(RNS) — Last week, I had the privilege of giving a speech at a majlis for young girls. “Majlis” literally translates from Arabic to “gathering.” They are held annually primarily by Shia Muslims around the world during the Islamic months of Muharram and Safar to commemorate the tragedy of Karbala, which marks the brutal killing of Imam Husayn, the grandson of Prophet Muhammad, in his stand against the oppressive rule of the time.<\/p>\n
Majalis (plural) are customarily held for a 40-day mourning period, reaching its climax on Arbaeen, which this year falls on Tuesday (Aug. 4). In recent years, Arbaeen has become known as a walk of love, when millions from around the world flock to Iraq and walk from the city of Najaf, where Imam Ali, the father of Husayn, is buried, to Husayn’s shrine in Karbala.<\/p>\n
The walk of Arbaeen is a testament to pilgrims’ devotion to Husayn’s stance for truth and social justice. Arbaeen has become one of the largest annual peaceful gatherings in the world and is becoming increasingly attractive to Muslims and non-Muslims alike in a world rife with injustice.<\/p>\n
But being asked to give a speech for the girls brought me back two decades, when I was a young girl invited to attend majlis at my friends’ homes. One friend invited us every year for much of our youth, and we would all attend, without fail, mostly enticed by the delicious Popeyes lunch that would be served at the end. But it was also an opportunity to meet friends and enjoy our meal over conversations and laughter.<\/p>\n
Today, as an adult and as a mother, being asked to speak to youth got me reflecting on my “why.” Why do I attend majlis, year after year? I posed this question in my speech to the audience:<\/p>\n
What are you doing here?<\/em><\/p>\n Why do any of us attend these multiple annual gatherings over a span of two months, every single year?<\/p>\n If you’d asked me as a teenager, the answer might have been: “I’m here because it’s my friend’s house,” or “My parents want me to be here” or, even, “I get blessings for attending.” But I’ve begun to be honest about my own personal experience with Muharram and majalis.<\/p>\n As a teenager and for many years after, I would dread attending Muharram majalis,<\/span> because for me, and the way that Muharram and the tragedy of Karbala were commemorated, it meant two months of no television in the home (in the days prior to smartphones), no organized fun, a complete end to my social life and feigned sadness.<\/p>\n I say “feigned” because the grief inherently linked to commemorating this tragedy really wasn’t genuine at the time. We would often hear lecturers recount blessings that attendees would receive for shedding tears upon hearing the narrations from the tragedy of Karbala. But as a youth, I did not feel the need to cry. I did not connect with maatam, a form of lamentation that involves rhythmic beating of the chest to poetry, or the taboot, symbolic coffins or tombs that are brought out during majalis to visualize and connect with the grief of the family of the Prophet Muhammad. I knew that the message was immensely important and timeless, as it has survived 14 centuries with increasing fervor, but somehow it just didn’t apply directly to me.<\/p>\n As a youth, Muharram for me became synonymous with confusion and suppression. It pushed me further away from the purpose of azadari (collective mourning). I was just following the rituals because that was what was expected of me, and I felt like a bad Muslim if I didn’t.<\/p>\n I was missing the whole point.<\/p>\n Only when I had the opportunity to reflect and commemorate this holy month in a way that made sense to me did I understand the deep pool of wisdom that lay with this immense tragedy in Islamic history.<\/p>\n There is a popular slogan that has emerged from the tragedy of Karbala: “Every day is Ashura; every land is Karbala.”<\/p>\n Today, we can see Karbala unfolding at our fingertips online. We have all seen the horrific scenes coming out from Gaza. We have witnessed the destruction of Lebanon and the unprovoked war upon Iran. We have seen the exploitation of the Congo and war being fueled in Sudan.<\/p>\n Today, we see images of tents burning from being bombed, similar to the narrations we grew up listening to about how the tents of the surviving women and children of the family of Prophet Muhammed burned on Shaam-e-Ghareeba, the Night of the Oppressed. Today, we see children being deliberately starved to death, similar to the children of Karbala crying out to quench their thirst as they were cut off from water while besieged in the middle of the desert. Today, we hear the stories of innocent people being imprisoned and tortured, just like they were in Karbala. Then, and today, we are familiar with people pleading for mercy at the behest of cruel armies who have lost all sense of humanity.<\/p>\n And still, you will find people persisting despite it all, risking their lives to get the truth out and save the world’s humanity — by appealing to us to do something to put an end to their suffering and this global injustice.<\/p>\n When I let go of simply following the rituals and checking off an obligation from my religious to-do list every year, I really got to asking myself: Why do we remember Husayn every year? Is there a way we can try to emulate Lady Zaynab, his sister who carried the grief of her family and of all the women and children who survived, and whose persistence initiated a revolution that overthrew the oppressive regime of the time? What does it mean for us today that they stood up for justice?<\/p>\n When I used to hear the stories of Karbala, I used to think, are such barbaric acts really possible? We live in a different time. We are a different civilization. It didn’t connect.<\/p>\n Over the last few years with the rise in social media and our increased awareness of world events, with the spotlight on people’s lives and circumstances that are so far removed from ours on our screens, I realized how wrong I was. And this awareness made everything suddenly click.<\/p>\n In Karbala, we have prime examples of what it means to play your part in justice — whether you’re a child claiming her right to water like Sakina, the 4-year-old daughter of Husayn. Or like Ali Akbar, Husayn’s son who was martyred alongside his father, or Lady Zaynab, whose leadership and voice initiated a revolution, or like Hur, who drifted far off from the path only to return again, listening to the voice of his conscience and ultimately joining Husayn.<\/p>\n These figures became beacons of love and our vision of moral principles and unwavering courage even in the face of loss — just like those who bear witness today to genocide and atrocities taking place around the world, who risk their careers, families and lives to ensure the truth remains at the forefront so that the world can stand on the right side of humanity.<\/p>\n So, when we come to a majlis, dressed in black alongside our friends, to listen to a lecture, it’s not just to earn blessings or feel sad. It’s because Muslims have been blessed with an awareness and a heritage where grief will never allow us to forget about injustice. And by paying respect to our history’s magnanimous personalities, we see that we, too, can make a difference.<\/p>\n We can feel anger. We can feel sadness. We can bear witness. We can learn and become aware. We can have empathy and gratitude and not take our own lives for granted. We can write letters, sign petitions and participate in events. We can do our research and commit to not buying from brands that indirectly support war around the world. We can use our money or our skills, talents and time to support the organizations that promote peace and help those who have been marginalized. We can consume less and learn more. We can take the first step to approach our neighbors with kindness. We can bridge the divide between us and others. We can use our voices and our emotions where it matters. There’s so much we can do within our own capacities. But what we cannot do is turn a blind eye.<\/p>\n I’m trying to teach my young kids this message through practical ways that will resonate with them. Last year, we held a lemonade stand at a park<\/a>. We gave out lemonade, freezies and flyers relating the message of the children of Karbala to the children of Palestine. We collected donations for Palestinian children in the name of Husayn’s daughter, Sakina, who died from torture and grief while imprisoned.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"http:\/\/religionnews.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/webRNS-Photos-Week04-081225.jpg\")
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