When he finished his story, al-Minshawi was in the chapter of Abraham: “Lo, man is verily given up to injustice and ingratitude. And then Abraham said: Lord, make this city one of peace and preserve me and my sons from worshiping idols.”
“I’m thinking of leaving too,” I said. “Things are intolerable.”
He nodded. “It’s nice chatting with you, but I have a lot of errands to run and have to go.”
We hugged outside the tent and I wished him luck in Syria.
FORTY-NINE
I saw you at the mghaysil, Father.
It was my first time at work with you. Hammoudy was not with us and it was pitch dark. You had a candle in your hand.
I asked you, “Why don’t we wait until it’s morning and then start work?”
You smiled and said, “There is nothing but night here.”
I was surprised and asked, “Why?”
You said, “Have you forgotten that we are in the underworld, my son, and the sun doesn’t rise here?”
I felt a lump in my throat and a tear found its way to my cheek.
You wiped it and hugged me saying in an unusually loving tone: “Don’t worry, dear. Candles are enough for us to do our work and live a good life. You’ll get used to their light.”
It was the first time you ever called me “dear.” You asked me to follow you and showed me the bench and said, “This is where we put together the body parts al-Fartusi brings every day.” I was surprised that al-Fartusi was here as well.
You pointed to the cupboards, which I couldn’t see clearly, and said, “The needles, threads and glue are all there.” Then you pointed to wooden boxes which were stacked on the floor and said, “The feathers we use to cover the bodies are all in there.”
I asked, “Why do we have to cover their bodies with feathers?”
You smiled and said, “Do you still ask too many questions, son? This is what our ancestors did before and what our grandchildren will keep doing.”
You moved toward one of the cupboards and opened it. You took out a candle and lit it with the flame in your candle and handed it to me. I held it in my hand. Its flame illuminated more of the place. I saw legs and arms stacked in the corner and asked you about them.
“We will find a place for them in the bodies that come every day.”
“What about Ammoury and Hammoudy and the others? Are they here too?”
You didn’t answer. I saw an eye hanging on the wall by a thread and shedding tears. When I asked you about it you said, “It longs for another eye or perhaps it is crying for the sun.”
I asked you: “Are we alive or dead, father?”
You didn’t answer and blew out your candle and mine died too. I stayed alone in the dark listening to the tears falling from the eye on the wall until I woke up. The candle next to my head was choking and about to give out.
FIFTY
My mother put on her black abaya and said: “Jawad, I’m going to the shrine of al-Kazim. Today is the anniversary of his death, and Basim al-Karbala’i is coming to chant.”
“Wait and we’ll go together.”
“Really?”
She was pleasantly surprised by my decision and her face lit up. She probably doesn’t remember, just as I don’t, the last time I visited the shrine. I used to go with her a lot when I was a child and would hold onto the window overlooking the tomb inside the shrine as the others did. Later I went often with my father, but I stopped in high school, when I became disenchanted with all the rituals and lost my faith.
She sat on the couch and said, “OK, I’ll wait for you then.”
I went up to my bedroom and changed. When I was coming down she asked me: “How come? Did you really remember al-Kazim, or is it just because al-Karbala’i is going to chant?”
“Can’t it be both?”
“Yes, of course. A visit to al-Kazim is always a good thing.”
I should have told her that I was seriously thinking of leaving the mghaysil for good and going to Jordan and then anywhere far away, but I never found the right words and time. I knew that I might not come back for a very long time, if ever. This might be the very last time I visited al-Kazim. I also wanted to listen to Basim al-Karbala’i’s voice, which Mother herself had introduced me to by listening to him at home.
Kazimiyya’s streets were teeming with pilgrims from all over the country. Security precautions were more severe than in previous years in anticipation of attacks, which had become common whenever large crowds of civilians gathered. A few mortar rockets had fallen in past years and car bombs had exploded more than once.
Hospitality stations offering water and food to pilgrims punctuated the streets, as did banners mourning the seventh imam and his death by poison in Haroun al-Rashid’s prison. “Peace be upon the one who was tortured in dark prisons” and “O God pray for Muhammad and his family and pray for Musa the son of Ja’far, the guardian of the pious and the imam of the blessed. He of the long prostration and profuse tears.” I saw a banner with the two famous lines by the poet al-Sharif al-Radi about the two shrines of Musa al-Kazim and Muhammad al-Jawad:
Two shrines in Baghdad heal my dejection and sorrow,
Toward them I shall guide my soul and seek peace tomorrow.
The two golden domes and four minarets glittered under the chains of lights, which linked them like tiny bridges. The light emanating from the shrine lit the sky. We parted at the iron fence and my mother went to the women’s entrance. We agreed that I would meet her there an hour and a half later.
There was a long line to get in through the Murad gate on the eastern side. The armed national police were standing at the gate. The green neon lights at the top of the gate illuminated the engravings and verses adorning the arch of the door. Three men conducted a thorough search, making sure I hadn’t hidden anything under my clothes or in my socks. I went inside and took off my shoes and handed them to an attendant.
I looked at the white marble walls and the ornaments and arabesques on the ceiling. I crossed through the golden gate to the courtyard of the mosque. There were hundreds of men and boys, all wearing black. Many crowded around the gates leading to the mausoleum. It looked impossible to gain entrance, and the crowd barely moved. I walked around in the courtyard thinking, What would al-Kazim himself say to all these people were he alive today? Would he want them to come here and do what they were doing and say what they were saying? Perhaps if he returned today he would be a stranger, just as he was in his time, perhaps even more of a stranger.
I looked at the two domes and minarets and then the black sky. My eyes descended again to the domes and then the entrance to the mausoleum. I started a silent conversation with al-Kazim. I told him: Forgive me for not visiting you for so many years, but I have chosen another path. A path paved with doubt that doesn’t lead to mosques. It is a rough and rugged path, not taken by crowds, with very few travel companions. I am still walking on it and I have ended up in prison just as you did, master. But I am imprisoned by my family and my people. I’m a prisoner of the death which has overtaken this land. It is time for me to escape. My mother is on the opposite side asking you to keep me by her side and by yours, but she might not realize that this daily death will poison me if I stay here.
My silent conversation was interrupted by Basim al-Karbala’i’s voice. He stood before the microphone to greet the hundreds of pilgrims who stood waiting for him. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and started to chant. His captivating voice struck deep in the heart: