By Kamal Sikder
Growing up in the old quarters of Dhaka meant living among relics from the era of Mughal governor Shaista Khan. The architectural imprints of that period, including the famed Sat Gambuj (Seven Domes) Mosque, were woven into our daily life. For us, the mosque was not a distant monument—it was our childhood playground. Just a short distance away stood the Eidgah built under the patronage of Shaista Khan, and further along the city’s arteries stretched the road toward Hussaini Dalan, the ceremonial and religious heart of Dhaka’s Shiite community. This community, while not native to Bengal at large, had become an integral part of Dhaka’s social fabric, tracing its settlement back to the Mughal period.
One of the most significant annual events during my childhood was the Muharram procession commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Husayn. The anticipation for the tenth of Muharram, Ashura, would build for days as we waited for the moment when the streets would come alive with spectacle. The procession began at Hussaini Dalan, wound its way through the streets, and reached the moorlands near what was then an open, flood-prone space by Sheikher Tek. At that time, a canal ran along the edge, though Dhaka’s relentless urban expansion has since swallowed both the canal and the moorland.
Ritual, Performance, and the Memory of Karbala
The Muharram procession was more than a public display of mourning; it was a vibrant, emotionally charged performance of Shiite history and memory. The streets filled with mourners dressed in black kurtas and salwars, many carrying makeshift swords or bundles of knives tied to ropes. As the procession advanced, participants would strike their chests rhythmically and some would flagellate their backs with the knives, mourning the betrayal of Imam Husayn on the plains of Karbala. The central symbol of the procession was the Tazia—a beautifully crafted representation of Husayn’s tomb—which was carried ceremoniously to the canal. Once there, the Tazia was submerged in water, pigeons were sacrificed, and they were buried along the banks, all acts rich with ritual significance. These practices gradually faded as the canal disappeared and the city pushed further south, replacing sacred spaces with concrete.
The visual and symbolic vocabulary of these rituals extended beyond the processions into Shiite homes and community spaces such as the Imamia Mission. In these domestic and communal settings, the alam—a ceremonial standard often shaped like an open hand—stood prominently as a representation of Abbas’s severed hand, a symbol of loyalty and sacrifice. In many homes, depictions of the pak panjatan—the Holy Five comprising Muhammad, Fatima, Ali, Hasan, and Husayn—were displayed, though their faces were left as glowing voids of light, in keeping with the tradition of avoiding detailed figural representation.
Symbols of Shiite devotion were woven into everyday life. I remember a local barber shop owned by a Shiite man where the images of the Holy Five adorned the walls. Alongside them were representations of Ali’s double-edged sword, Zulfiqar, and Buraq, the winged horse with a female face. These symbols became an ordinary yet sacred part of our visual environment, quietly preserving Shiite memory in a predominantly Sunni city.
The Shared Language of Islamic Symbols
Among the Shiite community, the Hand of Fatima (khamsa) is one of the most widely recognized amulets, believed to ward off the evil eye. In Shiite tradition, however, the khamsa carries a more layered meaning. It not only represents protection but also embodies the five sacred figures of Shiism and serves as a poignant reminder of Abbas’s martyrdom at Karbala, where he lost his hand while attempting to retrieve water for Husayn’s camp. This shared yet uniquely interpreted symbol underscores the subtle ways Shiite identity exists within and alongside broader Islamic cultures.
The visual distinctiveness of Shiite practice is also reflected in the use of coloured turbans. Green and black turbans are reserved for the descendants of the Prophet Muhammad, signifying a sacred lineage. Eminent clerics, such as Lebanon’s Fadlallah and Iraq’s Sistani, both claim descent from Hasan and often wear black turbans to denote their prophetic ancestry. In taziyah performances—the ritual dramas commemorating Karbala—green garments symbolize the martyrs’ paradisiacal purity, while the antagonists are dressed in red, a colour signalling guilt and bloodshed.
While Sunni religious spaces traditionally avoid figural representation, favouring calligraphy and geometric design, Shiite shrines are often rich in visual iconography. The names of Muhammad, Ali, Fatima, Hasan, and Husayn appear prominently in Shiite sacred spaces, sometimes accompanied by stylized portraits. The invocation “Ya Ali” (“O Ali”) frequently adorns banners and walls, and Qur’anic verses associated with the Imams are believed to carry protective power, appearing not only in religious manuscripts but also on everyday objects like astrolabes.
Modern Visual Culture and Revolutionary Symbolism
The visual legacy of Shiite symbolism continued to evolve in the modern era, especially in the wake of the 1979 Iranian Revolution. The revolution not only transformed Iran’s political landscape but also reimagined Shiite symbolism as a vehicle for revolutionary ideology. Thinkers such as Ali Shariati articulated Shiism as a theology of resistance, drawing parallels between Husayn’s stand at Karbala and modern anti-imperialist struggles. In revolutionary propaganda, Husayn was often portrayed in stylized, socialist-influenced art reminiscent of Marxist iconography, aligning his martyrdom with figures like Che Guevara.
Post-revolutionary visual culture in Iran merged Shiite symbols with Socialist Realist aesthetics and motifs from the Persian epic tradition, particularly the Shahnameh. Murals and posters depicted Husayn as a youthful, black-bearded figure in a green turban, sometimes shown with his white horse or cradling his infant son, Ali Asghar, foretelling his own imminent martyrdom. This reimagining of Shiite visual culture served both to mobilize revolutionary sentiment and to memorialize the countless lives lost in the Iran-Iraq War.
The architectural grandeur of Ayatollah Khomeini’s mausoleum near Tehran further exemplifies this symbolic synthesis. The golden dome and expansive prayer halls deliberately echo the architecture of traditional Shiite shrines. The designation of Khomeini as “Imam” by his followers embedded his memory within sacred Shiite narratives, subtly merging religious authority with revolutionary leadership.
The Shiite traditions I witnessed in the heart of Old Dhaka form part of a wider, living network of ritual, memory, and symbolic language that transcends geography. The disappearance of the wetlands, the canals, and the spaces where processions once culminated marks not only the physical loss of a sacred landscape but also the gradual erasure of ritual memory from the city’s public life. Yet, Shiite symbolism persists—in homes, in quiet corners of the city, and in the collective imagination of its adherents.
Whether in the alleyways of Old Dhaka or on the revolutionary posters of Tehran, the symbols of Shiism endure as potent expressions of grief, loyalty, and defiance. They narrate the story of Karbala, not as a distant historical event, but as a living drama embedded in personal and communal identities. Through processions, domestic altars, and evolving visual traditions, Shiite communities continue to affirm their distinct place within the broader Islamic world, carrying forward a language of remembrance that bridges the intimate and the political, the local and the universal.
