For 13 years, Abu Zahra was in exile, working as an itinerant car mechanic in a handful of East European countries. With a smile, he shows off his English. "Cognac," he whispers.
He returned to Iraq in 2002, and this week marked his third Arbaeen. He performed his first less than two weeks after the fall of Saddam Hussein and his Sunni Muslim-dominated Baath Party. "Who dared to come here before?" he said, turning serious and putting out his hand like he was firing a gun.
Pilgrims worship at the shrines of Hussein in Karbala on the eve of Arbaeen, the 40th day of mourning for Shiite Islam's most beloved saint.
(Hadi Mizban -- AP)
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Under Hussein and the Baathists, Shiites were repressed and their rituals proscribed. Today, however, the police who once yelled at pilgrims to "Stop!" or "Get to the side!" now plead, "God's mercy on your parents, open the road."
Through the changes of the past two years, what endures is the city's spirituality, the intersection of memory and place. Blindingly lustrous domes sit atop a mosque awash in black, yellow, turquoise, tan and white tiles, a cacophony repeated in the streets below.
Leaflets on walls insist, "The only source for legislation is the glorious Koran." Books by prominent clerics -- Grand Ayatollah Mohammed Sadiq Sadr, Mohammed Bakir Sadr, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini -- line plastic mats, near portraits of Moqtada Sadr, son of Mohammed Sadiq Sadr. Boys sell prayer stones made from Karbala's sacred soil. Crowds are sprinkled with cardamom-flavored water to keep them cool. Smoke from fires boiling tea that is distributed for free wafts over the street, as does incense. Qima, though, is the most powerful scent.
"Water! Water!" Abu Zahra shouted.
"They're bringing it now," answered Wahhab Hattout, his balding, gaunt friend.
By 10 a.m., the men mixed the lamb with the onions, then poured in the beans. Crushed, dried lemon and other spices came next, followed by more than 40 pounds of tomato paste. Each man took a turn stirring.
"The fire of hell will never touch anyone who stirs the pot," Hattout said.
The origin of the tradition of qima is hazy, though all agree it goes back centuries. Some argued that the dish represented Imam Hussein; partaking it is akin to Christian communion. Others said it represented justice and equality -- there is no meat for the rich and beans for the poor, but one meal for everyone. Abu Zahra shrugged his shoulders when asked of the origin.
"This is our tradition," he said. "When we were born, our father and our grandfathers were doing this."
For Abu Zahra, tradition is not to be questioned but celebrated. "If you offered me all the property in the world, I wouldn't trade it for this moment," he said.
The men stirred for 90 minutes, tasting occasionally. Abu Zahra threw in handfuls of salt and more tomato paste, turning the yellow stew to the color of rust. The qima began to boil, and Abu Zahra stoked the fire with the chifcheer, then used it to stir again.
"On foot, we came today on foot," men begin chanting, as they mixed the dish.
