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Chapter 1

Orientations and Overview

paradigm 1: EXAMPLE, PATTERN; esp: an outstandingly clear or typical example or archetype 2: an example of a conjugation or declension showing a word in all its inflectional forms.

—Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary (1986)

The Karbala Paradigm

In June 1981 a bomb exploded in a Tehran meeting room during a high-level political meeting, killing over one hundred people. Among those who died in the explosion was Ayatollah Mohammed Beheshti, the leader of the Islamic Republican party. In 1986 this tragic event was commemorated with an Iranian postage stamp that identified a total of seventy-two killed in the explosion. The tally is equal to the number of people who traditionally are believed to have died with Imam Husayn ibn Ali, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, “on the plain of sorrow and misfortune”¹ at Karbala in 61 A.H./680 C.E.² The stamp reads in both Persian and English: “Fifth Martyrdom Anniversary of 72 Companions of the Islamic Revolution.” This powerful example demonstrates how the existential present can be explained and justified by reference to the historic past. Such popular symbolic techniques for the propagation of an officially sanctioned state ideology also instill a strong sense of religious ethos in those members of the global Shi‘i community who pledge allegiance to Husayn. They remind believers that their supreme martyr’s tragic demise is a recurrent phenomenon bridging past and present.³

The Karbala paradigm is a force as vital and potent today as it was during the first few centuries after the original event; it is one without parallel in human history.⁴ The Karbala paradigm can be understood as, using Kenneth Burke’s term, a “representative anecdote,” or as Abrahams explains, “a proposition, not necessarily in narrative form, that is so conventionally recognized and understood that it can organize and analyze experience in common for those who draw on it together.”⁵ Indeed, every aspect of the pious Shi‘i Muslim’s life revolves around this anecdotal paradigm and is ordered by it. Moreover, it serves as a model for appropriate human behavior and as a rhetorical force to oppose tyrannical rulers.⁶ But as we will see, the expression of the Karbala paradigm varies through time and space to make sense of contemporary sociopolitical realities. Variation in meaning and interpretation can best be gauged through a survey of the annual cultural performances that commemorate the martyrdom of Husayn.

During the first ten days of Muharram, Shi‘i Muslims, regardless of where they reside, commonly observe Husayn’s sacred commemoration. The tragic circumstances surrounding his redemptive suffering and vicarious death resonate throughout the Shi‘i world, providing a central paradigm for a Shi‘i theological emphasis on personal suffering as a method for the achievement of salvation. Indeed, there is great merit associated with weeping for Husayn, and even just remembering the event can absolve sin.⁷ As Mahmoud Ayoub states in his richly detailed study of Shi‘i redemptive suffering, “in the ritualistic moment, serial time becomes the bridge connecting primordial time and its special history with the timeless eternity of the future. This eternal fulfillment of time becomes the goal of human time and history.”⁸ Thus the Karbala event is enacted in numerous local ways wherever the Shi‘ah reside in order to reap its soteriological benefits and often to bring about sociopolitical change. For this reason, the period of mourning during the month of Muharram is paramount, rewarding the pious participant with the benefits of Paradise. In the words of Elias Canetti, the suffering of Husayn and its commemoration become the essence of Shi‘ism, which is “a religion of lament more concentrated and more extreme than any to be found elsewhere…. No faith has ever laid greater emphasis on lament. It is the highest religious duty, and many times more meritorious than any other good work.”⁹

Muḥarram’s metahistoricity provides an apt vehicle for what I wish to term “subjective apprehension.”¹⁰ Subjective apprehension is not an experience bound by time and space during the observance, for the implications of the seventh-century armed conflict between the imām and his foes are brought to bear on contemporary experience through ritual performance. As has been pointed out by one astute observer, “this places the passion of Imam Ḥusayn at Karbala’ at a time which is no time and in a space which is no space.”¹¹ Again in the words of Ayoub, “all things are integrated into the drama of martyrdom and endowed with feelings and personality not very different from human feelings and emotions. Here we see myth attaining the highest expression, where men and inanimate things play an active role in a universal drama which transcends all limitations of time, space and human imagination.”¹²

Because of the observance’s timeless quality, the Shi‘ah are able to measure continuously their own actions against the paradigmatic ones of Husayn. This is especially true whenever the community of believers regards itself as oppressed, a key theme we will find not only in Iran but in India and Trinidad as well. During the Iranian Islamic Revolution (1978–79), the slogans publicly chanted, painted on walls, or inscribed on headbands were in general variants of the following: “Every day is ‘āshūrā’; every place is Karbala; every month is Muharram.”¹³ Similar slogans were propagated in the media and displayed on posters during Iran’s protracted war against Iraq (1980–88). Hans Kippenberg goes so far as to argue that “the traditional mourning rites and especially the Muharram-processions came to be powerful political manifestations against the Shah regime.”¹⁴ He further argues that people who died fighting against the Shah (and also later against Iraq) were considered martyrs similar to those in Husayn’s camp who fell at Karbala in the seventh century. Everyday action thus takes on a ritual and performative dimension in the sense that participants in political street protests and processions conceive of their acts as part of a passion play (ta‘zi̅yeh) linking them to the paradigmatic acts of the Karbala martyrs. The Iranian war maneuvers against Iraq in the Persian Gulf exemplify how the battle of Karbala still influences Iranians today. The military offensives were labeled Karbala-1, Karbala-2, and so forth, and the combined land and sea operations of August 1987 appropriately were termed “operation martyrdom.”¹⁵

Such symbols, metaphors, and paradigms are transnational, ideologically connecting Shi‘i adherents living in different parts of a loosely knit global community of worshippers stretching from Iran to Indonesia. Thus, much of what I have said so far is universally applicable to the observances throughout the world. But if we go beyond generalizations, we find that the event is a complicated and polysemic affair. In actuality, the student of the ritual complex in context is confronted with a plethora of regional and local symbols; hence we find a variety of observances unique to given locales.¹⁶ We shall see that realizing subjective apprehension and identification with Husayn’s passion is catalyzed through new and vital forms of practice in Iran, India, and Trinidad, even while remaining faithful to the Karbala paradigm.

Reenactments of Husayn’s tragic death have been performed for centuries in what is today southern Iraq, the place of the martyr’s violent death. They eventually extended far beyond their points of origin and moved via Iran, where they received official state sanction in the sixteenth century under the Safavids, to the Indian subcontinent and from there to the Caribbean basin. Even today, more than 1,300 years after Husayn’s death, the rituals devoted to his sacrifice have not lost their potency. On the contrary, they seem to have become even more powerful. In some countries, the power of rituals performed during the month of Muharram has been channeled into the political arena and has been used as a psychological mechanism for mobilizing the masses against injustice and oppression. In other places, they provide more subtle “hidden transcripts,” to invoke James Scott’s term, that serve as methods of resistance to defy the hegemonic forces of the majority group.¹⁷ Moreover, the rituals have often been used to subvert the authority of the ruling class, even if only symbolically at times.

As a general rule, the farther the rituals moved from their place of origin, the greater the influence of other cultures, religions, and customs on them became. Such changes may be regarded as the “declensions” of the paradigm. This notwithstanding, there are also remarkable continuities that we find in greatly separated areas of the world. Continuities as well as changes in ritual practice will be pointed out in due course as my study unfolds. For the moment, one example should suffice to make this point clear. Although the lament for the death of Husayn in the form of public self-mortification by ritual participants is prevalent in Iran, Iraq, and India, this aspect is not particularly visible at the two extreme ends of the ritual spectrum. In Trinidad and Indonesia, for instance, other forms of experiential remembering have replaced bodily punishment and pain. Nevertheless, the sacred period surrounding Husayn’s annual death observance is still a ritual highly charged with unusual emotions in the Caribbean rim. Irrespective of the geopolitical arena in which the ritual complex takes shape, Husayn remains a spiritual and political redeemer, as well as a role model for participants.

Iran, more than any other country, has been influential in the expansion, diversification, and diffusion of Husayn’s rituals into other geographical areas, especially in medieval times. Even earlier, when Persians began converting to Islam from the eighth century onward, strong pro-Shi‘i sentiments were noticeable in the country. A sympathetic attitude toward the Shi‘ah allowed the region to become a haven for many descendants of the Shi‘i imāms who took refuge in the region to escape persecution by the Sunni majorities in other countries. It was not, however, until the sixteenth century—when they received royal patronage—that we observe the phenomenal growth of the rituals for Husayn. This aided, in turn, the spread of Shi‘i doctrines across the Iranian plateau.

As noted above, the Muharram processions are especially powerful devices for conveying sociopolitical information and opinions, as they did during the massive demonstrations in Tehran and other Iranian cities during the 1978–79 revolutionary upheavals. The mixing of mourning slogans with political ones has been an old Muharram tradition, which allowed the designers of the revolution to draw upon the paradigm and present their claims in accordance with the Shi‘i ritual calendar. Ayatollah Khomeini’s revolution itself started on the day of ‘āshūrā’ (June 3) in 1963 when he delivered a speech at the Fayziya Madrasa in the holy city of Qom. The speech, which followed an earlier one delivered on the occasion of the fortieth-day commemoration on April 3, 1963, of Iranian political martyrs who were killed by government troops for insurrection at the site, resulted in his exile. In his speech he boldly criticized the internal and external policies of the Shah and his government.¹⁸ More than a decade later, on November 23, a week before the start of Muharram in 1978, Khomeini issued a declaration called “Muharram: The Triumph of Blood over the Sword” in order to bolster the claims of the revolution. The declaration was taped at his exile headquarters in Neauphle-le-Château, France, and distributed in Iran through an intricate network of mosques. The opening paragraph of the declaration is poignant and worth quoting at length:

With the approach of Muharram, we are about to begin the month of epic heroism and self sacrifice—the month in which blood triumphed over the sword, the month in which truth condemned falsehood for all eternity and branded the mark of disgrace upon the forehead of all oppressors and satanic governments; the month that has taught successive generations throughout history the path of victory over the bayonet; the month that proves the superpowers may be defeated by the word of truth; the month in which the leader of Muslims taught us how to struggle against all tyrants of history, showed us how the clenched fists of those who seek freedom, desire independence, and proclaim the truth may triumph over tanks, machine guns, and the armies of Satan, how the word of truth may obliterate falsehood.¹⁹

Less than two months after the Ayatollah’s speech, the Shah left Iran with a box of Iranian soil in his hand on January 16, 1979, enabling Khomeini to return to his homeland after living in exile for fourteen years.

The Shah’s abdication serves as a compelling example of the Karbala paradigm’s power to organize collective social experiences. His departure from Iran also illustrates the persuasively effective use of the Karbala paradigm as an ideological tool for rallying the masses against tyranny and oppression. As Bruce Lincoln summarizes, “this myth was thus a useful instrument, one through which Iranian national identity could be continuously reconstructed along the same traditional pattern. Yet … the embattled Iranian ‘ulama gave a radical new twist to the story as they identified the shah … with the quasi-demonic assassin and usurper Yazid.”²⁰ Yazid becomes the arch-villain of the narrative, standing for any oppressive and unjust ruling force. By equating the Shah with the prototypical villain, Iranian clerics were able to mobilize a successful popular movement to oppose what they understood to be an unjust rule. Lincoln goes on to point out a distinct shift in the use of the paradigm: “Thus interpreted, the Karbala myth no longer served primarily as the ancestral invocation through which Shi‘i Iranians could define themselves in contradistinction to Sunni Arabs, but more important it became the revolutionary slogan through which the emerging movement of opposition to the shah was mobilized.”²¹ These two points—that is, ethnic and sectarian difference from Sunnis and oppositional ideology—are themes that reoccur historically both in South Asia and in the Caribbean, as the reader may note throughout this study.

While Muharram observances affect the entire Islamic community, albeit for different reasons, this widely publicized example amply demonstrates the powerful impact that the historical event has had on the collective psyche of Shi‘i Muslims. Because Muharram rituals can be expressed both as religious mourning and as willful acts of public agitation, they have often been vehicles for political action and social mobilization. To return again to Khomeini’s pronouncements, he urged his country-men to make “Islam known to the people, then … create something akin to ‘Ashura.” He also said that protestors should still gather during Muharram to beat their breasts, but they should also “create out of it a wave of protest against the state of the government.”²² Moreover, after the Iraqi invasion of Iran in the fall of 1980, the theme of ‘āshūrā’ was again invoked to mobilize people for the war efforts. Many of the Iranian combatants on the front lines in the war had the following inscriptions written on their helmets and headbands: “The epic-makers of ‘āshūrā’” or “‘āshūrā’ is the epic of faith, the epic of blood.”²³ The historical epic of the rite’s development and its emotive power to express sociopolitical discontent is a recurring theme in this book.²⁴

The rituals of lamentation, so important to Shi‘i Islam, are held mainly during the month of Muharram and the following month of Safar. They are observed especially on ‘āshūrā’, the day of Husayn’s martyrdom, and on the twentieth of Safar, called arba‘i̅n, the fortieth day after Husayn’s death, when remembrances of a departed loved one are normatively held throughout the world by Muslims of all persuasions. These quintessential days, with their annual periodicity, punctuate the Karbala paradigm and serve constantly to remind the Shi‘ah of their larger purpose in the cosmic picture. Before moving on to discuss the rituals at greater length in the next chapter, it is important to establish the logical and politicotheological significance of the Karbala paradigm through a brief recounting of the historical events leading up to Husayn’s demise. I want to underscore the enduring narrative quality of the rite because Husayn’s exemplary and paramount role in the Shi‘i worldview serves as the master narrative that orders the lives of adherents and serves as a model for social and religious action. For this reason, I must delve into the events that are so vividly recalled each year during Muharram.

The Prehistory and History of Muharram

Although ‘āshūrā’, the tenth day of Muharram, was prior to the birth of Islam already a sacred day of fasting for Hebrews as Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), the day takes on a new significance in the Islamic context.²⁵ Even before the tragedy at Karbala, Muslims observed ‘āshūrā’ as a day of fasting during Muhammad’s period in Medina.²⁶ But in terms of eschatology, the day takes on special cosmological and historical significance for the global Shi‘i community, especially the Twelver branch of Shi‘ism, because it was on this day that Husayn was killed for political reasons at Karbala.²⁷

After Muhammad’s death in midsummer of the year 11 A.H./632 C.E., a vacuum was created in the preexisting religiopolitical structure of the expanding body of believers in Medina because the Prophet never clearly specified who was to succeed him as caliph (khali̅fah), according to Sunni Muslims. The Shi‘ah, however, claim that Muhammad ordered his son-in-law Ali to be his successor by appointment and testament. At any rate, an assembly of the most powerful men in Medina gathered together on the day that Muhammad died to decide who was to become the first khali̅fah of Islam. Following a short deliberation, the council elected Abu Bakr, a close companion of the Prophet, to rule the Islamic world and guide the community of believers. Shi‘i Muslims, of course, dispute this decision, arguing that the caliphate should be rooted within the House of the Prophet (ahl al-bayt). They thus view Ali, husband of Muhammad’s last surviving daughter Fatimah, to be the rightful heir to the Prophet’s position as spiritual and political leader. The Shi‘ah believe the Medina decision to elect Abu Bakr to be spurious because they argue that it was a divergence from a divinely mandated tradition dating from the beginning of time. It is said that Ali himself did not acknowledge Abu Bakr as khali̅fah until after the death of Fatimah,²⁸ who only lived a short while after the death of her father—six months, seventy-five days, or forty days according to various traditions.²⁹ Even though Abu Bakr attempted to bring the Alids, those people who remained faithful to the House of the Prophet, into the fold, apostasy filled the empire. Popular opinion often claims that the faction that led to the birth of the Shi‘i branch of Islam originated at this time.

Ali did, however, become caliph in 35 A.H./656 C.E., twenty-four years after Muhammad’s death.³⁰ But there still remained factions in the growing Islamic Empire. Because the election of Ali took place in Medina, his support was strong there. Meccans, however, were not as sympathetic toward him. This relationship was further strained when Ali transferred his seat of power from Medina to Kufah in Iraq. Ali inadvertently isolated himself from the original home of Islam as a result of this move.

Syria also did not pledge allegiance (bay‘at) to Ali; it refused to recognize him as caliph and remained loyal to the Umayyads. Ali’s attempts to place his own governors in office in Syria during the year of his election backfired, for Syrians were staunch supporters of Muawiyah, who had ruled Syria before Ali was elected to the caliphate. This opposition caused severe problems for Ali’s consolidation of power and threatened to undermine the unity of Islam. The conflict between the Umayyads under Muawiyah in Damascus and the House of the Prophet under Ali in Kufah ultimately led to a confrontation at Siffin in Iraq. The battle indecisively ended in a stalemate, and both parties returned to their respective seats with nothing more than uncertain compromises. The schism between Syria and Iraq intensified the following year when Egypt allied itself with Syria, leaving Ali’s power considerably reduced, and his strength as a leader waned as a result. These reasons, along with many other sociopolitical factors and insurgence by the rebel Kharijites, a radical theocratic separatist group, led to a dual caliphate in 37 A.H./658 C.E. Muawiyah was recognized as caliph in Syria and Egypt, while Ali remained in charge at Kufah. Ali’s remaining rule was fraught with difficulties. He was never able to regain the confidence of many who lost faith in him after Siffin, and the Kharijite insurgencies also added to the precariousness of his rule. Their rebellious attitude led to Ali’s assassination at Kufah during Friday prayers by a Kharijite named Ibn Muljam in 40 A.H./661 C.E.³¹ Theoretically, Muawiyah was left as the sole caliph. The fact that the historical record suggests that Ali was a weak ruler does not hinder Shi‘i interpretation of his infallibility, a trait believed to be shared by all imāms

The question of a successor to Ali naturally became a major concern in Kufah, but the answer was ambiguous at best. It is claimed that when he was asked on his deathbed if his eldest son, Hasan, should become caliph by hereditary succession, Ali stated: “I do not command it, neither do I forbid. See ye to it.”³² Hasan thus succeeded his father in 40 A.H./661 C.E. Since Hasan was never officially elected at Medina, his web of influence did not extend far beyond Kufah. He was a weak ruler who kept a fairly low profile. Realizing Hasan’s military passivity, Muawiyah prepared to attack Kufah, hoping to consolidate his power. His plan was an attempt to make the empire one political entity again. Rather than confront Muawiyah in battle, Hasan negotiated with the Umayyads and abdicated that same year. For a modest pension, Hasan agreed to move his retinue back to Medina, where he lived out the remaining years of his life comfortably.³³ At long last, Muawiyah was able to enter Kufah triumphantly. Having finally “tamed” the Eastern Provinces, he returned to the empire’s sole capital, Damascus, to rule in the manner of an Arab shaykh—quiet but stern. Muawiyah reigned for the next twenty years as the undisputed caliph of Islam, even though conflicts with the Kharijites and Alids did arise from time to time.

So far, we have seen that the Shi‘ah placed great emphasis on succession through an intrinsic form of transmission based on infallible guidance, whereas the Umayyads based it on election and consensus.³⁴ Muawiyah created a precedent for hereditary nomination, however, when he chose one of his sons, Yazid, to take the oath of fealty and become heir apparent. This shift from election to nomination changed the character of the caliphal office forever. It came to resemble a monarchy more than its original function as a seat of the “commander of the faithful.”³⁵ Before Muawiyah died in 60 A.H./680 C.E., he warned Yazid that Husayn, the younger brother of Hasan, would be a problem for the empire. It is reported, however, that Muawiyah advised Yazid to deal gently with Husayn because the blood of the Prophet ran through his veins.³⁶ One Sunni source claims that Muawiyah conveyed a warning to Yazid, cautioning him to confront Husayn only in a good way, to let him move about freely, and to suffer him no harm. But Muawiyah also told Yazid that he should be respectfully stern with the grandson of the Prophet by means of diplomacy, not war. His final warning to Yazid was: “Be careful O my son, that you do not meet God with his blood, lest you be among those that will perish.”³⁷ Both Sunni and Shi‘i sources suggest that Muawiyah felt remorseful toward the end of his life that he had slighted the House of the Prophet. His newfound respect for Muhammad’s family is most likely the reason why he advised Yazid to be lenient with Husayn. Unfortunately, Yazid did not heed his father’s warning.

Husayn, living in Medina, had vowed to march back to Kufah in order to receive Iraqi support for his campaign after Muawiyah’s death. Promises of support poured in from Kufah, and Husayn resolved to go there via Mecca to claim his regal rights. While in Mecca, Husayn sent an emissary named Muslim to Kufah to prepare for his coming. When Yazid learned of the plot, he sent Ubaydallah ibn Ziyad to Kufah to bring the situation under control.³⁸ Muslim was executed in Kufah along with later messengers sent by Husayn, who learned about these executions while on his way to Kufah but refused to turn back. Ibn Ziyad sent one thousand horsemen under the command of al-Hurr with the mission to check Husayn’s movements and bring him back as a captive. They met near Karbala, at a place called Qadisiyyah, and al-Hurr informed Husayn of the impending doom awaiting him if he proceeded. Al-Hurr apparently meant Husayn no harm, for he attempted to convince him to take another road, one not leading to Kufah. At first, Husayn was inclined to accept his offer, but he refused on second thought because he had a pact with the Kufans.

Husayn reached Karbala on the second of Muharram in 61 A.H./680 C.E. He and his forces pitched camp there and made preparations for the rest of the journey. On the third, al-Hurr received word from ibn Ziyad by courier, that he should prevent Husayn’s party from taking water from the Euphrates. Husayn was thus forced to pay homage to Yazid or die of thirst in the desert. Ibn Ziyad then sent Umar ibn Sad, the son of one of the Prophet’s companions, to Karbala. Alhough ibn Sad attempted to turn down the task, ibn Ziyad forced him to go.³⁹ He thus proceeded to Karbala with four thousand men. Ibn Sad did not want to do battle with Husayn and hoped for peaceful reconciliation. But following the command of his superior officer, ibn Sad sent soldiers to guard the river against Husayn’s access during the negotiations. Ibn Sad was, however, sympathetic to Husayn and therefore did not enforce this order strictly until the seventh, when he sent five hundred men to guard the banks of the Euphrates.⁴⁰ His congenial position and respectful attitude toward Husayn’s party led to some partial agreements with the imām concerning the future course of events. It is surmised that Husayn provided ibn Sad with three alternative courses of action: to allow Husayn to return, to confront Yazid, or to go freely to another land.⁴¹ Ibn Sad then sent word to ibn Ziyad that reconciliation leading to peace would be for the best. It is purported that ibn Ziyad was at first inclined to accept Husayn’s proposal but was eventually dissuaded by Shimr ibn Dhi-l Jawshan, who argued that accepting any of the options would be admitting to cowardice. Shimr was thus sent to Karbala with a letter demanding an unconditional surrender from Husayn and a strong suggestion for ibn Sad to comply with the order to destroy Husayn’s party if he did not pledge allegiance to the caliph. If Husayn was not willing to accept this proposal, his punishment would be death.

Shimr passed on ibn Ziyad’s message to ibn Sad on the ninth of Muharram. That day ibn Sad delivered the final ultimatum to Husayn, who asked that the battle be postponed until the next morning so that the small group could pray together one last time. Meanwhile, the order to guard the river from Husayn’s soldiers was stepped up again. It is reported, however, that Husayn’s half brother and standard bearer, Abbas, was able to fill twenty water skins with the help of fifty of Husayn’s men before the order was strictly enforced.⁴² That evening Husayn gave a sermon and urged the others not to fight, for Yazid wanted only Husayn. But out of piety and devotion to the ahl al-bayt, no one turned back. All agreed to die as martyrs alongside Husayn. After prayers and the sermon, Husayn ordered a trench to be dug on one side of his encampment. The trench was filled with reeds and kindling to create a protective bed of flaming embers, allowing battle on only one side of the camp.⁴³

The tragic battle began with a parley the next morning. Husayn’s party was hopelessly outnumbered and the result was a slaughter. Ibn Sad, who wavered at first, is said to have shot the arrow that marked the beginning of heavy fighting. Seeing the massacre that was being committed, al-Hurr defected to Husayn’s side before midday, asking to be in the front ranks of those to be killed. The fighting was fierce and bloody; even small male children in Husayn’s party were killed, according to sources wishing to stress the extreme cruelty of the enemy.⁴⁴ Many of those massacred were still too young to handle weapons. Among these were Hasan’s sons Qasim⁴⁵ and Abdallah as well as other male members of the House of the Prophet.⁴⁶ Husayn was the last to be killed, for no one was willing to strike the death-dealing blow. He did, however, have multiple wounds, because he was riddled with arrows “like a porcupine” and pelted with stones during the fighting.⁴⁷ Finally, at the instigation of Shimr, a swordsman approached the painfully swaying body of Husayn and severed his left shoulder, while another stabbed him in the back with a spear. It is reported that a soldier named Sinan ibn Anas al-Nakhi was the one who severed Husayn’s head in the end.⁴⁸

The camp was pillaged, and Husayn’s naked body ultimately was left lying on the burning sand under the hot, noonday sun. Ayoub notes that the survivors lamented loudly on the pillaged battlefield and that upon seeing the dead bodies, Husayn’s sister Zaynab hit her head on the timber of her carriage, “staining her face with the blood of sorrow.”⁴⁹ Husayn’s head, along with his only surviving son and the female captives, was first transported to Kufah, then to Yazid’s court in Damascus.⁵⁰ Yazid had not expected such a gruesome outcome, nor did he wish to take credit for this heinous victory. It is said that he was horrified by the whole incident, and in compensation freed all of the captives, clothed and fed them well, allowed them to lament for their dead, and arranged for them all to be escorted back to Medina.

This brief historical overview should give the reader a sense of the events that led to later hagiographic accounts of Husayn’s tragedy, which, from the Shi‘i point of view, highlight the “destruction of family, community, government, and humanity.”⁵¹ Such inflated narratives emphasize the mournful, the oppressive, and the tragic. These tragic stories, and many others like them, provide a popular vehicle for the development of a powerful theological conception of Husayn as the paradigmatic martyr in Shi‘i thought. Among the more heartrending stories that have been recounted by later hagiographers and are remembered annually today are the purported marriage of Qasim to Husayn’s daughter Fatimah Kubra on the battlefield just prior to Qasim’s death; the sacrificial death of Abbas, whose arms were severed as he was attempting to procure water for the parched women and children; and the death of Husayn’s infant son Ali Asghar. I will have more to say about the importance of these scenes in the development of dramatic ritual reenactments, but first a few words on the importance of the figure of the imām are necessary in order to understand why Husayn became such a key symbol for the Shi‘ah.

The Theological Significance of the Imām

The cultural construction of the imām figure in Shi‘i Islam is a result of the interaction between historical, hagiographic, and theological forces. The impact of the imām on Shi‘i thought and society has been so great that he is perceived to be an infallible center of sacredness or a “divine guide,” as Ali Amir-Moezzi calls him.⁵² Unlike the Sunni caliphate, the imāmate is not seen primarily as a political office. Instead, the imām serves the Shi‘i community in a spiritual capacity as the interpreter of religious teachings; he is the exegete par excellence. He is, for all practical purposes, a direct link in a chain of succession leading back to Creation itself. Therefore, his role as a conduit between the human realm and the sacred sphere throughout the ages is seen as a special, innate quality that only he possesses in any given lifetime. To understand why Husayn’s martyrdom is so significant in the ritual year and in Shi‘i eschatology, we must consider the concept of the imām in general.

Ayoub writes that “the imāms, for Shi‘i Muslims, may be thought of as a primordial idea in the mind of God which found temporal manifestation in persons occupying a position midway between human and divine beings.”⁵³ This does not mean that these hereditary divine guides are something other than physically created sentient beings, for they are subject to death, just like any other human being. But their uniqueness rests in the critical place they occupy in maintaining the cosmic harmony of the universe. They are, first and foremost, products of divine thought, mirroring the Creator’s mental blueprint of order for the world. Beginning, then, as pure thought in the worldly conception of the Divine, they became manifest as “luminous entities or conventicles of light in the loins of prophets and wombs of holy women until they reached actualization in the Prophet Muḥammad.”⁵⁴ The imāms are thus seen as “light upon light,” an image used by the sixth imām, Jafar al-Sadiq, to describe the illuminated pattern of imāmi̅ succession. The imāms, embodying pure light that has passed from the beginning of time through successive generations of prophets, are known as al-nūr al-muḥammadi̅, the “light of Muhammad.” The bearer of light, the interpreter of revelation, and the source of knowledge must be both physically and spiritually pure. He is further seen as the perfect man, the possessor of infallibility. This characteristic above all endows the imām with a special spiritual aura resulting from his gnosis, upon which he draws to fulfill his central religious duty.

Because the Twelver branch of the Shi‘ah philosophically perceives religion to have mutually dependent external/exoteric (ẓāhir) and internal/esoteric (bāṭin) factors, there is a need for a spiritual leader who is entrusted with the divinely given metaphysical knowledge that allows him to act as an interpreter of God’s revelations and the Prophet’s teachings. The figure of the imām is the physical embodiment of God’s primordial and divine trust (amānah). He alone can communicate divine knowledge to humans, and therefore he must always be present in some form on earth. According to Seyyed Hossein Nasr, the basic task of each successive imām, above and beyond all other aspects of mundane life, is to guide the faithful from the external to the internal, toward the source of their existence.⁵⁵ The imām is, in this capacity, the entrusted being who guides the seeker of religious knowledge on an inner journey by performing the proper exegesis (ta’vi̅l) necessary to facilitate the adept’s spiritual progress.⁵⁶

Although the world can be without a prophet, it can never be without an imām, according to Shi‘i theologians. The figure of the imām therefore must always be present on earth to serve as an interpreter of revelation. He is a vital link in a chain of authorities that must always be represented on earth, either physically or theoretically, in each successive generation. Only he has the capacity to understand and interpret that which no other earthly being can.⁵⁷ The role of the imām, then, is absolutely critical for the proper functioning of the world. Nasr suggests that the imām’s threefold functions and duties are “to rule over the community of Muslims as the representative of the Prophet, to interpret the religious sciences and the Law to men, especially their inner meaning, and to guide men in the spiritual life.”⁵⁸ Ayoub adds that “if the concept or ideal of the imām embodies all spiritual and physical perfections for the Shi̅‘i̅s, then Imām Ḥusayn can be regarded as the living perfection, or concretization of this ideal.”⁵⁹ Husayn is, of course, an integral part of the chain of unbroken tradition, for he manifests the mystical light mentioned above and acts as the vicarious bearer of all the world’s suffering. Indeed, the whole prophetic silsilah (chain) partakes in this suffering and pain, for hagiographic and legendary sources all point to the predetermination of Husayn’s martyrdom. For example, when Husayn arrived at Karbala on the second of Muharram, it is reported that he prayed, knowing that he had arrived at the place of sorrow (karb) and calamity (balā’) where his blood would be shed, according to his grandfather’s prediction.⁶⁰

Ayoub eloquently documents the eternal participation of all the prophets in Husayn’s suffering.⁶¹ Adam, Noah, Abraham, Jesus, and Muhammad each shared in the pain of the violent acts at Karbala. Their suffering, resulting from foreknowledge of the Karbala incident, has potent teleological significance, but it is merely a prelude to Husayn’s own suffering and death. His self-sacrifice is the final act of the cosmic drama that encompasses all creatures—past, present, and future—in a recurrent test of faith and piety to guarantee the ultimate reward of vindication from all sinful acts performed on the face of the earth.⁶² It is believed that even as a child Husayn had foreknowledge of his tragic end and knew of his unique, predetermined role in God’s divine plan. It is written that when the Prophet was asked if he had explained Husayn’s future fate to him, Muhammad replied: “No, his knowledge is my knowledge, and my knowledge is his, for we know of the recurrence of events before they occur.”⁶³ It is important to my immediate concerns here that tradition states that Husayn learned after his death of his elevated yet humble status of being a mediator between man and God on qi̅yāmat, the Day of Judgment.

The social, theological, and psychological ramifications of Husayn’s role as intercessor are far-reaching. The Mu‘tāzili̅ scholar ibn Umar Zamakshari utilized the idea of tashabbuh (imitation)⁶⁴ to explain that “according to religious traditions anyone who weeps for Ḥusayn is certainly destined to join him in eternity.”⁶⁵ This idea is also expressed in certain key passages from ta‘zi̅yeh scripts such as the following:

[The Prophet]: Sorrow not, dear grandchild; thou shalt be a mediator, too, in that day. At present thou art thirsty, but tomorrow thou shalt be the distributor of the water of Al Kauser [in Paradise].

[Gabriel, bringing the key of Paradise and delivering it to the Prophet]: He who has seen most trials, endured most afflictions, and been most patient in his sufferings, the same shall win the privilege of intercession. He shall raise the standard of intercession on the Day of Judgement who hath voluntarily put his head under the sword of trial, ready to have it cloven in two like the point of a pen. Take thou this key of intercession from me, and give it to him who has undergone the greatest trials.

[Gabriel, speaking for Allah]: The privilege of making intercession for sinners is exclusively his. Husain is, by My peculiar grace, the mediator for all.

[The Prophet, handing over the key]: Go thou and deliver from the flames every one who has in his life-time shed but a single tear for thee, every one who has in any way helped thee, every one who has performed a pilgrimage to thy shrine, or mourned for thee, and everyone who has written tragic verse for thee. Bear each and all with thee to Paradise.⁶⁶

These illuminating passages, combined with Zamakshari’s exegesis, clearly suggest that salvation is guaranteed for all mourners. They also reinforce the importance of making physical pilgrimages to Husayn’s actual tomb at Karbala.⁶⁷ Elizabeth Fernea, for example, writing about her observation of other participants on her pilgrimage to the sacred site, notes: “At first I wondered why on earth they had brought this sick child to Karbala in such heat, but the obvious answer came. Dying on pilgrimage assures the soul immediate entrance into heaven.”⁶⁸ Interpreting the observance from this indigenous point of view concretizes the notion that participating in annual renewal on the human level is not only desirable but also absolutely necessary.

Participation in the annual muḥarram renewal is humankind’s chief role and responsibility in this lifetime. Through participation in the performance of passion, systems of abstract theological meaning are shaped into emotional, experiential, and subjective local forms of knowledge comprehensible to the individual and his community. Much of the symbolic and emotive potency that has motivated the continuation of this annual renewal is grounded in the narrativization of hagiographic history. To conclude this chapter, a few theoretical words on narrative and history as a prolegomenon to my subsequent discussion are necessary.

The Narrativization of History

Hayden White has reminded us of a necessary theoretical and methodological concern for the narrative quality of history.⁶⁹ History is, after all, a story that unfolds over time and is refashioned by scholars, raconteurs, and performers of ritual in the present. Insofar as history tells us a narrative about particular events believed to be empirically true, we must think of history as storytelling. History, from this point of view, is inscribed in narrative, whether oral or written. Indeed, aspects of a community’s history are often conveyed and preserved through the telling of stories about important events that have transpired in the group’s collective past: such storytelling provides a shared basis for remembering and understanding the significance of that past. It is also quite common for historic events to be communicated aurally through folkloric media such as songs or tales. This is the case with the events that transpired at Karbala, for conveying the historical tragedy in everyday discourse has proven insufficient in and of itself to induce the somber mood desired during the first ten days of Muharram each year. Other, more poetic, genres of conveying history, coupled with processional rituals and dramatic performances, have emerged in the Shi‘i world to create an integrated semiotic system of oral/aural, visual, and visceral channels through which to preserve, remember, and experience the tragic story of Husayn.

While the inscription and embodiment of history in narrative form and visual representation offer keys to understanding mechanisms of transmission, it is also important to remember that narratives themselves have histories. These metahistories may provide interesting clues for understanding interrelationships between genres and motifs over time. My intention above has been to highlight chronologically the series of historical events that function as a master narrative for the global Shi‘i community. In Iran, where muḥarram observances first developed into royally sanctioned ritual events during the sixteenth century, a unique Persian genre called maqtal developed as a literary medium for expressing emotionally the passion of Husayn and other Shi‘i martyrs.⁷⁰ After recounting the early development of Iranian mourning traditions, I will return in the next chapter to the important role of vernacular narrative and drama in transmitting popular historical knowledge.