Emotion, Intellect and the Message of Imam Hussain (a.s)

In the last couple of weeks, the terms, 'intellectual', 'universal', 'logical' and the like have been thrown about more than I can remember in previous years- mostly with regard to mourning Aba Abdillah (a.s) and also spreading his message. There seems to be a growing hype around 'not letting emotion cloud our intellect' and other such mottoes.

And on the face of it, I don't have a problem with being intellectual or logical- Islam, or specifically Shi'a Islam has always shown an underlying encouragement to think independently, to have to think and make informed decisions- the Marja'iyya system is only one great example. As for universal- Imam Hussain (a.s) and his message is universal no matter which religion, ethnic group, which sect, which city, country or town decide to claim him as their own. He has been admired by non-Shi'as, non-Muslims, even secularists and his light has reached out to countless people, many of whom probably didn't know anything about Islam other than what erroneous fractions of information and connotations the media so generously provides.

What's intrigued me this year however, is the increasingly rife opinion that there is a battle between the emotion and intellect within us- Intellect vs. Emotion, that one must be toned down somewhat in order to make room for the other. There are a few possibilities as to why such a notion exists- perhaps it's another Hollywood-esque notion that we've come across in one too many dramatic movies or the soaps we watch or other aspects of society- someone has to 'be strong' and crush and trample on their emotions in order to be a man and do the 'right, logical thing'. Or maybe we just haven't stopped to think this whole thing though; perhaps we've all just seen two bandwagons and decided that we need to jump on one and crush the other in order to 'establish' ourselves- while we stand between two extremes, we feel that we are nobodies.

There could be another million reasons, but my point is that suddenly I'm coming across a lot of bold statements criticising, belittling and possibly side-lining emotional acts in this grievous month. There's been a lot of talk about not letting the focus of the first ten days of Muharram be mere crying and mourning, but to actually embody the virtues of the personalities we commemorate. But again what gets me is, why not both?! Are the two so antithetical that we have to rank one above the other? It reminds me a little of the whole debate about religious rituals and (vs.) spirituality- does it matter if my physical Hijab is a little compromised as long as my social Hijab is good? Is it really that important how many units of prayer I think I performed as long as my heart is pure? And the conclusion that most logical beings will come to is that the two sides of the coin are equally important, if not complimentary to each other. Too much of 'it's what's on the inside that matters' and we turn into what most of Christianity has become today, and too much military-mindedness on rituals and we can call ourselves Wahabis.

I say that emotion and intellect are complimentary to each other because our emotions are manifestations of our intellect. There are people who will tear up upon the mentioning of Aba Abdillah's name- why? It's not because they're emotionally charged people. When we cry for Imam Hussain (a.s), it's because to some extent, however limited it may be, we have an understanding of him, who he was, what he embodied, his status, and in light of all this we realise how unjust the happenings of Ashura were. Is this not intellect? If we didn't have an understanding of the Imam, if we just knew his name and nothing else, would we be able to cry for him? I don't think so. And it works the other way as well- emotion can awaken the intellect. By far, the best and biggest example of this would be Sayeda Zainab (a.s), Imam Sajjad (a.s) and Ummul Banin's (a.s) actions after Ashura. They used grief- probably without even trying- to elicit free thinking in people's minds once again, to remove the blinding screen from in front of their eyes and make them smell the coffee. I don't need to get into the countless narrations we have from and about Ahlulbayt (a.s) grieving for Imam Hussain (a.s) and the reward and status of tears that are shed for him.

So after all this, it still surprises me that people can underestimate the importance of emotion. One of the justifications that often crops up is our geography- how can we spread the message of Imam Hussain (a.s) if all we do is weep and cry? Well, the way I see it is this- someone who doesn't believe in any creator, doesn't subscribe to any religion or belief system can encourage charity, volunteering and every other good act under the sun (in fact, they do very often), but we have something so unique and unparalleled. The passion, the immensity and the incompatible emotion surrounding Imam Hussain (a.s) is something that nobody else has, and instead of using it, we are often downplaying it to make his message 'blend in' with the society in which we live, thinking that it will be more accepted when in fact, it's doing exactly what we say it will- blend in. It just becomes another 'one of those' and no longer stands out.

Of course, there are obvious lines that common sense draws so I am not suggesting that we cross those. What I am saying however, is that we need to realise just how powerful emotion is and make use of it! Haven't we all watched one fictional movie or read one fictional book at the end of which we are somehow touched or inspired by it, that we want to change something, or go and emulate some character and do something huge? Well, Ashura was the most blatant reality; it happened, its heroes existed! Don't our hearts melt when we hear about Abbas's (a.s) surreal saga? And don't they break when we hear about the six month old's unspeakable martyrdom? So to underestimate its influence and power is a huge injustice to what happened. As Edward Gibbon has famously said,

'In a distant age and climate the tragic scene of the death of Hussain will awaken the sympathy of the coldest reader.'

Reform

How time flies! I can't believe we're less than a fortnight away from Muharram. I don't know about you but Muharram has always been a time of reform (whether that reform is successful is another matter) for me- even more so than Shahr Ramadhan. I think it's because of the sudden change in environment, surroundings, priorities- when everything else around you changes, you want to change with it- or at least you find it easier to.

And quite literally, everything does change; the black clothes come on and black flags go up, people take days off work, students work like donkeys to meet deadlines in order to attend majalis, the Latmiyat go on, movies, cheerful outings with friends get put on hold. Our priorities are totally re-written for at least these first 10 days. And for some of us, this sudden 180 degree change in the surrounding world also makes us want to turn our own lives around. 

The question is though...how? Last week I was sitting in a periodontology workshop which focused on patient psychology. The big, mind-boggling dilemma was- how do you get patients to take up good oral hygiene habits and give up bad ones? And I was shocked to find how many of the tips the lecturer was giving us could be applied to pretty much any habit or behaviour in life. I won't bore you with the nerd-evidence notes I took down, but I'll mention two key points. 

The first thing she said and kept emphasising on was specificity. Incidentally I remember listening to a lecture by Sayed Mahdi al Modarresi a while back where he mentioned the same point- it's no good just telling myself, 'Stop backbiting. Speak less. Don't lie. Pray on time.' I need to sit down and spot the pattern- which friends am I always with when I start backbiting? What is it that always distracts me and delays my salah? What time of day do I usually commit XYZ haram? If it's the evening, take up an evening class to keep myself occupied. If it's when I'm alone, always make sure I'm with a family member or friend. If it's person X with whom I'm comfortable to backbite, cut down how much time I spend with them. 

The second point I thought was key was the 'review' phase. Apparently patients were more motivated to floss (Hallelujah!) if they had a chart to tick off daily and even more so when they had a follow-up appointment booked soon after the targets (which should be achievable and realistic) were set. So it's no surprise that we have so many narrations emphasising on taking account of our own deeds. Only to quote a few:

'He who takes account of his soul will understand his defects and know his sins. He will repent for the sins and amend the defects.' - Imam Ali (a.s)

''He who takes account of his self profits, he who neglects it is at a loss, and he who fears will be safe.' - Imam Ali (a.s)

'He who takes account of his self prospers.' - Imam Ali (a.s)

I think writing things down or having some sort of visual manifestation of one's own progress really helps as well- how amazing is the feeling of ticking off something on a to-do list?

I really hope this Muharram is a time of successful reform for all of us- myself first and foremost. These blogs aren't supposed to be some kind of preaching platform, but very simply, my thoughts put into writing and mostly a reminder for myself, with the minute possibility that a passer-by might benefit as well :)

Eid Mubarak!

Eid al Ghadeer mubarak to Aba Saleh al Mehdi (atfs) and to everyone else on the day that this religion was perfected and God's favour upon us was completed- the day that Amir al Mu'mineen was announced to be our guardian and leader and our link to God Himself.

I don't have words to express my thankfulness for knowing about Imam Ali (a.s), let alone acknowledging his wilaya. No words can do justice to the good and the clarity this man brings into the lives of people who know him even remotely. He is such a gift to humanity and although I myself am not worthy of calling myself one of his Shi'a, I know for sure that people who don't know Imam Ali (a.s) are missing out on the treasures of life.

A couple of years ago I started reading a book called, 'Ali, the Voice of Human Justice' by George Jordac, a Lebanese Christian. In his book he wrote, to paraphrase, that Imam Ali was created for the wrong time, because when he was alive and ready to offer his wisdom and knowledge, there were only a few who wanted to listen, and now when we are in dire need of his economic, medical, and all sorts of other excellences, he is no longer on this earth. And honestly it makes me wonder- how absolutely amazing would it be if we had him among us? How many ingenious solutions would he provide for our problems? My imagination goes wild thinking about it!

Anyway I don't have a specific point to make in this post- just wanted to wish everyone an very, very happy Eid. This Eid has something very special about it, and whatever it is just makes me so ecstatic :) InshaAllah next year we celebrate this Eid alongside the Imam of our time, who will one day fill the world with the very solutions that Imam Ali (a.s) would have :)

Solitude

This year has been a tough one- a sudden leap from my blissful Gap Year to stressful first year of a demanding uni degree, having to make decisions I never even imagined I'd be put in front of, and some close friends moving on, changing, moving away, getting married, having kids, getting on with their lives. It really has been one of those 'stone being fired to diamond' phases (conceited as that sounds). And from all this, the lesson that I think I've finally learnt is, the importance of solitude, of being left on your own.

I didn't realise until this year how dependent I was on my friends and their opinions and advice when making decisions- and I don't mean that in a peer pressure kind of way, I mean it genuinely, I value their opinions because I respect them and look up to them. But it seems I'd been bubble wrapped until this year; I'd never actually been left alone to make on-the-spot big decisions all by myself, and the fact is, we never really know ourselves until we are alone. Even the ahadith emphasise to be wary of the those deeds we perform when we are alone.

And while this isn't a totally relevant example, I guess it's time to add a bit of humour to this blog so: it was always easy to avoid handshakes with males when I was with my friends. A huge bunch of Hijabis. If one of us declined, the rest wouldn't get offered one. This year however, I experienced possibly the most awkward moment of my life so far. It was the second day of uni and there was a staff-student social kind of lunch. I was late so I joined the queue as my cool new friends sat down to eat and saved me a seat. A lecturer came up to me to introduce himself and stuck out his hand for me to shake, and I put my hand on my chest and said, 'Oh...I don't shake hands...religious reasons.' BUT with my wonderful luck, the poor fellow didn't hear me. Suddenly, he puts his cold, wet water bottle into his other hand, starts wiping his handshake hand on his chest and says, 'Oh! So sorry! My bottle made my hand wet!' and sticks his other hand out again. As you can now imagine...I wanted to die. Or a chandelier to fall to divert his attention away from me. Or something. Finally, I explained all over again, to get a 'Oh...right...sure...' from him, before we had a quick intro with lingering awkwardness, and moved on.

The point is, as babyish and obvious as this sounds, things have been tougher without the huge group of Hijabis around me, but it's good. I really feel like I've grown up this year more than I ever have before (you know there's progress when your own mum tells you you've 'matured' Yep, she used that word). I'm becoming the person that I think I more or less will be for the rest of my life.

When I first came up with this idea for my blog, I was thinking more along the lines of alone time, reflection, contemplation- that kind of solitude. But upon reflection and looking back on this past year, after all the struggle, complaining, the 'what am I doing with my life' moments, the pre and post exam breakdowns, it hit me that all in all...it's been a good year for me. Not enjoyable, but good. Not fun, not something I want to repeat, but good. It's moulded me, even if only slightly. Alhamdulillah.

Anyway, it would do no harm to write a little about my original idea. Individual alone time is more important than most of us think. Most of the time it's so easy to go with the flow, follow the crowd, we barely think about what we do. And hopefully most of us have decent friends so the price to pay for that kind of carelessness isn't too harsh, but still- it's not a risk we should be taking. Reflecting, evaluating...these things are vital. A while back one of my mum's friends was saying that even 10 minutes of reflection and alone time everyday can make a world of difference to our decisions during the day.

So far I feel like Shahr Ramadhan really has allowed me to reflect, think about my seemingly smallest decisions, and I hope that by the end of it I really do feel detoxified and ready to jump back into a tough second year of uni, socialising, and well...life, I suppose :)

Calamities and Tawakkul

Many years ago, there was a man in one of the rural towns of Iran. He owned a very small farm- nothing special, and he had split the crops of this farm into two parts. One part, he would use to feed his very large family- he had 9 children. The other half of the crops would be sold to earn his livelihood. Living in the time of Reza Shah Pahlavi, the local sheriffs and governors were tyrannical oppressors, and so eventually they seized his farm for their personal gains, leaving the poor man with no source of livelihood.

Helpless and distraught, he and his family moved to Mashhad thinking that perhaps the city might offer some opportunity to earn a living. Ashamed, the man sent some of his then young children off to work, and still this wasn't enough to support the family. Finally, desperate times called for desperate measures, and he decided to send two of his sons to the Islamic seminary- not because he wanted them to become scholars but because he knew that with them over there, he would no longer need to provide for them- two fewer family members to take care of. The family was shattered at this point, they said their heartbroken goodbyes and the two sons embarked on their studies at the seminary.

80 years later, one of the two sons of this farmer, in his 90's now, was visiting Najaf. His students came to him and said that one of his former students would like to host him for dinner. The now old, blind man accepted, but the students did not tell him who it was that had invited him. So...they arrived at the host's house for dinner, and the student who had invited him greeted him and kissed his hand. The old teacher said, 'Will you tell me who you are now?' And it was none other than Ayatollah al 'Uthama Sayid Ali Sistani. The old scholar was grand Ayatollah Murwareed. The same young boy who had to leave his family and go to the seminary to save his father financial trouble had now become the grand teacher of one of the greatest Maraji' of our era.

Moral of the story? Yes, you know it- Allah is the best of planners. When I heard this story a couple of days ago, I felt so petty, so shameful for becoming upset over plans that fell through. As cliché as it sounds, often these setbacks are ones that pave our path to greatness. The ingredient we often leave out from the equation, however, is Tawakkul. There is never anything we can do about these situations but instead of being patient and having faith that something good will come out of it, we sulk, moan, complain, we insult Allah. Sometimes we might wonder whether a setback is a stone in the pathway to greatness or a punishment and consequence of our bad actions- there's one way to know...

This is a minor example but I think the principle applies. As some of you know, this year I went back into full-time education. I started my university degree after a Gap Year and it was a shaky experience to begin with. I really felt like I was struggling with how much I had to learn and insecurities filled my mind about not being good enough, failing, my confidence being knocked forever...the list goes on. In the end (a couple of weeks in) I realised there was only one way to find out whether or not I was good enough- to give 100%! If I gave anything less, I wouldn't know whether I simply wasn't good enough or if I failed because I could have done better. I didn't want to leave any room for doubt.

And that's what we need to do in our lives. I know it's a vague, broad statement to make, but it's true. If we avoid those deeds which cause our plans to fall through or calamities to befall us, then the only reasons our plans can fail or for us to suffer calamities are good, and nothing but good. Obviously, MUCH easier said than done. I address myself before any of you. May this Shahr Ramadhan bring us the mercy and forgiveness of our sins, and the Tawfeeq to give up our evil habits for good.

Cultural Religiosity

In this past year, there has been an epidemic of girls and young women removing their Hijab permanently (No, I don't plan to rant about this for the rest of this blog), and the question many people have been asking is- why? Lack of understanding? Being forced to observe it in the first place? Peer pressure? Islamophobic prejudice?

It's probably a combination of the above reasons and others, but a while back someone mentioned a reason that stuck in my mind, frustrated me, and so here I am writing about it. Cultural religiosity. Very often there are certain practices or values that our cultures uphold (not religion), which we force onto others. For example- a family may not allow their daughters of reasonable age to wear make-up around the house where everyone is Mahram to her. Islamically speaking, there's no problem with it. In fact, it's in a female's nature to groom herself and look good in the presence of those close to her. Culturally however, it's a different story. There's no concrete reasoning behind not allowing it, but sometimes we think we are being 'extra religious' by making something totally Halal, Haram. Same goes for other issues like clapping at Mawaleed and other happy occasions. Again- the 'extra religiosity'. The list of such practices and prohibitions goes on. The point is- they have no Islamic backing and often our jurists have already said they're halal. I actually remember times when I was very young and was taught in the Madressa, for example, that XYZ would invalidate my Salah, only to find out years later when I read up for myself, that XYZ was Makrooh, but woud not invalidate my Salah. Whether the teachers did this with the 'extra religious' mindset or whether they themselves were just unaware, I don't know, but I do know that as a child, little misconceptions like this all adding up made Islam look very difficult and demanding.

Back in the day, it may have been easy to get away with merging our culture with religion, but now in a time where the culture around us isn't Islamic, when we have no choice but to read up and research for ourselves if we want to follow Islam correctly, it's not so acceptable or easy to disallow something simply because...I said so, I don't like it, we don't do this, it's just not acceptable, what will people say? Alhmdulillah, the migration of many communities has forced a lot of us into the realm of free-thinking and self-education.

How does all this relate to the Hijab problem? Well, a lot of youth see these cultural prohibitions (and allowances in some cases) and think that this is what Islam is about. And what do they do? Run. As I mentioned before, I'm not writing about Hijab specifically- it just so happened that it was what sparked these thoughts and this blog. There are a ton of other problems where people who are brought up in Muslim families are giving up on religion because to them, to be religious involves all these totally non-Islamic practices and values. They throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Before I get attacked for shunning culture altogether- I'm not. Imam Ali (a.s) has said that there is no greater heritage than culture. Often it is culture which ends up drawing someone back into religion. What I am saying however, is that when it reaches this point where there is a 'culture overload' driving people away from religion, it's high time to make a little sacrifice and go back to the bare, Islamic basics.

Karbala

In this short life I sought virtues and love,
So I asked those who knew and those from above,
They told me to go to a land of blessing and sorrow,
The land in which no soul wants tomorrow,
So I took on this journey and stepped onto this land,
And I saw two shining domes standing upright and grand,
But in my shame and my filth, I spoke just to the sand.

I asked this sand what virtues she carried,
What treasures and gems within her were buried,
She told me that there were too many to count,
The virtues were more than her grains in amount,
So instead I began asking my questions one by one,
From the sight of the moon 'til the rise of the sun.

I asked, 'In all your years, what friendship have you seen?'
She cried, 'Only I have witnessed what true friendship means.
When Habib came sprinting to the side of my master,
Could anyone have come to his aid any faster?
This world knows nothing about the friendship I saw,
For if they understood, they would have wept from its awe,
No friendship exists like that of Habib and Hussain,
Together they grew and together were slain.
Tell me, which others do you know who had such love in their hearts?
Which other man would come from such a distance apart?'

I fell silent for no other name came to mind,
No other such friendship was I able to find,
So I asked her what she knew of the virtue of love,
And she said, 'You see the attachment of a love stricken dove?
That is nothing, for true love is only for Him,
Not these petty desires that come and go on a whim,
The woman who loved was the young newlywed,
Who gave away to her Lord what all women dread,
She bed her husband Wahab farewell as she cried,
And a widow became of this heart broken bride.
Tell me, which other young soul do you know,
Who would give her husband away to a devil's sword blow?'

Again, I fell silent, for I knew not such a soul,
And my river of tears I was unable to control,
I choked back my grief and asked her about youth,
And she said, 'If only you'd witnessed this truth,
The women had wailed when Qasim had gone,
For it was Hassan again who had passed on,
But nobody in this world can truly understand,
Unless they saw Qasim in his new armour stand,
And Awn and Mohammed bidding their mother goodbye,
But if you had seen this, from grief you would die,
And the arrow in the neck of the six month old rose,
The blood that drenched his small, infant clothes,
More blood than the milk he ever drank from his mother,
Yet this soldier was the youngest amongst all of his brothers.
Tell me, which other young men have you seen,
Who sell their dreams for a reward that's unseen?

Silence took over and I had no reply,
Only the sense to lament and to cry,
And then I asked, 'But what of their mothers?
How could they see their sons killed by others?'
Karbala wailed before she started to speak,
Her words filled with sorrow and her voice very weak,
'The mothers...I don't know where to begin,
To put one above another would be a grave sin.
I am no mother and still for years I have wept,
These mothers, never again in peace have they slept,
For which mother can rest when her son lies in a desert?
No shroud and no grave and a bloodied red shirt.
Which mother to weep for, I did not know,
Rubab, who's Abdullah was only starting to grow?
Or Layla who's Ali had been the chest of her dreams,
Or the mother of Qasim, who's face with Hassan's light beams?
Or Zainab who herself had not gotten to weep?
And her tears in her heart, for Medina she'd keep.
I know you know no mothers like these,
So I will not ask you that question of ease.'

My soul was torn between asking or not,
For a spear of grief in my heart had been shot,
But what sorrow was mine alongside of theirs?
What grief do I carry next to what their soul bears?
So I asked her the question that makes all hearts break,
And her sobbing voice had started to shake,
I asked her what loyalty she'd seen in this land,
And she showed me the first dome that stood tall and grand,
'No man has been loyal while Abbas's name lives,
For the meaning of loyalty, Abbas's life gives,
The father of virtues became the guard of Hussain,
His eyes and his arms gone, and his body was slain,
But I swear, oh visitor, this man is alive,
Your Lord through His mercy made his great soul survive,
For I have seen no one who leaves here distraught,
Abbas carries any burden a visitor has brought,
Through his own tears for the children, he wipes away yours,
And the ailments of your life, this warrior cures.'

My tears flowed and I craved to touch his blessed shrine,
But I saw the dome of the king himself shine,
'And tell me, Karbala, about my master Hussain,
For my questions, no words of mine can contain,
Tell me of his greatness, and his mercy and love,
Tell me of the words that come from above,
Karbala, tell me what his visitors don't know,
Tell me those things which no human can show.'

Karbala paused in awe and deep thought,
For it was eloquence to do justice to him that she sought,
'Oh visitor, no words of mine can suffice,
But I will give you some simple words of advice...
Oh visitor, go to him covered in my blessed sand,
Gift him your tears of longing to be in this land,
For Hussain is the king of kings in this world,
The secrets of your soul by him are unfurled,
Nothing you do will repay him a breath,
For no man will see an end like his death.
His death was so holy that God gifted him three,
And yet these three are for this earth that is temporary.
The first were nine other lights from his line,
Nine other princes of lineage divine,
The second is the cure that my sand contains,
I swear I can cure the worst of your pains,
They say sand is so humble and the essence of low,
But by God, 'til this day, His miracles I show.
And the last and the third is where you should run,
For under his dome his answer is one,
Whatever need you have in your heart,
Go, oh visitor, and to Hussain you impart,
Shed the tears of your life and tell him your sorrow,
I am a liar if your heart does not rest by tomorrow,
Run like you'd run to be saved from a flood,
For the ark of salvation floats on Hussain's holy blood.'

I tried to run but my feet would slow down,
How could a beggar run to touch a king's golden crown?
So slowly I went and I kissed his caged shrine,
And nothing but peace washed this stained soul of mine,
And the rest of this journey can't be contained by this pen,
Or the words of even the most eloquent men,
But only one thing makes me hurt and insane...
The dreams where I see his great shrine again.

Allahumma irzoqna ziyaratel Hussain (a.s).

Iraq 2011

As some of you might know, I was blessed enough to go to Iraq in December, and Alhamdulillah it was the experience of a lifetime. I'd like to share some of the experience with you guys so I've attempted to fit as much as I can into this blog entry. Apologies for the length.

I woke up on the 2nd of December, the day we were flying, to find out that around 200 people had been killed in Baghdad that morning after a series of 13 bomb explosions. It didn't worry me...But it did open my eyes to how real the security situation in Iraq was and just made the fact that I was finally going to Iraq seem more real too.

The journey was a tiring one- a flight to Dubai, 4 hours transit, and then another flight to Baghdad, and a drive to Najaf. In total it took us almost 30 hours to get to Najaf. On the coach from Baghdad to Najaf, I was quite worried that the journey would have taken up too much of my energy and I wouldn't be able to give my all when it came to the actual Ziyara, but Subhanallah, as soon as we entered Najaf, the tiredness just vanished. Everyone was as awake as ever. The atmosphere was buzzing.

That evening I discovered that there is not another place on this planet where one can be more content and at peace than in the Mausoleum of Ali ibn Abi Talib (a.s). My friend and I entered together and I remember, quite literally, opening my mouth but no words coming out. She said to me, "Zahira, isn't it beautiful?" I just sighed and nodded in order not to cry. That night, I couldn't even remember what any speaker spoke about. All I remember was staring at the black flag being blown majestically and so perfectly by the soft breeze of Najaf. I thought to myself, "But the pictures look so different..." and truly, no pictures or video or HD camera can do justice to even a fraction of the beauty of the Haram of Imam Ali (a.s).

All this time, I'd really just been wanting to visit Karbala, but I was hit by surprise. Najaf is my heaven. The one scene I remember very clearly was one morning when there wasn't enough room for me to pray Fajr outside with the rest of the Jama'ah so I joined the women inside one of rooms of the construction area in the courtyard. We finished our Salah and stepped outside, and suddenly all I could hear was hundreds of people roaring, "Ali...Ali...Ali..." as they all stood at the entrance of his shrine, swearing their allegiance. How beautiful that his rights were usurped during his life on this earth, but instead Amir al Mu'mineen rules the hearts of all believers until today. Truly, justice was served to justice himself.

It's funny that so many of us went to Najaf with our Hajat in our minds, or as one of the speakers put it, our shopping lists. We came with our needs, requests, conveyances, but Wallah, upon setting foot in the Imam's courtyard, it was as if these things crumbled to dust. Suddenly I felt needless. Even if I tried to think of something to ask the Imam for, there was nothing. And how could there be? How could anyone possibly be needy when standing in front of the embodiment of justice himself? When I was in the Haram of Imam Ali, I felt like my life was perfect, I had everything I needed and wanted- peace. That is what I miss most about Najaf. The feeling of not needing anything from the world. Nothing at all. The absolute content.

One of the other highlights of Najaf was getting to meet Ayatollah Sistani and Ayatollah Bashir Najafi, may Allah protect them both and lengthen their lives. These two men are the most humble men I have ever met in my life. Their demeanour, their speech, their aspirations- every aspect of them had an element of servitude. We visited Sayed Sistani first, security was as tight as it gets. 3 different stations, men with machine guns, X-ray machines. We weren't allowed to take anything with us- literally. No electronics, no jewellery, no tissues (yes, tissues- might have cyanide), we had to take off our rings and leave them at the hotel. We waited a while, must have been close to 2 hours, prayed, were given some tea and water before he finally entered. Sayed Sistani gave a short talk, emphasising the importance of keeping the Wilayah of Ahlulbayt (a.s) alive wherever we are in the world, and the fact that we should want for our bothers (and sisters) what we want for ourselves. He also told us that he prays for us after every Salah, especially Fajr.

Ayatollah Bashir Najafi gave us an extended Q&A session and kept referring to us as his children (most of us were young). He seemed like a real father figure, especially when he offered us a 1 month stay in Najaf with him if we could find 10 willing males and 10 willing females to fly to Najaf in the summer to spend a month with him, not for one of those "mini hawza crash courses" but rather to ask him any questions we have, to have discussions, to air our opinions, etc. There was also a point that he made which I picked up on and thought was important to keep in mind- someone asked him about the permissibility of clapping. He said if it was with the rhythm of the music, then it was Haram, but this was not that part which interested me. He went on to say that sometimes, something might be technically Halal, but we need to ask ourselves, would Ahlulbayt (a.s) do this? Would they partake in this activity? And that should answer a lot of our questions.

The next day we went to Masjid al Kufa, which has a strong affiliation with the Imam of our time, as it will be the Bait al Maal of his government, according to traditions. There's a narration that always breaks my heart and it was repeated again at Masjid al Kufa- the narration says that upon his reappearance, the Imam of our time will give his inaugural speech in Masjid al Kufa. His lips will be moving...but nobody will be able to hear a word he will be saying. For those of you who haven't been, there is a powerful mic system in this Masjid just like any other, so why won't anyone be able to hear the Imam? The narration says that the masses and masses of people will be sobbing at the very sight of the Imam, and the fact that he has finally come to save us all, and the sobbing of these thousands of people will drown out the voice of the Imam himself. Allahumma 'ajjil liwaliyikal faraj.

One person who I was really looking forward to visiting there was Mokhtar al Thaqafi. We also visited Maytham al Tammar whose shrine was under construction, Masjid al Hannana- the mosque whose trees had bowed down in respect when the body of Imam Ali (a.s) was being carried from Kufa to Najaf and which were later cut down by the cowardly hypocrites who wanted to lessen the honour of the Ameer, and then Kumayl ibn Ziyad and Muslim ibn Aqeel.

But the most heart breaking visit of all was the one to the house of Amir al Mu'mineen. We were the only group who were given permission to actually have a Majlis inside the house. It was the best Majlis I have ever been to in my life, and will probably always be. It was as if Imam Ali (a.s) had just passed away there and then and we were at his Fatiha. I have never felt such grief take over a group of people like it did then. Until today I can't believe that I attended a Majlis in the house of Amir al Mu'mineen (a.s). As we sat together in the absolute darkness and the Sheikh recited the Na'ee, I could just imagine the scene around us, in this very place that we were sitting. Imam Hassan and Imam Hussain carrying their agony stricken father back into the house, Sayeda Zainab seeing her father with blood gushing out of his wounded head...it was as if the walls and the floor and every inch of the house mourned with us.

There were two places where I just couldn't control myself in Imam Ali's house. The first place was where Imam Ali's body had been washed. There was a man there who was showing us around and he told me that if I did Sujood in that spot, all my Hajat would be fulfilled. At that time I didn't have any Hajat in my mind- who would? But hearing him say something like that just made me break down in awe of the greatness of the Imam (a.s) whose lovers we all claim to be. The second place was the room where Imam Hassan (a.s) and Aba Abdillah (a.s) used to stay. It was full of green ribbons that people had tied in order to have their Hajat fulfilled. It was so small, and after listening to the Na'ee I couldn't help but imagine and wonder how they must have mourned together in that small room after they were orphaned.

Leaving Imam Ali was more painful than I had expected. I wanted to take the peace of Najaf with me. It is what I miss most. You just feel safe in the presence of Imam Ali, like nothing bad can happen, no worry can enter your mind because nothing else matters. I didn't want to return to the world where we have concerns, worries, things that are supposed to matter. I asked the Imam not to let me leave if I am not going to become a better person afterwards. I made some pledges and promises, and I begged him to invite me to Najaf again very soon. I feel like I left my heart there in the custody of Amir al Mu'mineen.

I had tried reading about the Imams of Kadhmiyya before we went there but still, it didn't seem like anywhere near enough. I didn't feel as connected as I did to Amir al Mu'mineen. I felt quite ashamed when I got to Kadhmiyya because of how neglected these two Imams are, so after Sayed Ammar's talk about Imam al Kadhim, I promised the Imam that I would do something, have a gathering, a majlis or a mowlood in honour of Imam al Kadhim when I got back to London. It's shameful that we neglect these Imams so unjustly- the injustice cannot be expressed in words- and yet when we have needs, they become Bab il Hawa'ij. And the most painful thing is that they give. They give us what we want. When we went to Kadhmiyya, I had one particular worry on my mind and Subhanallah, I ended up meeting a lady who had been in the very same position as me. We spoke for ages and it turned out that we had a lot in common, and she ended up giving me a lot of useful advice. She told me that Imam Jawad and Imam al Kadhim give us things without us even asking- that is the level of their generosity.

As we were going to leave, I wanted to go in and kiss the Shrine again because I hadn't been able to properly due to the crowd earlier on. I was standing hesitantly at the door, wondering if I'd be able to get through the crowd. The lady said to me, "What do you think?" I said, "I want to go in and kiss it but...". "That's it then, that's what we'll do," she said. I looked at her, surprised. We didn't have very much time at all until we had to leave. She looked at me and said, "If you want it, tell the Imams and they will open the way for you," and Wallah we came out of there in tears of awe. Only Allah is a witness to how I didn't have to push anything or anyone out of the way. The crowd just pushed me right up against the Shubbak for both of the Imams within a matter of seconds of entering the room where the Shrine was. Truly, these are the Jawadain.

The day we left for Karbala, the mood was a strange one of mixed feelings. It was painful to leave Imam Ali (a.s) but at the same time, Karbala was the place that so many of us had longed for an eternity. The plan was to stop the coaches a few kilometres outside Karbala, and then to walk for the remaining 2-3 hours towards the shrine of Abul Fadhlil Abbas and Aba Abdillah. Unfortunately I was not worthy of the honour of getting to walk bare footed to Karbala and I fell ill that day, to the point where I was too weak to walk much more than the distance from the hotel to the coach. It was the most depressing feeling to have to stay alone, only with a few elderly or disabled people on the coach, and to watch the rest of the group get off the coach and walk to the shrines, shouting the names of the two kings of Karbala at the top of their lungs. I felt so arrogant sitting in the coach and having to be driven to the hotel instead of tiring myself, walking in anguish to the man I called my master. Just days before I had read a Hadith which said that one should not approach Imam Hussain (a.s) except in a state of anguish and longing and being covered in dust. May Allah make me worthy of this walk for another time, and may Aba Abdillah forgive me for this embarrassing shortcoming.

To this day, I can't explain, nor have I understood myself, how I felt in Karbala. I turned numb, it was as if my mind just could not comprehend the magnanimity of where I was. I wanted to cry but I couldn't bring myself to cry. I cried during the Maqtal but still, I felt like the only thing in my mind was the sound of my own breathing and the commotion in the surroundings. My mind was blank. I cannot explain the number of times I wanted someone to smack me hard and shout, "Zahira, you're in Karbala. Wake up!". Until now, I wonder if I'd done something so terribly wrong to feel this way, or if I am just that unworthy, or if I was genuinely overwhelmed to the point of going completely blank and numb.

I was lucky enough to attend one of the best Majalis I've been to, in the Sa7an of Abbas (a.s). It started at midnight and some of us ended up staying all the way until Fajr. There was one point in the lecture that was amazing and has stayed with me since. It was the Tafseer of the line in Ziyarat Warith, "Assalamu alaika ya waritha Abrahim khaleelillah". Ibrahim (a.s) had been tested when Allah told him to sacrifice in Isma'eel, but Allah was only testing Ibrahim's willingness. When Ibrahim was willing, Allah didn't actually make him sacrifice Isma'eel. Aba Abdillah however had to actually sacrifice his children and companions, he had to see it, endure it, and then himself be sacrificed. That is what sets Aba Abdillah apart from Ibrahim. That is why while people circumambulate the Ka'ba, the lovers of Aba Abdillah circumambulate his shrine. That is why while the pilgrims who perform the Hajj in honour of Ibrahim are ordered to dress in their white kafan, the lovers of Imam Hussain are told to wear black to mourn him. That is the reason that while 3-4 million people visit the maqam of Ibrahim every year, 16 million pilgrims march to the grave of Aba Abdillah al Hussain. While the people in white shout out "Labbaik Allahumma Labbaik", those in black cry out, "Labbaika ya Hussain."

The Wida' was the hardest. I went to Abul Fadhlil Abbas first. I don't know what was wrong with me. I don't know if this is similar to how people go into denial when they lose a loved one, or if I simply was that ignorant. Allahu A'lam. I stood in front of his shrine for what seemed an eternity, trying to make myself realise where I was, who I was leaving. "Zahira, this is Bab il Hawa'ij. The man who is always bestowing favours upon you when you are in need." I went on and on until finally, I came to a point where it hit me that I didn't know when I would be back, I didn't know if I would be back, and the tears came. The river of tears came. I cried, I sobbed like a baby until some of the women started staring at me, probably wondering if they should ask me what was wrong or not. I would walk towards the door, and then back again, weeping. Then towards the door, and then back in. I didn't want to leave. If I left once, who knew when I'd be back? What if this was the only visit to Karbala that was destined for me? I fought with myself until finally, I told Abu Fadhil to promise me that he would invite me again one day soon.

Then I walked to Aba Abdillah and this time the tears came more easily. I started to remember all the tears I'd shed and the anguish I had to come to Karbala, and finally I had gotten a taste of this heaven. But so quickly, so soon, I had to leave? It didn't seem fair. Maybe this is how Adam (a.s) had felt when they were sent to live on the earth after residing in the heavens. I begged him to let me serve him in whatever way possible and not to ever deprive me of servitude to him. I remembered the nights that I'd find a small spot just under the Qubba of Aba Abdillah, sit between the sleeping women and speak to him, and the certainty that filled my heart as I poured out its contents to him. It wasn't hard to cry when I left Aba Abdillah because I knew what anguish would take its place again in my life to revisit Karbala. I once wrote in a poem, "Your shrine is a missing page in my life, The one thing that might make my heart rest." How naive I was. My heart was at rest, but only in Karbala. Every iota of peace that I felt in Karbala has once again been replaced with painful longing to be back there again. Which heart can ever be at rest after being taken out of heaven?

Allahumma irzoqna ziyaratel Hussain (a.s).