Najaf, Our True Origin

‘Najaf, our true origin’ is the title of one of the opening chapters of Mustafa Jamal al-Din’s poetry book - ‘al-Diwan’ - that I will hopefully translate and publish here. I just recently discovered the book in my fathers study; the great scholar and poet gave it to him as a gift in 1995.

There is something about the way I feel about Najaf that I can’t explain. I was smuggled out of the city, and country, almost four years-old, with the rest of my family as the 1991 rebellion was brutally suppressed but somehow I became attached to the city even growing up in north-west London.

My great-grandfather first moved to the city 100 years ago, followed by my grandfather who went on to study and teach for 80 years at the religious seminary. Both my parents were born in Najaf and I have vague memories of my early childhood there, of the city's twisting alleyways and the home I spent the first four years of my life in. My father throughout his life as an exile in London wished only that he could see the end of Saddam's reign and return to Najaf, his birthplace and hometown, to one day be buried next to his father in the shrine of Imam Ali. The honour of being buried in such a sacred place is bestowed only to a few. No one imagined it would be so soon but God answered his prayers and granted both his wishes and yet I am convinced it is none of these things that makes me feel the way I do about Najaf. It is something else. It is something mysterious, beautiful and magical.

Every time I see Najaf, every time I touch the earth and every time I smell it – taking deep breathes to get as much air as I can into my lungs and with it the desert sand perfumed by the sweet scented palm trees dancing with the breeze flowing over the Euphrates – I feel suddenly intoxicated. Nothing though, no matter how sweet or beautiful, compares with the first glance one gets of the golden dome that lights up not just the old historic city but also the hearts of the millions of people who come there to celebrate, to mourn, to lament, to sing, to laugh, to cry or to simply bask in the entrancing and enchanting ambience of the shrine and its surroundings.

Sometimes I just sit in the shrine for hours watching people praying and crying, asking God, through Imam Ali as an intermediary, to answer their calls and to tend to their needs. Old men stand before the tomb, in their full Arab tribal clothes, and address the Imam as if he is the final arbiter standing before them and listening patiently to every word they say before making his decision.

The men wave their hands, point their fingers and raise their voices, as defence lawyers would in front of a judge, and they plead for the Imams help in resolving that family dispute which ended in bloodshed, in the business transaction gone wrong or the theft which has left them hopeless and desperate. Unaware and indifferent to the scene they are making it is almost as if they do not notice the hundreds of other pilgrims milling about the place making similar demands.

Some are more self-conscious however and simply lean their heads against the decorated silver pillars of the tomb. They cry silently and talk to their Imam in whispers. While others stand in front of the tomb in absolute silence for a few minutes before leaving, making their pleas deep within their own hearts so no one else can hear them. They all asked the angels for permission to enter before stepping in the sacred mosque and hardly anyone turns their back on the Imam, walking backwards to show the utmost respect to the man, even 1,350 years after his death.

At the time of his burial, the location was a secret guarded only by a few. No golden dome mosque existed and no minarets rose high above a city for all to see. Even 100 years after the death of Imam Ali, Najaf still did not exist. Oppressed when he was alive and oppressed even after his death. The city was founded after Harun al-Rashid's hunting dogs refused to chase a gazelle seeking sanctuary on the holy grounds. The Abbasid Caliph realised there was something special here and, when told who was lying beneath the earth, ordered for a shrine to be built. A pity then that many people forget that once upon a time even dogs could not harm a creature of God on this precious land.

Now clerics and young students sit huddled together listening to scholars giving lessons on a particular verse of the Quran, saying of the Prophet or theological laws of ‘purity’ and ‘impurity’. When random laymen sit by them and listen in, even though they are not students, it is never frowned upon. Poor men in worn out and ragged clothes stand side-by-side men in suits sporting expensive watches and no one pays the slightest attention to the state of the other. They walk together and pray together like brothers who all want the same thing.

I feel instantly depressed every time I leave the city, the emotions kick-in when I get the last glances looking down from the airplane window or looking back at the horizon from the side-view mirror of a car as it heads further and further away from the city I have come to admire and love. In fact, it depresses me just thinking about the place if I am not there and even more so when friends call me and tell me they just came out of the shrine and remembered me, or are just on their way to relax by the Euphrates in Kufa or just had barbequed lamb kebab on the pavement in the middle of the busy zaynul abideen road packed with pilgrims who come from far and wide and residents simply going about their daily business.

Even as I remember some of the crazy things we used to get up to the smiles and laughter quickly subsides and a feeling of longing and yearning sets in for the rest of the day. Like a child who is lost but old enough to understand he would be embarrassing himself if he decided to make a scene and cry so he just wonders about waiting to be found again.

One day I went with a friend to see how the new Iraqi Army was being trained in Najaf and as I stood there and played with the sand with my feet while watching the Americans instruct the Iraqis, a US soldier walked up to me and asked me in a friendly tone what business I had in Najaf. I decided to tease him by saying, truthfully, "I came because I love the smell of this place". I expected him to inquire or to laugh, to mock me or even be insulted but he didn't show any emotion; surprise or intrigue. He looked straight back at me and said "You know, I have been all over Iraq and you are right... Najaf is not the same, it's special here". My heart was doing backflips and summersaults when I learnt that it wasn't just me. I am not going crazy. Even this soldier, far away from his family, friends and home, in the middle of an occupation, wearing full military gear in the heat of the afternoon sun, realises Najaf is special.