Ashura: pain and suffering as a path to faith and liberation

Pain and suffering, both physical and spiritual, are at the heart of the Shiite ritual of Ashura. Through these experiences, believers relive the torment of Imam Hussein. For them, it is not just a ritual, but a profound expression of grief and devotion that binds them even more closely to his fight for justice. Ashura thus becomes a powerful act of remembrance and unity.

Every year, on the 10th of Muharram, millions of Shiites around the world celebrate Ashura. The largest events take place in Karbala and Najaf in Iraq, where thousands of pilgrims come to pay their respects to Hussein’s tomb. Important rites also take place in Iran, Lebanon, Pakistan, India, Bahrain, and in the Shia diasporas of Europe, North America, and Australia. In 2025, Ashura falls in mid-July. Of course, rituals differ from country to country, depending on local traditions, but at the core they are always about grief and remembrance.

Historical and Religious Context

On 10 Muharram 680 CE, the Battle of Karbala marked a turning point in Islamic history. Imam Husayn, Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, led a small group against Caliph Yazid I’s army. Shia Muslims view Yazid as an unjust ruler. Surrounded in Karbala’s desert, Husayn’s group faced thirst, betrayal, and death. Consequently, this tragedy, called Ashura, symbolizes resistance to tyranny and inspires annual mourning rituals.

As the third Shia Imam and Prophet Muhammad’s direct descendant, Imam Husayn anchors Shia theology and identity. His resolve to uphold justice, even at the cost of his life, makes him a role model. The suffering of his family, including the death of children and captivity of women, deepens Shia emotional ties to Karbala. Therefore, Husayn’s martyrdom forms a religious and cultural cornerstone, fostering collective memory and unity among Shia communities.

In Shia tradition, pain and suffering during Ashura transcend mere grief, serving as a spiritual act. Devotees participate in mourning rituals to experience Husayn’s physical and emotional torment, expressing loyalty and solidarity. Furthermore, these acts of suffering offer redemption and spiritual purification. They remind believers to resist injustice. Accordingly, the symbolism of pain keeps Karbala’s memory vivid, urging spiritual and moral renewal.

Pain and Suffering in Ashura Rituals Across Regions

Ashura rituals feature massive mourning processions, uniting thousands of Shia Muslims to grieve Imam Husayn. Participants rhythmically beat their chests (sine-zani), weeping and chanting elegies called noha. These poetic works, dedicated to Husayn’s martyrdom, evoke deep emotions. Moreover, they help devotees relive Karbala’s tragedy. Additionally, theatrical performances (ta’zieh) reenact the battle, intensifying the ritual’s spiritual impact.

Self-flagellation, like tatbir (cutting the head) and zanjir-zani (striking with chained blades), sparks controversy. These acts symbolize devotees’ readiness to shed blood for Husayn’s sacrifice. Tatbir and zanjir-zani prevail in Iraq, Pakistan, and parts of India. However, their intensity varies, from symbolic gestures to severe wounds. Although seen as devotion, these practices ignite debates among Shia communities.

Ashura rituals differ across regions, reflecting local traditions. In Iran, ta’zieh performances and orderly processions dominate, minimizing self-flagellation. Conversely, Iraq’s Karbala hosts intense mourning, including tatbir. In Lebanon, Hezbollah’s influence adds political tones, emphasizing collective weeping. Meanwhile, Pakistan and India favor extreme zanjir-zani, though some communities adopt blood donation, aligning with modern trends.

Pain and Suffering: Physical and Spiritual Aspects

Physical pain during Ashura is not just a part of the ritual for some, but a truly important, even sacred element. Tatbir, zanjir-zani — yes, it can be both a light symbolic gesture and a real bloody self-sacrifice. People do not do it for show. For many, it is a way to at least one step closer to Hussein’s pain, to feel it for themselves. It is an act of devotion, without reserve. Someone later says: yes, it was painful, but the soul — as if it was cleansed. Pain becomes a form of faith, almost a prayer.

But the pain is not only physical. There is also suffering of the soul. When noha is heard, these mournful poems about thirst, loneliness, the death of Hussein — many people shed tears. Someone cries quietly, someone sobs out loud — and this is normal. This is not just grief — it is a connection. Through this common grief, people seem to become closer to those who fell in Karbala. This is not a performance, but a living memory. Such grief does not break – it gathers. It reminds us what Hussein stood for: for justice, for dignity.

Ashura rituals are both a psychological release and a path to purification. Through pain, tears, through shared grief, a person lets go of what oppresses him inside. A sense of community arises – you are not alone, there are others around you with the same feelings. This is a place where you can be vulnerable, and you will be understood. And this is strength. In such moments, not only personal faith is strengthened, but also what holds the entire community together: a common past, pain, memory. Everything that makes us ourselves.

Controversies and Differing Perspectives

Self-flagellation on Ashura — practices such as tatbir and zanjir-zani — is a heavy thing, and not only symbolically. Deep cuts, blood, chains with blades — all this is real, and the consequences too: contamination, infections, especially if it all happens in a crowd, without sterility. Even within the Shiite community, these rituals cause heated debate. Some consider them a sincere expression of devotion to Hussein, a willingness to shed their blood in memory of his sacrifice. And some, like Ayatollah Sistani, are against it: they say it is dangerous to health, and bad for the image of Islam — it looks too wild from the outside. Indeed, for those who look at all this from the outside — especially in the West — such rituals can look shocking.

In cultures where pain is almost completely displaced from spiritual life, where everything must be sterile, rational and according to a pattern, it is difficult to understand how one can consciously go through suffering for the sake of faith. Hence the misunderstanding and stereotypes. But if you look from the inside – not through the eyes of a passerby, but through the eyes of someone who feels – everything becomes different. Pain here is not about cruelty, but about memory, about connection, about depth. You will not understand this until you admit: for these people, Ashura is not just a tradition, but a way to be close to the past, to live it in the body, and not just in the head. And while some are looking for compromises – replacing blood with donation, hitting themselves on the chest with their palm instead of chains – others continue to follow the path of pain, because for them this is the language of loyalty. And there is no savagery in this – there is a choice. And an experience that not everyone is ready for.

Conclusion

During Ashura, when tatbir or zanjir-zani begins, for many it is no longer just a ritual — it is a transition to another state. Chain blows, sharp blades, blood — all this triggers processes in the body that cannot always be explained in ordinary language. Endorphins, altered consciousness, someone would call it “subspace”. This is a state when physical pain ceases to be just pain — it becomes a channel of communication. With Hussein, with his suffering, with his choice.

Here, pain is not a punishment or a show. It is the language of loyalty. It is a way to go beyond the ordinary, to overcome fear, fatigue, flesh. Many who participate in these rituals do not seek attention — they seek purification. They go to pain consciously, with full dedication, to become closer to something greater, to something that cannot be explained in words. There is no accident in this pain — it is about discipline, about respect, about deep personal work.

For them, this is a way to live not just a memory, but justice. To pass it through the body, through the blood, through the scream. This is catharsis, this is liberation, this is a return to oneself and to the roots. This unites people – in the hall, on the street, in the community – because shared pain brings them closer than any words.

And let it seem wild or incomprehensible to someone from the outside. But who knows what real faith looks like? Who can judge where the line between suffering and liberation lies? These people have chosen their path. It is difficult, but there is truth in it. And this truth is worth at least trying to hear – with respect, without judgment.

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