this man before extending it to him.
Half a second was all it took for more than fifty men to disappear. Qasim was gone, I couldn’t even begin to look for him. There was silence around the missing circle of worshippers. Soldiers and Iraqis alike lay still in the mix.
“A Sunni!” Somebody yelled, followed by yelling from nearly every man in the crowd. I didn’t scream; I couldn’t. I had been thrown onto a pile of building rubble. I couldn’t move—I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t feel my limbs or my heart beating in my empty chest.
My head fell to the side as a cockroach crawled beside me, scurrying to get to safety, and I wondered for a moment who died so that he could life. Was it Allah? Was it Husayn?

…was it me?

I liked it alot. I think a brief authors note in the beginning might be a good idea to explain the Islamic terms, but I also think that the narrative does a good job of explaining the basic idea of the ceremony. Things like "soaz and latmiya" I don't know, but from the context I can assume they are prayers/prayer books. So, for the most part, you've done a good job at guiding the non-Muslim reader.

but I was neither prayer nor listening

Prehaps you meant "praying".

I see what you mean by something not feeling right. I think that problem is in the ending.

We didn’t see it coming. There was a man dressed in white in the middle of the crowd. He was smiling and holding his rather large stomach as he bounced on his feet. It didn’t occur to us that he wasn’t carrying a zanjeer, nor was he missing the back of his shirt.

I like this introduction of the problem.

Qasim was on a roll, spinning in circles and twirling his chain above his head before dropping it on a friends back. He didn’t stop to examine this man before extending it to him.

Now, does Qausim accidently cause the explosion or does the suicide bomber do it himself? I think this part is ambigous and that you could clean it up.

Half a second was all it took for more than fifty men to disappear. Qasim was gone, I couldn’t even begin to look for him. There was silence around the missing circle of worshippers. Soldiers and Iraqis alike lay still in the mix.

Honestly, as morbid as it seems, I want more description, more imagery.

“A Sunni!” Somebody yelled, followed by yelling from nearly every man in the crowd.

This line strikes me as delayed. Plus, the verb "yelling" doesn't seem to do justice to the tragedy I can see in my head. Again, I think there could be more, clearer descriptions.

I didn’t scream; I couldn’t. I had been thrown onto a pile of building rubble. I couldn’t move—I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t feel my limbs or my heart beating in my empty chest.

I think this is fine.

My head fell to the side as a cockroach crawled beside me, scurrying to get to safety, and I wondered for a moment who died so that he could life. Was it Allah? Was it Husayn?

…was it me?

and this is what I dislike. I don't like the comparasion to a cockroach. Isn't there something more valuable to compare his life to? I appreciate the imagery and the way you try to tie in the idea of sacrifice, but I don't think this is the way to do it. I can't think of how, but maybe this will help you firgure it out.

It's a great idea of a story, and I feel like I learned a bit about Islamic traditions and conflict. I like it and hope this helped.

Hey there Via!

Your story is very well written however I must ask how much you researched for this topic. I have attended majalis's (mourning) and matham since I have been a child. I'd just like to share my experience with you as I am a shia and we even hold majalis's at my house.

There is no designated number of people that you need to hold a majalis. There can be two or as many as the whole town. It doesn't really matter. The whole point is to get together and discuss, mourn and learn about the sacrifice Imam Husayn gave.
So here we have everyone gathered. Usually, majalis starts with a couple of marsiyas. Marsiyas is poetry expressing the sorrow and tell about the day of ashura.
After this the Zakir(male)/Zakiraa(female) sit on risen place and talk to the gathering about the Ashura, Imam Hussein, his message and mourn. Anyone can be a zakir/zakiraa (zakir comes from the word zikr which mean to talk/converse/tell etc.). A zakir usually expresses talks about the effects of Ahura and the message of Imam Husayn and relates it to modern day. Near the ending of his zikr, the zakir usually goes into a full mourning mode and you'll usually see people take out their handkerchiefs and weep including the zakir/zakiraa. They usually tell about the suffering of Imam Husayn's family towards the end in detail, which creates great sorrow. A lot of Muslims especially Shia are emotionally very close to Imam Husayn.

After the zikr all participants of the majalis stand up for Noha. Noha is also poetry and much like Marsiya. During marsiya people do matham. Majority do matham by beating their chest with their hand and quite lightly. You try it. It doesn’t hurt. Some people do tend to strike themselves with which knives and such but I have only seen that outside a Mosque in extremely large gathering and only minority of the people do. It’s more of a cultural thing and is actually not considered lawful by most shia Aalims.

Q1449: In commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Husayn (a.s.) on the tenth of Muharram, some people hit themselves with a machete, or walk bare-footed on fire. Such actions defame Shi'ism and put it in a bad light, if not undermine it. They cause bodily and spiritual harms on these doing it as well. What is your opinion in this matter?
A: Any practice that causes bodily harm, or leads to defaming the faith, is Haram. Accordingly, the believers have to steer clear of it. There is no doubt that many of these practices besmirch the image of Ahlul Bayt's (a.s.) School of Thought which is the worst damage and loss.

The zanjeer matham takes OUTSIDE of a mosque and only a few people participate in it. It is by no means obligatory and is actually discouraged. So I was sort of surprised by your story. I also see blood donation people who try to convince people who do zanjeer matham to donate their blood for the needy in the name of Imam Husayn instead of wasting it on the streets. Znajeer Matham is by no means encouraged in Islam. It’s more of a cultural thing between illiterate people.

As for why people still mourn for something that happened 13 centuries ago… read this:
http://www.roshd.org/eng/beliefs/index.asp?BEL_CODE=101

After matham people sit down together and eat or the food is distributed. People bring food to share with everyone. Think...potluck.. =).

I just recently moved to Pakistan for two years so I've also gotten to see the majalis done in a true muslim country on a closer perspective. And what I have mentioned above fits the facts.

I hope this helped. Keep researching though!
=)

Mizz Iceberg

Ah! Thanks so much for the info! I was having a hard time, actually, coming up with reliable information on the ceremonies of the day and ended up improvising quiet often here.

As for why people still mourn for something that happened 13 centuries ago

Just so you know for sure, I wasn't saying it was bad/wrong just trying to show the differences in thought between the eastern and western worlds. Hope that came across okay.

Really, thanks for the information. I really do appreciate it (love to learn about things I haven't/will never experience, it's fun!) but I probably won't change the story now as it's for a contest that ends sooon haha.