Arbaeen in the Heart of the Neighborhood

One of the Mosques Hosting the Funeral Ceremony of the Martyred Leader

Faezeh Sassanikhah
Machine Translation Edited by Mandana Karimi

2026-7-31

The first thing that caught my attention were the backpacks, bags, blankets, and pillows that were seen in every corner of the mosque. In one corner, several women in colorful veils were sitting together and talking quietly. Some who were exhausted from the journey were sleeping on the carpets of the mosque. Children were moving between the men's and women's sections, and the servants were welcoming them.

During the days of the funeral of our martyred leader, our neighborhood mosque had acquired an atmosphere that constantly reminded me of Arbaeen Husseini[1]. This mosque was the place where people who had traveled to Tehran, as families or individually, from the cities and villages of Kerman and Isfahan provinces, had traveled to attend the funeral ceremony and bid their leader a final farewell.

Serving the guests was the responsibility of the women of the neighborhood. They had announced their readiness a few days before the ceremony and had been trained to be able to serve the guests. They had also arranged their life schedule in such a way that if they went to the prayer room to attend the ceremony, they would return very soon so that the service to the guests would not be interrupted even for an hour.

Narges Foroughi, the head of the mosque’s servants, said that when the imam of the mosque announced that the Houri Mosque would be one of the places to accommodate the guests, the women’s reception of the servant was beyond expectations. Within 2 days, the number of volunteers exceeded the mosque’s needs and we wrote some of them on the reserve list. According to her, among the volunteers were elderly women who walked with canes, but they insisted on writing their names on the servants’ list. They said: “We will do whatever we can.”

Everything was ready for the guests. From breakfast, lunch and dinner to tea and juice. Even to protect the dignity and comfort of the travelers, the doors of the mosque were closed early at night, and several showers were installed to allow guests to take a bath. The presence of nurses and paramedics also made them feel at ease.

But what caught my attention more than the facilities of the mosque was the guests' behavior.

Zeenat Bahmanabadi, the head of the servants, said: "The guests were very patient and undemanding. They were so obedient that they did not come looking for anything until we offered them something; it was as if they did not need anything."

Then, she described her sweetest memory of those days. One night, when she was a restless child, her mother was so tired that she could not stay awake. She had told her: "You go to sleep; I will take care of the child." Apart from the servants who were present at the mosque for a while, other women in the neighborhood had also spontaneously taken on a share of the hospitality. One had bought fruit. Someone had cooked food and sent it. A woman had cleaned the vegetables and packed them in small bags. Three women from the neighborhood were taking the guests’ clothes home, washing them in the washing machine, and returning them clean and tidy to the mosque. A few people had also brought blankets and pillows.

This kind of service subconsciously brought to mind an image from a few years ago. In one of the Iraqi houses that had housed pilgrims, the neighbor across the street would wash the pilgrims’ clothes, and if any clothes needed sewing, he would do it without any expectations and return them. In those days, I thought to myself that these scenes could perhaps only be seen during Arbaeen. But now I was seeing an example of the same empathy in a small mosque, among the people of our own neighborhood. One of the women in the neighborhood said that she had always wondered if Arbaeen were to be held in Iran, would people dedicate their homes and lives to serving the pilgrims like the Iraqis? But these past few days, she had seen the answer to her question with her own eyes. What interested her most was the washing of the guests’ clothes. She said that she had never imagined that people would offer to take the clothes home, wash them, and return them to their owners at night.

In addition to these scenes of service, conversations with the guests gave me another part of the atmosphere of those days. Whenever I had the opportunity, I would talk to them. Above all, there was a common passion in all the conversations. Everyone had come from afar to have a share in the final farewell. Narges, a young girl from a deprived area of ​​Kerman province, recounted that she had seen the Leader of the Revolution up close many years ago during a student meeting. One day after the farewell ceremony at Mosalla[2], I asked her, “Did you see Mr. Agha? How was the meeting?” She lowered her head, was silent for a few moments, and said, “It was very bad. Very bad.”

Among the guests, Forouzan Sadat’s smile caught my attention and made me start talking to her. Forouzan had come from Rafsanjan with her mother-in-law and a group of forty people. She said that they had waited outside the Mosalla doors from morning until almost noon so that they could see their Leader for the last time.

She had lived in Tehran for several years and recounted that she had once seen the Leader of the Revolution up close when she was a student. “I wish I had the same feelings and understanding that I have today that day,” she said wistfully. He was silent for a few moments and then continued: “Although I loved the leader, I misjudged him under the influence of the atmosphere of January last year. Now I have come to seek forgiveness.”

After making his decision, he said: “Sir, they always advised young people to have children. I want to have another child and raise him for Islam.”

The night of the funeral of the leader was the busiest night in the mosque. Until around 1:30 am, guests were still arriving. Their coming and going in the dark of the night, the servants’ care, finding a place to rest, and receiving pillows and blankets, more than ever, evoked the atmosphere of Arbaeen.

On the last day, one of the neighborhood ladies said a sentence that stayed in my mind for a long time: “Sir, you never went to the Arbaeen walk yourself, but your martyrdom brought the atmosphere of Arbaeen to Iran.” On the last day of the guests’ presence, as I left the mosque, I thought about what the lady had said. I knew that the image I had seen in the Houri Mosque those few days would never be erased from my mind. A mosque that, for a few days, with its unassuming servants, unassuming guests, and the empathy of the people of a neighborhood, had taken on an atmosphere that reminded me many times of path of Hussein.