“What a pilgrimage taught me about walking into the unknown”
Ellie van der Aa
Walking to understand: across faith and borders. Ellie’s story
Each year, millions of Shi’a Muslims travel on foot from Najaf to Karbala in Iraq — a pilgrimage rooted in history, resistance, and devotion. In September 2023, I joined this 80-kilometer journey. As someone with long-standing professional ties to Iran, I took part not as an act of worship, but as a way to better understand a region, its people, and the traditions that shape them.
Landing in a changed landscape
September 2023. It’s early morning as I land in Ahvaz, a southern Iranian city near the Iraqi border. I’m wearing a black abaya and headscarf, like the women around me. No makeup. Not even lip gloss.
I have been traveling to Iran since the 1990s. Over time, work partnerships grew into lasting friendships. Iran, for me, has never been just a headline — it’s the land of poetry, gardens, family meals, and warm hospitality.
For weeks, I hesitated, unsure whether to accept my Iranian friends’ invitation to join them on the Arbaeen pilgrimage — an 80 km walk from Najaf to Karbala in Iraq. I couldn’t get an Iraqi visa in either the Netherlands or Belgium, and something about crossing that border unsettled me.
My friends said it was Imam Hussein himself inviting me to Karbala — and that he would make sure everything, including the visa, would work out. I wasn’t so sure. But something inside me — deeper than logic — pulled me toward this journey. I needed to see it. Understand it.
Border closed, journey opened
As I feared, I was stopped at the border. No Iraqi visa. No entry. It could have ended there. But it didn’t.
Back at an Iranian military post, an officer advised me to try the Iraqi consulate in Ahvaz. When I arrived, it was closed. Just as I was about to give up, a guard made a phone call. A consular official appeared, and two hours later, I had my visa.
The walk to Karbala — uncertain just hours earlier — was suddenly real. The journey had begun.
Karbala is not just a city. For Shi’a muslims, it’s a sacred place — the site where Imam Hussein, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, was killed in 680 CE. His death, standing against injustice, marks a defining moment in Shi’a identity.
Who are the Shi’a?
Shi’a Muslims make up the second-largest branch of Islam, representing roughly 10–15% of Muslims worldwide — with significant populations in Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Bahrain, Azerbaijan, and parts of Pakistan and India. They deeply respect the Prophet Muhammad’s family, especially his cousin and son-in-law Ali, and his descendants, called the Imams.
For Shi’a, the Imams are not just political successors but spiritual guides — divinely chosen and infallible in matters of faith and justice. The martyrdom of Imam Hussein at Karbala in 680 CE is a defining moment in Shi’a identity. It represents a struggle against oppression and injustice, a theme that continues to shape Shi’a political and spiritual consciousness today.
Shi’a practices often emphasize mourning rituals, pilgrimage to shrines, and expressions of loyalty to the Prophet’s household (Ahl al-Bayt). While these practices differ from Sunni traditions, the core belief in one God (Allah), the Qur’an as divine revelation, and the Prophet Muhammad as the final messenger remains shared across all branches of Islam.
Najaf: where the journey begins
Najaf is not just the starting point of the Arbaeen pilgrimage — it is one of the holiest cities in Shi’a Islam. It is the burial site of Imam Ali, cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, and revered as the first Imam in Shi’a belief. His shrine, with its golden dome and expansive courtyards, draws millions of pilgrims every year.
Before starting my pilgrimage to Karbela, I visited Wadi al-Salaam, the “Valley of Peace” — the largest cemetery in the world. Stretching over 6 square kilometers, it holds more than 6 million graves. Shi’a Muslims believe that every soul passes through this cemetery on its way to the afterlife. That’s why many people want to be buried near Imam Ali — they believe it brings them closer to God’s mercy and peace.
Hospitality along the way
During Arbaeen, the 80-kilometer walk to Karbala is filled with millions of people. Along the route, volunteers set up mawakib — tents offering free food, drinks, rest areas, medical help, and even things like socks or baby supplies. These volunteers are not wealthy, but they give generously. “You are our guest,” they said. “This is for Imam Hussein.”
Despite my clearly foreign appearance — light skin, blue eyes — I was welcomed everywhere. People helped adjust my scarf, asked for selfies, offered warm meals. Not once did anyone question my religion or nationality. I met pilgrims from many countries, including Iran, Turkey, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. Some asked why I had come. My answer was simple: “To understand.”
At one point, we were just looking for a restroom — but instead, we were invited into someone’s home. They served us a warm meal and even offered us a place to sleep. Everything was given with kindness, and no one asked for anything in return.
Karbala: a city of grief
Arriving in Karbala, we entered a sea of people dressed in black, waving green and black flags. We stayed with a local family who received us without hesitation. With hotels full or not welcoming foreign pilgrims, residents opened their homes — not for profit, but out of honor.
Karbala is the spiritual heart of Shi’a Islam. It is here that Imam Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, was killed in the year 680 CE during the Battle of Karbala. He refused to pledge allegiance to the Umayyad caliph Yazid, a ruler he considered unjust. Though vastly outnumbered, Imam Hussein and his small band of supporters stood their ground — and were massacred.
This act of defiance — a refusal to submit to tyranny — became the moral cornerstone of Shi’a identity. Hussein’s sacrifice is not just remembered; it is relived, especially during the mourning rituals of Muharram and Arbaeen. He is not seen simply as a victim, but as a timeless symbol of justice, and resistance against oppression.
Though our accommodation was only two streets from the Imam Husayn’s shrine , it took us an eternity to get there — inching forward, shoulder to shoulder, holding on to each other to avoid being separated in the crowd.
The shrine of Imam Hussein was an impressive sight, with its golden dome shining in the sunlight and its walls covered in intricate tiles and calligraphy. It was far larger than I had imagined. Every year, tens of millions of pilgrims visit his shrine, making Karbala one of the most visited religious destinations in the world — even more than Mecca or the Vatican in certain years.
The shrine was even more crowded than that of Imam Ali in Najaf. At the women’s entrance, the line was barely a line. There was pushing and shoving, bodies pressed tightly together. The crowd was anything but orderly. I worried about getting crushed or losing my balance. So I stopped, took a deep breath and decided not to go in.
I sat down near the entrance. I saw other women doing the same — sitting quietly, some praying, some crying. I didn’t feel bad for staying outside. I didn’t need to enter the shrine to feel how important this place is.
What I brought back
I didn’t return transformed, but I did return with a deeper understanding of the region, of how faith is practiced in daily life, and of the strong role history plays in shaping identity.
While I don’t share the same beliefs, I came to respect the commitment and conviction shown by the pilgrims. It helped me understand Iran more fully, too — a country where Shi’a Islam is deeply woven into culture, values, and worldview.
Today, as tensions between Iran and Israel grow stronger, I think about the people I met during this journey. Ordinary men and women living in a place shaped by conflict — people with families, worries, hopes. And yet, I met ordinary people who opened their homes to complete strangers and shared their food without expecting anything in return. In the midst of uncertainty, simple acts like these quietly speak for themselves.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. Not for spiritual transformation, but for understanding, connection, and perspective. Because trust between cultures begins not with agreement, but with sincere attention and presence.
