Kerbala's night turns on in the domes of his mosques, like a mystical glow. Husayn Ibn Ali gave name to the one who is considered third holy place for the Shiites, After Mecca and Medina.
In front of the Husayn Mosque, is that of his brother Abbas Ibn Ali, martyr of Islam and hero in the battle of Kerbala in the year 680, in which he died, Like Jesus Christ, with 33 springs. There is his grave, Under a bright vault that hangs a lamp with thousands of brighter crystals yet.
It is difficult to imagine what merits these two brothers accredited in life, To inspire such tribute to his death. Almost 1350 years after that battle, Today thousands of men and women, Millions actually, They reach their tombs in silence, Maybe without knowing its history, how was my case, But surpassed by the stage.
I am passionate about places without imposture. And this is, certainly. Men pray with such fervor that foreigners are invisible here.
I am passionate about places without imposture. And this is, certainly. Men pray with such fervor that foreigners are invisible here. In fact, We did not see a single tourist among the hundreds of faithful, Among women covered to the ankles, Among the millions of mirrors that sparkle on the walls and arcades and the columns of the mosques.
There is little to understand. Only a chill of pilgrimage places is felt. The silence of the bare feet on the carpets feels. The beauty of the roofs full of filigrants and lamps and more lamps with thousands of lights and crystallites, To see if they light the faith of skeptics.
We left overwhelmed, nervous for having stolen a few photos in a place where people only fit in. Out, About twenty or thirty men sang very serious and very tall and one did not know if they were prayers to heaven or warrior oaths. But, There are only prayers today. This is another Iraq, No shorts or hair to the wind. Here you are already overwhelmed at home, decent.
Saddam Hussein, As a good tyrant was a coward, and feared the Shiite rebellion, since he clung to Sunni belief. That caused a repression to the population of Kerbala. He tried to destroy his holy places and after the Shiite revolts of 1991, murdered thousands of people in a brutal response. But the mosques survived. And with them resurfaced the nuts of nuts, dates and sweets and spices, who wants to park the camel and adjust a turban, Well, the temporary space regression manages to spread the traveler.
We left overwhelmed, nervous for having stolen a few photos in a place where people only fit in.
I thought about the hotel in these chapters of Iraq's story, In Creeds and Matanzas, In destruction and beauty, In culture and violence. I went to bed with the brightness of the mosques even in my head, With prayers that never go out and hoping that these crystal lamps will not end one day, accumulating dust in the battleship chamber of a museum.
Kerbala is a living city, But to complete the puzzle it was necessary to return to dead cities. In Iraq you have to look back. And that led us to another of those sweaty places. A mound of land in the distance, A stone and sand road. Dust, silence, nobody.
A man left a booth. He greeted solemnity. Then, By surprise, A German motorist appeared who had come there asking many people. My friend David, The German and me We were in the place where the story starts. A sign announced clearly: "The first written words began here". That was Uruk's presentation letter. Otherwise, The place was away from everything, as faded in a sopor that lasts thousands of years. Too old to relive what was, too important to die at all.
That mound of land was actually a zigurat, A temple of ancient Mesopotamia. They built buildings that amounted as high as possible to facilitate the arrival of the gods who lived up there. Uruk's Zigurat was one of the most important. The inhabitants went to the temple and delivered their offerings: chickens, cows, potato, or what they could. It was something like a divine tax. And those responsible for the temple had to keep an accounting of the offerings. That led them to organize forms where you had to order with symbols, Every product that was going to stop there. Thus began the writing of humanity, Like an inventory in Excel, To please the gods.
Thus began the writing of humanity, Like an inventory in Excel, To please the gods.
This happened around the IV Millennium BC, During the bronze age of the old Sumerian. The problem of the milestones of humanity that took place in the confines of history is that it is difficult to take perspective, assimilate time. The Pyramids of Giza, for instance, Some were built 1.000 years later. We would have to wait more than 3.000 years for Aristotle to talk about metaphysics. And we, good, We take just over 5.400 years to get to Uruk, Since the first human being came up with designing a symbol in a clay table.
And there we were, The German motorist, My friend David and I trying to calculate centuries and stones in that place. Unable to understand what life was like. The rails that the Germans had built to transport the wagon with which they extracted the earth are still preserved. Julius Jordan was the first archaeologist to reach Uruk, in 1912. Excavation works have prolonged for decades, But we didn't see a trace of activity. And it is unheard of that there is not a single archaeologist in a place full of pieces of antiquity.
It was impossible to walk among the ruins of Uruk without tripping with pieces of vessels, jars or with an infinity of colored cones. Those cones were stones, marbles from different places that were carved in this pointed way to embed them on the facades of the buildings as decoration. There were thousands of colored points adorning the walls. And there we were, Seeing those scattered pieces, everywhere. Pieces that would have elaborated how long ago? ¿3.000, 4000 years? Further? Our Iraqi guide alerted us to the consequences of getting in his pocket hiddenly some homeless piece. The prison is the fate of the tourist who takes a memory of the country's archaeological deposits. But everything was so abandoned, outpatient, that it was inexplicable for anyone to guard one of the most important ruins in the Middle East. We moved away from there and when I turned to see Uruk for the last time there was nothing, Just dust on the road.
About one hundred kilometers from Uruk, resists more lustro another of the ancient cities of Mesopotamia. Here the wheel was invented, The first laws were established and they say, They found the remains of what could be the first beer in history. This city saw Abraham born and housed one of the most important zigurats in the region. And all this is summarized in two letters: Ur.
In UR also found the golden lyre or bull's lyre, who accompanied the tomb of Queen Sumeria Puabi during 4500 years. In the early twentieth century, The lyre was taken to the National Museum of Iraq and in 2003 It was destroyed by the looters. That is what the sacred relics last in our time. Only a bull head survived, forged in gold, that today is exhibited in the British Museum.
In UR also found the golden lyre or bull's lyre, who accompanied the tomb of Queen Sumeria Puabi during 4500 years.
They also say that the queen was buried with 52 assistants who poisoned for the occasion, Such was the loyalty of the service for the Sumerian kings. Our guide told us with the finger, Without giving it too much importance, The place where collective suicide and burial happened.
Walking among the remains of UR, One discovers that a small brick building is still standing, that has a small half -point arch in the center. I would not attract attention without the historical context that tells us that there was no historical context of arches of any kind before that precise arc in front of me. Ie, We could be before the first architectural arch of humanity.
U is announced from afar. There is no mound of land here, where a temple is intuited, Como and Uruk. Not, In UR, the zigurat has been rebuilt totally. It is your main claim from a distance makes you little. When we approached we understood their dimensions better: 61 meters long and 46 wide. Only the first floor is preserved. He lacks floors to this staggered temple that reached in his day the 30 meters. A Strength of adobe bricks, A temple to honor the gods. Only the delusions of men resist time and get to this day.
Only the delusions of men resist time and get to this day.
An Irakí family walked without making noise next to the zigurat. I guess parents wanted to teach their son where the roots of this town are found. Traveling to Iraq is traveling to the origin of too many things. Here gives the feeling that everything started: The writing, The wheel, The laws, It is like reaching the sources of the river on which humanity has sailed.
But on this tour of time, We had a stop, A little more east, A little further south. We needed to visit between the Euphrates and the Tigris, Paradise himself. And there we head.
