Walid, the Iraqi government minder assigned to me, was cranky that morning. In the two weeks I’d known him, he’d gone from suspicious to trusting. I’d even seen a smile or two form beneath that peppery Saddam-inspired moustache. But he wasn’t at all thrilled with the visit I’d planned that morning. As we approached the gate to the courtyard, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I’ll wait here,” he said flicking his lighter. “Don’t be long.”
This was the culmination of my journey. A green light radiated faintly from the inner chamber, the room that held the one I had come to see. I delivered the traditional genuflections upon entering the mosque, then headed for the mausoleum. As I approached the threshold, just beyond the throngs of pilgrims within, I could see the silver bars of the burial vault, hands sweeping along or clinging to them. There were hundreds of people, men and women, old and young, circling the vault in a torrent, round and round in like a giant whirlpool. Their hundreds of voices calling out in unison, Ya Ali! Ya Ali! their hands crashing down on their chests in a somber rhythm. The thunderclap seemed to grow louder with each beat, louder and louder, until all the sounds in the chamber reverberated like the sound of a million bees. And there, in the center, amidst the tumult of the dark, circling whirlpool of bodies, I beheld it. I’d finally reached my destination, or at least what I thought was my destination.
This was the shrine of Imam Ali in Najaf, Iraq. About 6,149 miles from the Berkshire Mall.
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