Kalbara – 80-year-old woman sitting under a bridge. Her face is wrinkled, the Arabic beauty between her brows, chains of white hair peeking out from under her scarf, and rounded round glasses on her nose. In the sea of people, you need to look closely to find her.
When our eyes meet, she offers me a handful of dates. I take one, thank her for her kindness and blend into the crowd.
All of us are older women handing out dates, groups waving Australian flags while walking, and young volunteers from Thai Mokiv serving traditional drinks, which look like settlements for people who would never gather under other circumstances. But here it is on a charred road between Najaf and Karbala, on an 80-kilometer stretch, connected by a common sense that transcends language. Their smiles say it all without a word.
What takes me and millions of people on this path during the peak summer months is not just a religious event, it is a human victory. At this moment, there are over 20 million people here, and the global media giants may not acknowledge it. We are here to answer the call for freedom that has echoed throughout history for a period of 1,400 years.
The free man once chose not to submit to oppression, and he stood by his choice until his final breath. His family and companions – the best soul rebelled against him and sacrificed his life. The women and children who stood together were captured.
And now this massive crowd marches annually, declaring that the truth endures. As our Master Hussein said, we may face the harshest deaths, our access to food and water may be blocked by most cruel regimes and unjust laws, but “we will never accept humiliation.”
The heat is unbearable and forced to pause our journey at noon. But when the sun softens, people resume their wave paths.
A middle-aged woman from Bahrain is walking by me. Her three children are towing. She explains that her husband was unable to participate due to work commitments. Her youngest is barely one year old. He asks if this is the most difficult experience of her life. In response, she offers a smile – a smile with a thousand meanings…
Later, as I sit in prayer, the Iraqi woman by my side asks if I am I an Iranian. As I nodded she cups my face, kisses my eyes, speaks in Arabic – words I barely understand – Israeli, Iranian missiles, and the leadership of Ayatollah Khamenei. What can I do, it is our common language.
Standing in front of the shrine (AS) of Hussein, walking for three days, all my muscles hurt, my eyes still filled with tears of joy. I see the same emotions on every face around me. We left our routine and endured the hardships, and we are here for one assertion. “Yes, we have spent time hearing the cry of freedom.