Ashura

We are in a concrete basement. There are puddles at the back and a few plastic stools. Voices rise up. Boys strike their right hand rhythmically on their chest and cry out in chorus that they will give their lives for Hussein. Their leader urges them on – with the help of a cheat sheet. “Today, at this moment,” he says, and the boys answer, “I wish I were in Karbala.” After this practice session, we see the march on the streets. Every year, Shiite Muslims commemorate the death of Hussein, the prophet Mohammed’s grandson who died at the Battle of Karbala in 680. They reenact the event at a mosque, in charming handmade "historical" outfits. The actors mime to an audiotape playing in the background. When the young teenagers have finished their rehearsal, one of them picks up his cell phone. Everyone seems aware of the camera, and they correct each another if one of them poses too much. One boy dressed as a soldier asks, “Why do I have to look like everyone else?” These are the boys who must perpetuate this commemorative tradition. Although they understand its gravity, they are still too young to stay serious the whole time. The strangers’ eyes causing the awkwardness belong to us, the audience.