A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God’s people; no traveler, not even fools shall go astray.... And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (Isaiah 35: 8, 10 – NRSV)
Now we’re midway through the third week of this holy season of waiting, the week of joy. Joy, I read, is from the Old French “joie” which is from the Latin “gaudere” – to rejoice, i.e. to experience unalloyed happiness and well being. We are waiting, with positive anticipation, for that unalloyed, unsullied delight-full well being that God promises the human family through Jesus.
Actually the above verse (8) from Isaiah gives me great hope. When all of God’s people head toward the holy city, Jerusalem, so beloved by us of Abrahamic faiths, not even fools will get lost and go astray. I am taking this to heart in my own case especially. It is a comfort.
Waiting, hoping, anticipating joy at the initiative of God is a deep part of the heritage of Qom, this amazing city in which people have resided for 6000 years. Last Friday afternoon (the “Sabbath” here), David and I went touring with the “English majors” – three great guys majoring in English who are undergraduate students. They hired a taxi and driver with a fine knowledge of Qom’s history, and off we went.
Our first stop was the “Forty Daughters Mosque”. It is a lovely old place (14th century) of prayer, commemorating the murders of forty young women on their way to Mashad long ago. People were praying within the modest courtyard—mostly women in chadors, but also a line of men against one wall. Inside the shrine, forty little stools each bore a rose on top. It was full of praying women, their kids enjoying a quiet run around the perimeter. A handprint, in clay, of the grandson of Imam Hussein (the third Imam of the Shia, himself the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad) was embedded in a wall. I paused before a threshold, unsure whether to enter. “Go on in,” I was told, “you are welcome everywhere.”
Just then a man in his forties noticed David and came over toward him energetically.
They exchanged a few words—neither fluid in the others language. The man gave up on that, grabbed David and kissed him on both cheeks. (By now the English majors had arrived to translate). “It is so good that you have come,” the man (Ali) was saying, “you will be blessed now.” He rooted around in his coat pocked and removed a small piece of carpet with Arabic writing interwoven. “Here are the first four verses of the Qu’ran. It is for you.” More looking in pockets and then he came back toward me. “Here is special perfume for prayer… the fragrance that the Prophet gave his daughter, Fatima, on her wedding day. It is for you. I am so glad that you have come, so glad.” He bustled off to pray, still beaming and looking over his shoulder.
We piled back into the taxi and emerged near several cone shaped buildings with aqua roofs. “Tombs of the Garden of Gonbad-e-Sabz” said the sign—from the 13th (Christian) century. Across the road was a more modern cemetery, expansive acres of stones centered around a mosque. At one entrance a man was making popcorn over charcoal. The English majors bought a bag for us to munch on as we strolled in.
Grave stones were embedded in the ground under our feet, impossible not to walk on. People gathered around some of them, placing flowers in little vases, sitting and drinking tea, quietly praying. Every 36 years it is permissible to add a new level of graves upon the old level; gradually the cemetery grows higher and higher.
We heard trumpets coming, a procession with flowers, a platform carried upon which rested a young man’s shoes and clothing. “Do you hear that melody on the trumpets? It is very popular for funerals in Iran, first composes just after the terrible earthquake in Bam when tens of thousands lost their lives”. Candy and flower petals filled the air. When a young person dies, they are “given treats” as though it is also their wedding. A woman covered in a large chador said, “You can go closer if you’d like, have a good look. I have,” she continued, “a daughter who lives in Poland and another who lives in Austria.”
Adjoining this area was the Martyr’s Cemetary. More of the omnipresent faces of young men (so many under 20 years of age) who had died in the Iran-Iraq War of the 1980s. A large banner with the smiling faces of two young brothers. The faces of three young men killed two years ago on a pilgrim’s bus to Karbala, blown up along the way. The pictures of four young Saudi Shia who “stood up” to Wahabis in their homeland, and were killed. On and on and on the cemetery went, heart renderingly. “But,” said one of the English majors,” we are people of the resurrection. Death is not the end, and so we have the courage to go on, living and working and waiting.
We drove through the “Hidden City,” also called ‘Afghani-town.” It was a densely packed neighborhood of Afghan refugees. Some of the features of people here are almost Mongolian, people of the great steppes of Asia. Beautiful, sparkling material is sold for women’s dresses, unique Afghani foods and music. People gaped as we walked along speaking in English. “Can you understand Dari?” we asked one of the English majors. “Some of it,” he said. “It’s like Farsi was hundreds of years ago.”
Twilight was falling. We decided on one more stop: the Jam Karan Mosque. Situated on the southern perimeter of Qom, this enormous mosque is the site of a vivid dream one thousand years ago. The Mahdi (the 12th, Hidden Imam of the Shia) appeared to a shepherd in a dream, and requested that this mosque be built. A friend our age told us that when he was a child and came here to pray, Jam Karan was two small rooms. Now it is an enormous complex that can accommodate thousands of people. Tuesday evenings are especially packed with pilgrims.
It is here, many people feel, that the end of time will be ushered in. The Mahdi and Jesus will return together, perhaps on a Friday, call humanity to ultimate accountability and begin a reign of peace and justice on earth. I picked up a complementary chador and went in to the women’s side
Two dozen women were standing in a courtyard, writing. They had paper (8x10 inches) and with brows furrowed in concentration, were fully engaged in the process. Under a roof was a raised green metal box—perhaps two feet square – with a young woman in attendance. Each letter was carefully placed in the slot on top of the box—entering a well. From this well, the Mahdi will read each letter, consider each petition and act as intercessor for the faithful.
We walked around the magnificent mosque, domes shining green in the gathering darkness. A television crew from Tabriz stood with camera and microphone out front. “Looks like you’re going to be interviewed,” said one of the English majors. “Is that alright with you?” The camera rolled and we began, David and I answering in turn the gentle questions that came. “Where are you from?” “What do you most wish for?” “Does any of this connect with your own faith as Christians?” “What do Christians think about waiting?” “You know, you are very welcome to be here.”
We finished up and headed for our car. The call to evening prayer was sounding and people were hurrying through the gates, into the mosque. Qom continues to be a city of prayers and of pilgrims (8-10 million visit annually). First a Zoroastrian holy city, then a Christian holy city, and now sacred to Shia Islam, Qom was destroyed by both the Mongols and by Tamerlane. It is an indominable place.
Near our car a small form emerged from the darkness. A little Afghan girl (perhaps 8 years old) was selling fortunes. “Want to buy one?” she asked, “they are all very good.” We bought several (they were bits of lovely poetry from Hafez) and left her in the parking lot, waiting and hoping.
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