As the recent case in Manchester shows, child cruelty is wrong, but for us the practice is a vital link to the heart of our Muslim faith
- guardian.co.uk,
- Thursday August 28 2008 12:30 BST
- Article history
I was disheartened to read about the trial of Syed Mustafa Zaidi, a 44-year-old man who has been found guilty of forcing two young boys to engage in self-flagellation (also known zanjeer zani), the ritualistic act of self-flagellation that has been part of Shia Muslim practice for centuries.
In 2003, I was consulted by Scotland Yard on this issue (though not on this specific case). A letter, signed by a leading Shia cleric, was issued as a general circular at the time which advised that, while engaging in rituals that may result in self-harm was a matter for individuals, there were health, child-safety and legal implications that people should be mindful of. It also clearly discouraged children being asked to take part in "any activity that could subject them to physical harm".
There are elements of the Zaidi case that will sound familiar to those who grew up in a Punjabi Shia household. There is nothing odd in the father of the household engaging in this particular practice. But I have personally never seen anybody coerced into it, although coercion can, admittedly, take many indirect forms. There is also nothing strange in seeing participants who, immersed in what appears to be a spiritual ecstasy, are made to calm down, often to prevent further injury to themselves.
It strikes me that, though Zaidi's actions crossed the boundaries of what is acceptable, the danger of this case is that the ritual of self-flagellation itself is demonised. Those adults who engage in self-flagellation with knives, chains or blades, do so with a consciousness of the ceremonial nature of the act, keenly watched by onlookers, children and adults alike, who, though they have seen it all before, continue to be mesmerised by the sheer spectacle of it – the display. This excitement is, for most, mixed with an actual sense of profound identification with the suffering of Imam Hussain, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad. Islamic history tells us that Hussain, a venerated saint in Shism, stood up to the tyrant of the day, Yazid, 14 centuries ago in order to save Islam and humanity from despotism and oppression, and to make the ultimate point about justice. During the 10-day siege, Hussain's camp suffered unimaginable trials and tribulations, which, to many Muslims, not just Shias, has no equal.
Hussain was beheaded and his body mutilated and the few among his followers who survived were humiliatingly made to march on foot to the palace of Yazid in Damascus, where they were imprisoned: many of them died. It is said that bystanders along the route, realising what had happened, began to beat themselves and weep. This event is regarded as the beginnings of the self-flagellation rituals that we see today among Shia Muslims.
Even though I grew up in a Shia household that was fairly well-versed in an understanding of Islam, I have nevertheless always been fascinated by what devotion to Hussain means for those who participate in the various rituals that occur around the annual muharram remembrance ceremonies. Hence a few years ago I embarked on a journey that led me to make Ten Days, a documentary film that tries to capture the essence of these devotional practices among Punjabi Shia Muslims in Pakistan.
The experience of making the film taught me that Hussain's tragedy will continue to resonate, not only because of what his martyrdom symbolises in the struggle of right against might (the struggle to renounce violence, despotism and tyranny through physical sacrifice), but also because, in an age where Muslim communities appear to be in a state of flux, it is this very sacrifice of Hussain that, paradoxically, provides an antithesis to extremism and violence. How? Because it gives a powerful sense of meaningful identification to those, especially among the younger generations, who see beyond the self-inflicted scars and the rituals themselves, and who in some way try and comprehend the significance of it all. The point about the apparent extreme self-violence is that extremism and violence in and of themselves are condemnable. Thus, without the essential dramatic immediacy that the practice conveys to both participant as well as audience, the rituals that comprise the passion of Hussain would be rendered meaningless.
It is possible that those few parents who encourage their children to participate in acts of self-flagellation see nothing wrong in encouraging children to understand the power of their faith through identification with the suffering figure of Hussain. Taking a decision to involve children in a ritual that might harm them, is, of course, wrong, as the Shia clerics such as Ayatollah Fadhil Milani, Maulana Zafar Abbas and others made clear. Harm to children would be against the sharia and the directives of Shia Muslim scholars in the UK. We must not allow our actions borne out of a "passion for faith" and an expression of one's own personal piety, to spill over into the lives of others, especially if we are responsible for them as parents.
But it would be unjust if the Zaidi case were to poison the wider public's view of a ritual that commemorates a death that, like the Christian concept of the crucifixion of Christ, is seen as the epitome of sacrifice for humanity, and the triumph of good over evil.
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