c. 2006 Religion News Service

SHIRAZ, Iran _ The family matriarch lay in her bed as the night wind blew warmly through the window. She would die on this night, just short of her 110th birthday, leaving behind eight grown children and 32 grandchildren.

When Aija Gholamy passed, her family began its mourning in a series of religious rituals almost everyone here follows. For instance, seven days after she died, about 50 family members gathered at the cemetery to mourn and watch as the gravestone was placed over the earth.

Women sat Indian-style in black cloaks, apart from the men, on a large sheet. Some hid under their conservative garb and sobbed in low, singsong voices: “Mother, now you’re gone, you’ve left this world.”

One woman breast-fed her infant son. Another held a sleeping toddler with lopsided brown pigtails.

The next ritual will come 40 nights after her death. Families will gather again, this time to send prayers and read the Quran. And they will repeat the ancient Islamic ritual on the one-year anniversary.

They bring halvah _ a dessert made of flour, dates, saffron and oil _ and if they can afford it, fruits, juice, nuts and pastries. Not only do the family members eat the treats, but they push them upon passers-by, often telling the story of their beloved relative or friend. They tap softly on the gravestone, often, because they say the dead can hear them.

Like many things in Iran, these rituals are facing new pressures from a changing population. As many here grapple with this changing world, an increasing number of young Iranians interviewed this summer said the traditions now are secondary to their own secular beliefs. Many said more important are their own regular visits to the cemetery to “see” their loved ones.

“We came here tonight because it’s part of being a Muslim,” said 16-year-old Afsaneh Gholamy, one of the deceased’s many granddaughters. “But it means more that I’m here because I loved my grandma and she can tell I’m here, sending her good wishes.”

Afsaneh then tore a small chunk off what looked like a bran muffin and chewed slowly. She recalled that her grandmother liked the color forest green and had dozens of wallet-sized pictures of her family taped to her bedroom wall.

The teenager is among many young Iranians who explained their connection to the dead as a personal and secular one. They follow centuries-old traditions of the specific day events only out of respect for the person and to save face for their family.

But maintaining a good family name is not the reason most people here hold these rituals _ or marasems. They originally stem from intense religious belief. (Ninety-nine percent of Iranians are Muslim, according to the U.S. State Department.)

“Because their spirits have left the tangible world and they’re separated from us, because their hands were cut short from this life, we gather to send them good wishes and prayers that will keep their spirits lingering,” said Zahra Fararouie, a 40-year-old devoutly religious Muslim who teaches religion in grade school and is considered the female equivalent of a cleric. “If we pray for them in this life, they pray for us in afterlife. We hold the events out of respect for them, from what God taught us.”

But much of today’s Iranian youth mourns differently.

Sina Tahghigh, 19, said he visits the graveyard in Shiraz _ there’s only one, called Daru Rahmeh _ at least once a week. Taghigh’s mother died nearly two years ago of liver failure. His father died a decade ago of a heart attack. The lanky boy with braces and an uneven smile said visiting their graves brings him peace in a personal way, even though graveyards are frightening in Iran.

Gravestones at Daru Rahmeh often are marked with verses from the Koran, or passages from poems. A few lines about the importance of being a mother was written on Gholamy’s stone. The cemetery is so expansive, it looks like thousands of graves are stacked on each other. There’s almost no greenery. There’s endless brown for as far as the eye can see.

“I’m not religious at all. I go to spill my guts. I feel like they’re still alive,” Tahghigh said. “I ask them why they left me alone in the world at such a young age. I told them last week I just got accepted for university. And even if I cry, it empties me in a good way.”

Taghigh’s friend, 20-year-old Hamed Haghta Ali, isn’t much different.

His 30-year-old brother, who had just gotten engaged, died when a truck hit his car last year.

“The seventh day, 40th day and year markers are events we have to throw,” Haghta Ali said. “Whether we are actually religious or not makes no difference. It’s out of respect for our family so we do it, but when I go to visit him alone, I feel he knows I’m there. That’s when I think I’m actually reaching him again.”

KRE/JL END QAROONI

(Nawal Qarooni is a staff writer for The Star-Ledger of Newark, N.J.)

Editors: To obtain photos of families at graves in Shiraz, go to the RNS Web site at https://religionnews.com. On the lower right, click on “photos,” then search by subject or slug.