The lucrative business of mourning in Iran

The Guardian

Black banners draped along Tehran’s boulevards, public squares, bridges, overpasses, buildings, and residences somberly ring in Muharram, the first month of the Islamic calendar, a time of spirited eulogy reading, mourning processions, and passion plays.

Although Iranians fall across a wide spectrum of religious belief and practice, the Islamic republic’s particular brand of enforced public piety reaches its peak during the holy months of Muharram and Safar. In the run up to the ninth and tenth days of Muharram, known as Tasu’a and Ashura, festivities reach a fever pitch.

At a house fully draped in black and green and catering only to female mourners in western Tehran, Haj Javad, a eulogist, brings his voice to a breathtaking crescendo as he recounts the horrific fate that befell Hussein and his followers on this day of Ashura over 1400 years ago. The crowd answers Haj Javad with cries and sobs of pain, and with the audience as warmed up as it can get, Haj Reza takes the mic.

He begins a recitation on Hussein’s brother, Abbas, who loyally supported the third Imam to the end of his struggle. Haj Reza describes a meeting between the brothers as vividly as if he were a witness to the event. He even has different voices for each brother.

As his face turns beet red and the veins on his neck protrude and it seems that he can no longer go on, another orator known as Haj Agha Ma’roof steps up and continues the passionate recitation, keeping the audience in the throes of anguished mourning.

“Those who shed tears for Imam Hussein are ushered to heaven on judgment day,” he cries, punctuating most of his speech with “O Hussein, my Hussein” and “May I sacrifice my life for you, Hussein.” He too shouts and cries until he is too winded and exhausted to continue, gradually bringing the audience down with him and the ceremony to a close.

Haj Javad and Haj Agha Ma’roof perform this ceremony on each of the 13 days of the religious mourning season. On some days, the duo might travel to other venues around the city, performing the act three or four times. Eulogists continue to be in demand throughout the year at funerals and memorials.

Although these reverent, ritualised forms of storytelling have a long history on the Iranian plateau, both as local practice and an ideological boon to the ruling regime of the day, they became more widespread in mid-19th century Qajar Iran. In turn, the Islamic republic sees them as essential to its survival, promoting them to new heights in the last two decades.

Up until 20 years ago, most of these ceremonies took place in mosques and special religious centres called Hosseiniyeh, but today, more and more private citizens open their homes to the public, holding two- to three-hour ceremonies each day over the ten-day mourning period. Some of these private residences now operate year-round.

To be successful, a eulogist must have more than a clear voice - he must be a real performer. If an orator can take the audience into a place of ecstasy and elation with a convincingly emotional performance, this can add to his or reputation and, most crucially, translate into higher compensation.

Many orators say they have day jobs and do the work because they see themselves as devoted servants of Imam Hussein. They demand no payment and accept only donations from those who attend their readings. The story of other well-known professional orators, however, is a different one.

According to Mostafa Khorsandi, director of the Iranian federation of orators, there are 52,000 religious orators or eulogists throughout the country. While the organisation provides no oversight and has no set fee schedule, each orator receives a fee commensurate with their abilities, reputation, location, and through negotiation with the individuals who hire them. Fees for a single day can range from as low as 50,000 tomans (£10) for a single day to 1.5-2 million tomans (£300-400) for a two-hour session. Eulogists also demand expenses for travel, lodging, and dining for themselves and their retinue when they visit other cities. (Women earn less.)

Some have garnered celebrity status by appearing on national television or performing in ceremonies sponsored by well-known and influential figures in the ruling establishment. Their fee can be more like fifteen million tomans (£2000-3000) per performance.

“Iran is becoming the country of extreme spending,” said an Iranian economist asked to evaluate the fee. “I can see why someone might pay 15 million.”

It’s common for well-known orators to have an entourage of ten whose job is to scatter themselves among the audience and warm up the gathering by guiding mourners through well timed chants of “O Hussein!” and “O Zahra!” While the crowd is crying, they beat themselves and cry even more loudly in anguish, bringing the audience closer to a state of spiritual ecstasy.

The escalating cost of such ceremonies means that they are mostly hosted by wealthier members of society. Ayatollah Shahroudi, whose name has been floated as a possible successor to supreme leader Ayatollah Khamenei, holds a particularly grand ceremony in the holy city of Mashhad during Muharram featuring Haj Mahmoud Karimi, one of Iran’s most famous orators. According to a source, last year Karimi received 45,000 for a three-day session.

The issue of astronomical fees has been taken up by the domestic press. The Iranian newspaper Jomhuri-e Eslami published a critical piece last year, recounting the experience of a university in northern Iran. The cultural office there had invited a famous orator to perform in a mourning ceremony at the school. The eulogist demanded a deposit of 50 million tomans wired immediately to his bank account, plus all expenses. “Additionally,” the report went on, “he demanded that the university provide ‘exquisite hospitality’ services to his entourage, which resulted in the university rescinding its invitation.”

Another controversial trend is the use of nontraditional lyrics and the rhythm of pop music in these recitations. To attract younger audiences, and perhaps mirror real life practice behind closed doors, verses such as “I’m drunk, drunk from worshipping Ali,” or, “I am a dancer! I dance out of love for Abbas,” can be increasingly heard in some eulogies.
A religious procession marking Ashura in Ardebil, Iran. A young girl at a religious procession marking Ashura in Ardebil, Iran. Photograph: Hasan Sarbakhshian/AP

Government officials, spiritual poets, and individual connoisseurs, all who consider themselves invested in the rich legacy of these rituals, have strongly criticised these verses. Shia Islam forbids drinking and dancing. “These days our rituals have been stripped of any semblance of reverence and mourning,” says Bijan Arjan, a spiritual and religious poet. “In their place are songs with trance-like and dance-like rhythms.

“Rap music is ephemeral, but this traditional and spiritual music transcends time. These fleeting dance tunes refer to nothing outside of themselves, but the spiritual music forces one into a state of contemplation. This ephemeral music is inappropriate for our mourning ceremonies.”

But they pack the house.

This article was updated to include YouTube videos.

http://www.theguardian.com/world/iran-blog/2014/nov/05/iran-high-cost-business-mourning