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@freespiritrida

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I didn’t know that love could last more than a lifetime. But on these days, I am overwhelmed by the presence of those who came before me. My Naani’s gentle hands help me prepare our niyaz, as her naani did for her. The sun dips into the horizon on the eve of Muharram, and the alam rises from the winding streets of Karachi into the ashurkhana of my home. I cry the same tears that fell upon the face of my mother, and her mother, and her mother before her. Roses and sharbat stand out amidst a sea of black clothing. Imam Hussain crashes to his knees and cries out for help, and a vow to remember what cannot be forgotten is renewed by each generation. Centuries have passed yet we are right there with him. This love floods the streets of Karbala, it overflows into the imambargahs of Karachi, pours into the basements of suburban towns, and rushes through the crowded blocks of New York City to fill my heart. We did not learn this love on our own, but from the tongues of our grandparents, and their grandparents, and our ancestors before them, whose voices echo across time to ensure the truth will endure forever. ~ I was fortunate enough to spend this Ashra in Karbala, where i witnessed azadaari in a plethora of languages, cultures, and stories. I particularly felt connected to the “alams” or flags, and the “jhoolas” that are prevalent in South Asian communities. So I photographed and created this series for the alams and jhoolas that are lifted each year in cities across the world. They each tell their own story in honor of those at Karbala, and are crafted and carried with an inexplicable love and loyalty for Hussain and his Creator. This post is also dedicated to the parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles who left their homeland but brought their love of Hussain with them across oceans, for you and me. ‎مولا کوئی غم نہ دے, سوائے غم حُسینؑ کے #Fuji #Canon #Portra400