I Made It Out of Clay
- 4 years ago
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Kerbala Clay free porn video
Oh my beloved Samira… I can still remember her sweet face, her dark, doe-like eyes and those deep, ruby red lips. She stole my heart, and one day, inshallah, I will return to Iraq and find her again. I suppose that for many of you Americans, Brits and other westerners reading this right now, the idea of Iraq as being a ‘romantic’ place might seem more than a little unusual. And a couple of years ago, I might have even agreed with you on that one. But maybe after you read my story, you will understand how I lost my heart back on that rich Mesopotamian soil, where the Tigris and Euphrates meet.
It all happened last year at Muharram, the first month of the Islamic calendar, which corresponded to December and January last year. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, yes, I am a Muslim, a Shi’a Muslim in fact. My parents were born in Iran, and fled to the west after the fall of the Shah. It was from them that I inherited my faith in ‘Ali and the Imams, and our very rich, beautiful Persian culture.
You see, the earth itself takes on a special significance to us. The holy cities of Kerbala and Najaf, both in Iraq, are some of the most important sites for us, after the holy city of Makkah (or Mecca) of course. According to tradition, the first Imam, Ali ibn Abi Talib, was buried at Najaf, while his son Husayn was martyred and buried at Kerbala. As such, both are major pilgrimages for us Shi’a Muslims. Moreover, many of us (myself included) even pray on turbah, or tablets made of clay from Kerbala, following in the tradition of the Prophet (PBUH).
Perhaps now that you know this, you will understand why I would spend my winter in Iraq. In fact, it was actually my first time in the country. I had been overseas before, even visited family in Iran, but visiting a country that is still in the middle of a war was… an interesting experience. The process of getting into the country in the first place was long and convoluted. I just wound up joining a caravan of pilgrims heading west from Shiraz, in southern Iran.
As might be expected, the bus ride was long, tedious and boring. My Farsi was still good enough where I could make conversation with the old man sitting next to me, at least, when he was awake. Mostly, though, the conversation consisted of him asking me what life in America was like, and whether I knew anyone famous. I had to disappoint him and tell him that I didn’t. Just because I live in L.A. (or ‘Tehrangeles’ as many of us Iranian-Americans affectionately call it) does not mean that I’ve ever met anyone from TV or movies. Still, at least he was nice enough.
As we got closer to the Iraqi border, some of the passengers began to chant the familiar praises:
Eisley
- 26.04.2020
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