MYSTIC NEDJEF, THE SHIA MECCA 



A Visit to One of the Strangest Cities in the World 



By Frederick Simpich 



FEW white men of any race have 

 made the pilgrimage to mystic 

 Nedjef, the Mecca of Shia Mo- 

 hammedans and one of the marvels of 

 inner Arabia. 



It is five days by mule or camel cara- 

 van from Bagdad to Nedjef, and in 

 the eventful centuries since the Shias 

 founded Nedjef — on the spot where a 

 nephew of the Prophet Mohammed was 

 slain — it is estimated that over 25,000,- 

 000 Moslems have made the pilgrimage 

 to this mysterious desert city of golden 

 domes, fabulous treasures, and weird 

 rites. 



Thousands of devotees from the Shia 

 hordes of India, Persia, and South Rus- 

 sia flock through Bagdad each year, 

 bringing with them their mummified 

 dead — salted and dried — for burial in the 

 holy ground about the mystic city. By 

 camel caravan and winding mule train 

 the patient pilgrims make the long march ; 

 many from distant Turkestan are a whole 

 year making the round trip. To help 

 handle the throng that pours through 

 Bagdad each spring and autumn, enter- 

 prising Bagdad Jews have established an 

 "arabanah," or stage line, from Bagdad 

 to Kerbela, the half-way town on the 

 desert route to Nedjef. And for a taste 

 of stage-riding in Arabia, I started my 

 journey by arabanah, a four-wheeled 

 coach drawn by four mules harnessed 

 abreast (see page 592). 



It was 2 o'clock on a starlit morning 

 when I walked over the rude bridge of 

 boats that spans the Tigris at Bagdad, 

 ready for an early start from the west 

 bank. Soon the jolting, noisy coach was 

 in motion, the Arab driver cursing the 

 religion of his four mules and plying his 

 long whip of rhinoceros hide as we 

 whirled away through the still empty 

 streets. Only a few watchmen, shouting 

 occasionally to keep up their courage, 

 and the eternal vagabond dogs of Bag- 

 dad were astir. 



Through the outlying Sunni cemetery 

 we rolled past the beautiful tomb of 

 Zobeida, favorite wife of Harun-al- 

 Rashid (see page 558), past the white 

 tents of sleeping Turkish troops, through 

 a gap in the ruined wall, and out onto the 

 gray desert. The mules galloped evenly 

 on, the wheels hummed, and we seemed 

 to float over a sea of haze that lay on the 

 desert, bathed in starlight. 



Thus till dawn, when we reached the 

 first relay post. Khan Mahoudieh, a mud- 

 walled desert stronghold, where we got 

 fresh mules, tea, and a few minutes rest. 

 All about was noise and confusion ; some 

 500 Persians, surrounded by their cam- 

 els, donkeys, dogs, and rolls of baggage, 

 were making up their caravan for the 

 day's march to the Euphrates. Soon we 

 were ofif again, the fresh mules leaping 

 forward in their collars and jerking the 

 bounding arabanah along at a lively clip. 



We passed many caravans of pilgrims, 

 mostly Persians, the bells of their lead 

 animals tinkling musically, the long- 

 legged camels groping through the half 

 light of earl}^ day. Women rode in cov- 

 ered boxes, like bird-cages, slung one on 

 each side of a mule or camel. A few 

 upper-class persons rode in swinging 

 palanquins, carried between animals 

 walking tandem. Hundreds of the Per- 

 sians, their legs wrapped in bandages 

 like puttees, plodded along on foot, driv- 

 ing their baggage-laden donkeys before 

 them. The country we passed through 

 from Bagdad westward comprised a vast, 

 dry plain, barren and desolate and flat as 

 a great floor. 



Near noon the fringe of date palms 

 marking the course of the Euphrates 

 lifted from the desert horizon, and an 

 hour later we rode into the river village 

 of A/fussayeb. Here also a bridge of 

 boats is found spanning the Euphrates 

 at the point where some say Alexander 

 and his Ten Thousand crossed on their 

 way to Babylon. On the west bank we 



