A Pilgrim's Narrative of Post-War Mashhad

Faezeh Sassanikhah
Machine translation edited by Mandana Karimi

2026-7-6

The first thing that caught my eye in the courtyard of one of the Imam Reza (peace be upon him) shrines was a man sitting on one of the carpets, reciting a prayer, leaning the Iranian flagpole on his shoulder. Until I reached the Goharshad Mosque, I saw men and women carrying beautiful flags of Iran and Lebanese Hezbollah in large and small sizes; some of them were decorated with pictures of the martyred leader and the new leader. The pilgrims who went from one courtyard to another with the flags mixed epics, prayers, invocations, intercession, and pilgrimage.

The flags had given a different clarity to the heavenly atmosphere of the courtyards and porches, and like veins of identity, they were present everywhere: on the shoulder of a young man holding his child, behind an elderly lady in a wheelchair, in the small hands of children, and on the shoulders of men and women, young and old! On the threshold of entering the shrine, from the Sheikh Tusi Gate, every day I saw boys in military uniforms who, next to the flags of Iran and Iraq, humbly waxed the shoes of pilgrims with prayers and with the intention of the manifestation of the Holy Hidden Imam.

But this feeling and mood had gone beyond the boundaries of the shrine. On the streets of the city, from the most distant streets to the paths leading to the shrine, photos of the martyred leader and the new leader were posted on the windows of shops. The variety of businesses and the large number of these shops were striking. From mobile phone shops to repair shops, restaurants, bookstores, and supermarkets. This resistance was not limited to shop windows and came to life at night in another way, in passionate street gatherings in squares and alleys. The people of Mashhad, despite not having heard the terrifying sound of mortars and the roar of American warplanes, and having never seen smoke, fire, or the collapse of buildings, were still in the squares after the ceasefire, like the people of the cities involved in the war. They stood on both sides of the streets and on the sidewalks, singing epic songs and chanting slogans.

Among these gatherings, the presence of Iraqi pilgrims also had a different appearance. They would appear in the squares, waving the flags of Iran, Iraq, and Quwwāt al-Ḥashd ash-Shaʿbī (the Popular Mobilization Forces), or driving around the streets in cars, watching the public gathering with delight.

The most beautiful scene for me was the presence of an Iraqi man wearing a dashka in Imam Hussein (peace be upon him) Square. He stood at a distance from the crowd, waving the Iranian flag. As if to say that his heart, body, and soul were with us in this war.

For me, who had come from a war city, this presence and support of the people, even during the silence of the battlefield, was a “strength of the heart.” Perhaps in their own opinion, this was simply doing their duty to the homeland. But for me, this was witnessing the true meaning of resistance.

I left Mashhad, with my heart still close to Bab al-Jawad, among the elegant gatherings near the shrine and the Mullah Haidar Mosque. Where the sound of epic slogans is so loud that its echo reaches the shrine and the main owner of the mourning for the martyrdom of our martyred leader.