Ashura is mostly acknowledged in the west for the symbolic bloodletting some Shia communities engage in. Indeed, It is witnessed on a limited amount of that in Nabatieh in southern Lebanon on 16 December. But it seemed incidental to what was really going on. The people around would mourn; as they coped with loss and they turned to their coreligionists for strength like anyone else would. What one witness is a resonant show of community. There was nothing extraordinary about that.
Hussein was the grandson of the prophet Muhammad, a fact that played an important role in his life and contributed to his death. His supporters – the Shia – believed that he was the rightful leader of the Muslim community, or ummah, because of his matrilineal descent. Sunnis, by contrast, believe that the caliph – or leader of the community – ought to be selected from those who are capable of leading.
The dispute over rightful succession
compelled Hussein to challenge the sitting Ummayad caliph, Yazid in the year 680 AD. Tensions culminated in what is modern-day Iraq when a large caliphate force met Hussein's caravan on the banks of the Euphrates river. The lopsided battle of Karbala ended with Hussein's martyrdom and subsequent beheading. The day has been a source of Shia mourning ever since. Ashura – literally, "10th" in Arabic – is the day reserved for commemorating his martyrdom. It falls on the 10th day of the month of Muharram, which is where it gets its name from.
Over time, the mourning process has taken on different ritual manifestations. Re- enactments of the historic battle are often orchestrated and in some communities bloodletting is practiced. In many places, mourners only strike their chests with open hands.
Lebanon is one of those places. Most Shia here mark Hussein's martyrdom with sombre dress and public gatherings. Few people engage in the sensationalised bloodletting associated with the day and many eschew it altogether. For instance, Hezbollah provides a symbolic alternative by encouraging supporters to donate blood at blood banks it organises around the country.
There are places where bloodletting is still practised, however. Nabatieh, a small town in southern Lebanon, is one of them. One can travel there from Beirut to see the procession first-hand and witness something unexpectedly powerful.
Villagers were coming together in a moment of communitarian grief created by the memory of a common loss. Initially, the spectacle of public injury and bleeding made me uneasy, especially since many people's open wounds were exposed to other people's blood.
But thoughts about the risk subsided eventually and one becames inured to the scene after a few minutes. A big part of that had to do with witnessing how the superficial wounds are made; a barber's razor is tapped lightly on the crown of the head to create a thin, inch- long cut. The area is highly vascularised and the resulting flow of blood is not commensurate with the severity of the wound. Most of these people weren't engaging in serious self-injury. And medics were on hand to treat members of the procession.
Once it is understood that the physical injuries were superficial, it wasn't hard to focus on the less visually arresting, more emotional elements of what one witnesses.
An imam – or spiritual leader – recounted the story of Hussein's martyrdom over loudspeakers. He was occasionally so overwhelmed that his voice cracked and he wept. Some people loudly chanted "Haidar", while others were sombre in their grief.
This scene – one of public mourning – has been enacted virtually everywhere in the world at one point or another. Publicaly commemorating the lives and mourning the loss of historically significant figures is something many people do, and they do it with their communities.
Public requiems, dirges, processions, hymnals, chants, wails and, sometimes, bloodletting are all employed to the same end. They are the rituals people use to generate communitarian bonds.
Bloodletting may seem like an excessively literal act in a symbolic procession – as it probably is. But the communitarian grief, the historical commemoration, is something many of us can understand. It's something many of us have publicaly participated in after local or national tragedies. It is underpinned by a larger human experience that can be religious, but doesn't have to be. The most striking thing about Ashura wasn't the bloodletting, but the universality of the experience.
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