Guess Who Came To Town Tonight
I was alerted to the fact that we had a special guest tonight not by the word on the street and not by friends, but by the heavily armed Farsi-speaking bodyguard who came to our door asking for a cup of water. (All right, actually I had already heard earlier in the day who was coming, but I had been too dense for it to occur to me that he would be passing by our neighborhood) Figuring I had nothing to lose, I hastily dressed and ran out the door towards the place where the former president of Iran was heading towards, the haram of Sayyida Zayab.
To give some background to my story, I have to mention that I have been chasing after an Iranian visa for the past couple years -- and, especially, the past couple weeks since my current visa expires tomorrow, and I have to go SOMEWHERE. With options on the table like Jordan and Qatar, I felt that it was now or never to resolve my visa issues with Iran. I really didn't expect running into Rafsanjani to help me with my visa issues, but at least I hoped to catch the eye of some of my recently made friends who are acquainted with the visa process and whom I knew were accompanying him so that I could beg and plead some more. Plus, I figured that since I was locked out of my house until 10:30 PM, I may as well sit at the door of Ahl Al-Bayt (as) and chat with God instead of sit at my own doorstep and chat with the bodyguard until my hosts got home.
Therefore, I took myself to the haram. As I walked there, I couldn't help reflecting on the difference in security between Rafsanjani and my marja'. Admittedly both were potential targets, but I remember that when I had once in a lifetime privilege of going to my marja's house, the only security between me and him consisted of a group of men who asked me what my nationality was and requested that I leave my purse with them before going inside. Here, they were clearly taking no chances. Armed men lined the rooftops, and they cleared all of the people out of the haram four hours before the expected guest arrived. Looking at the haram from the outside in, I felt like the distance between me and the haram of Sayyida Zaynab was the same as the distance between me and Iran -- so close, and yet separated by so many layers of security and bureaucracy. Men inside of the haram rapidly began sweeping up the dust and laying down special carpets. I wondered how my view of the world would change if every place I visited was impeccably cleaned and prepared. I reflected that I must not be standing on the street that the guest would be arriving on because they started to pile up the trash next to me.
Again, having nothing better to do, I sat down and decided to wait, trying to ignore the fact that I was sitting by myself on a streetcurb in Damascus at night. No one really took notice of me -- not even the various men that call out marriage proposals at all hours of the day and night -- except for the security men standing around the gates and on top of the buildings. I felt conspcicuous, but I also didn't feel like leaving, so I held my ground. Gradually the hustle and bustle lessened as various people started going back to their homes. Occasionally, Hujjat Al-Islams would come by the gate to the haram, give their salaams to Sayyida Zayab (as) from outside, and then go on their way. A very old man who could not walk sat outside, bent, and prayed. I was also praying too, for some kind of miracle.
As I sat there, two kids wandered up to the trash and began to search it for something useful. One found some aluminum foil and a shoe sole, and the other found a plastic tray and an empty bag. I felt sorry for them that their circumstaces were forcing them to go through the trash, but I really respected the fact that they were electing to search through the trash rather than beg.
I sat there for three hours. The men with guns looked at me, and I tried to avoid looking at them. Eventually, one of the ladies who for some reason had also been sitting outside asked me in heavily accented Iraqi Arabic whether I was waiting for my husband. I said no. She asked me whether I was waiting for my brother. I said no. She then asked me who I WAS waiting for, and I said, "Rafsanjani."
"Who?" she asked.
I left.
As I made my way down the street, trying to ignore the fact that I was walking alone down the street in Damascus at night(somewhat unsuccessfully I might add since I ran into 5 people that I knew who all asked me why I was walking the streets by myself), suddenly several soldiers pulled me and the passerbys aside as the convoy finally arrived -- police cars, and many, many black limousines. I watched in silence as they keys to my Iranian visa drove past me. The soldiers then felt obliged to escort me home, where I climbed the stairs and noted with some relief that the bodyguard was gone.
To give some background to my story, I have to mention that I have been chasing after an Iranian visa for the past couple years -- and, especially, the past couple weeks since my current visa expires tomorrow, and I have to go SOMEWHERE. With options on the table like Jordan and Qatar, I felt that it was now or never to resolve my visa issues with Iran. I really didn't expect running into Rafsanjani to help me with my visa issues, but at least I hoped to catch the eye of some of my recently made friends who are acquainted with the visa process and whom I knew were accompanying him so that I could beg and plead some more. Plus, I figured that since I was locked out of my house until 10:30 PM, I may as well sit at the door of Ahl Al-Bayt (as) and chat with God instead of sit at my own doorstep and chat with the bodyguard until my hosts got home.
Therefore, I took myself to the haram. As I walked there, I couldn't help reflecting on the difference in security between Rafsanjani and my marja'. Admittedly both were potential targets, but I remember that when I had once in a lifetime privilege of going to my marja's house, the only security between me and him consisted of a group of men who asked me what my nationality was and requested that I leave my purse with them before going inside. Here, they were clearly taking no chances. Armed men lined the rooftops, and they cleared all of the people out of the haram four hours before the expected guest arrived. Looking at the haram from the outside in, I felt like the distance between me and the haram of Sayyida Zaynab was the same as the distance between me and Iran -- so close, and yet separated by so many layers of security and bureaucracy. Men inside of the haram rapidly began sweeping up the dust and laying down special carpets. I wondered how my view of the world would change if every place I visited was impeccably cleaned and prepared. I reflected that I must not be standing on the street that the guest would be arriving on because they started to pile up the trash next to me.
Again, having nothing better to do, I sat down and decided to wait, trying to ignore the fact that I was sitting by myself on a streetcurb in Damascus at night. No one really took notice of me -- not even the various men that call out marriage proposals at all hours of the day and night -- except for the security men standing around the gates and on top of the buildings. I felt conspcicuous, but I also didn't feel like leaving, so I held my ground. Gradually the hustle and bustle lessened as various people started going back to their homes. Occasionally, Hujjat Al-Islams would come by the gate to the haram, give their salaams to Sayyida Zayab (as) from outside, and then go on their way. A very old man who could not walk sat outside, bent, and prayed. I was also praying too, for some kind of miracle.
As I sat there, two kids wandered up to the trash and began to search it for something useful. One found some aluminum foil and a shoe sole, and the other found a plastic tray and an empty bag. I felt sorry for them that their circumstaces were forcing them to go through the trash, but I really respected the fact that they were electing to search through the trash rather than beg.
I sat there for three hours. The men with guns looked at me, and I tried to avoid looking at them. Eventually, one of the ladies who for some reason had also been sitting outside asked me in heavily accented Iraqi Arabic whether I was waiting for my husband. I said no. She asked me whether I was waiting for my brother. I said no. She then asked me who I WAS waiting for, and I said, "Rafsanjani."
"Who?" she asked.
I left.
As I made my way down the street, trying to ignore the fact that I was walking alone down the street in Damascus at night(somewhat unsuccessfully I might add since I ran into 5 people that I knew who all asked me why I was walking the streets by myself), suddenly several soldiers pulled me and the passerbys aside as the convoy finally arrived -- police cars, and many, many black limousines. I watched in silence as they keys to my Iranian visa drove past me. The soldiers then felt obliged to escort me home, where I climbed the stairs and noted with some relief that the bodyguard was gone.
posted by Ayatollah Logic's Wife at 11:55 AM
1 Comments:
Mash Allah, sis, what an experience!
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