are the large and small decorative mirrors on its flat surfaces. The mirrors, often donated by people who have taken vows to perform some reciprocal act of exchange, are a gift of faith. These people believe that if they donate mirrors for the nakhl, Husayn will intervene on their behalf to have their naz̤ar fulfilled. Others also donate mirrors, in addition to colored pieces of fabric or daggers with which to decorate the surface out of sheer love for the imām’s radiance. According to those involved in the ceremony, a popular folk belief is that the mirrors symbolize the light emanating from Husayn’s body; this is the reason why lanterns are placed inside the coffin that often accompanies the larger structure in procession. Also, young women promise to donate mirrors for the nakhl if they find a good husband. This would symbolize the light of their destiny. Occasionally, lanterns are also hung from the nakhl to illuminate the entire structure in a symbolic way, reminding spectators that the structure’s iconicity represents not only Husayn’s bier but also his body. Moreover, because the nakhl also symbolically represents Karbala on another level, it serves as a microcosmic, multivocalic symbol of the overall event’s master narrative, integrating as it does images of Husayn, his bier, and the plain upon which he was slain.
Daggers, along with swords, used to be hung on the covering of the nakhl to symbolize the weapons used by the enemy to assassinate Husayn. It is customary to attach a cypress tree made from a cross section of plywood to the front surface of the nakhl. Various designs made from cork and small pieces of arrow-shaped wood are placed on the wood’s surface. In Persian literature, cypress has always symbolized a tall, straight figure in the shape of the beloved. The cypress attached to the nakhl stands for Husayn’s erect body being riddled by enemy arrows like a porcupine on the tenth of Muharram. The pieces of cork symbolize the actual arrows that struck him.
At either end of the nakhl, extending from the top, is a shaddeh, a long pole surmounted by a circular object festooned with colorful fringes, tassels, and sashes. As an act of devotion, people donate garment-sized pieces of cloth to be tied to the circular portion of the shaddeh. These fabrics can be of any color or even be multicolored. On the shaddehs, the pieces of donated fabric are so numerous that they have to be tied to the circles in a very dense concentration. Recall that it is said that after the battle at Karbala, the members of Husayn’s family were robbed of their belongings. Ayoub corroborates this belief by citing the verses of an unnamed poet:
[T]he womenfolk of Muḥammad were among the enemies, pillaged and their goods divided amongst low and dissolute men.
They were pushed around like slave girls, mistreated and beaten with whips … as though they were captives or even more lowly.
Their head covers and veils were forcibly torn off their heads and faces.
Behold a man, his limbs tied in stalks with no one to set him free, and a noble woman taken captive and her earrings snatched away.55
The donation of these fabrics and tying them to the shaddeh is a symbolic gesture in memory of Husayn’s surviving family members. In addition, flags adorn the structure on top. In Arabic, the word al-‘alam can mean a “distinguishing mark.”56 It can also mean a flag or banner, and that is how it is used in Taft and Yazd to refer to a banner of distinction. ‘Alams often adorn the nakhl or are carried in procession with it to symbolize the numerous standards carried by Husayn’s party. On top of the nakhl, between the shaddehs, there is a horizontal wooden beam spanning the structure. Several vertical sticks three to four meters high are attached to the horizontal beam, so that people performing naz̤ars may attach pieces of cloth to them.
According to Fischer, the nakhl is supposed to be taken out at noon on the tenth. In his vivid description of the observance in Yazd, he notes that the movement of the object represents a threefold desecration committed by Yazid’s army under the command of ibn Sad and Shimr: “they shed the blood of the Imam, they shed his blood during the time for Friday noon prayer, they shed blood during the holy month of Muharram when fighting is supposed to be suspended.”57 These desecrations are not to be forgotten by the pious, and they remind the faithful that there is much tyranny and oppression in the world. As the nakhl moves about, a special stew named in honor of the martyr is being prepared for later communal consumption. Eventually, all of the dastehs converge at a central mosque, while villagers gather in a nearby graveyard to march smaller nakhls to their own homes. At the conclusion of the evening events on the tenth, participants settle down to a communal meal, after a period of partial fasting. The meal provides closure to the mourning period.
Weeping and Laughing
Up until this point, I have been painting a rather pious and tragic picture of the observances during Muharram. There is, however, another dimension that needs to be acknowledged. Much of the literature on the event has focused precisely on the tragic, the melancholy, and the somber, but in this focus we run the risk of essentialism. Iranians—and for that matter, all Shi‘ah—are not a morose lot, perpetually living in a darkened world within which an ethos of constant sorrow prevails. In fact, there is a festive and celebratory air engulfing the phenomenon of Muharram performances that demands our attention. Although the idea is controversial and is the subject of constant debate, we must recognize that there is room for joy and merriment within the Karbala paradigm. Browne, for example, mentions a genre of satirical poetry to be recited during the most serious occasion for weeping, the majlis assemblies created for this very purpose. He has translated a poem called “The Book of the Table, Censuring Hypocrisy,” which is a work “in which the ostentation of the host and the greed of the guests are satirized with some pungency.”58 A few couplets from the poem will suffice for my purposes here:
Of those who make mourning for Ḥusayn and sit in assemblies in Frenzied excitement.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A host of gluttonous men, all beside themselves and intoxicated with the cup of greed,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
To sit in such an assembly is not meet, for without sugar and tea It has no charm.
God is not pleased with that servant in whose entertainment is neither sherbet nor sugar.59
The image is one of a poet sitting in an assembly sarcastically commenting on the assembly itself. It is as if the poet is mocking the excesses of the aristocracy through biting social commentary, perhaps alluding to the feasting that occurred in Yazid’s palace when Husayn’s head was brought to him on a stick. The poetic license of the rauz̤eh khvān allows him to address serious and self-reflexive issues in a comic way. Thus humor too has its function during the annual period of mourning.
To use another example, Beeman has surveyed the intertwined relationship between ta‘zi̅yeh and rū-ḥauzi̅, a form of traditional Iranian commedia dell’Arte that draws on indigenous folklore and even classical literature. Beeman sees the two, which at first seem almost diametrically opposed, as complementary because “they cannot be treated separately within the context of Iranian society.”60 He suggests that both theater forms project the same presentation of Iranian morals and ideologies but do so from opposite ends of the performative spectrum: “Laughter and tears, though seemingly opposite emotional expressions, may indicate alternate, but equivalent ways of dealing with similar emotional and social situations.”61 The complementary emotions embodied in the acts of laughing and crying resonate with the English expression “I laughed so hard I almost cried,” which reminds us that laughing and crying can produce similar physiological effects and emotional states.
Another example comes from the sacred drama itself. Mehdi Abedi reminisces about his childhood in an Iranian village,
