Beyond Belief: The Secret Lives of Women in Extreme Religions

by Cami Ostman

  My jealously, however, was fleeting. The Seyyid concluded his sermon, and I heard the rustling sound of the microphone changing hands. Soon another speaker would recite a series of call-and-response chants that our congregation would keep time to by beating on their chests. My thoughts wandered to the year before when a small group of women had attempted the latmiya, a lamentation ritual Mama said she had not seen since she’d left Iraq. That night, Mama had moved in circles, her hands flying up to her face in rhythm with the chant being recited. The faces of the women around her reddened from a combination of tears and slapping. Together their hands made the sound of a unified clap. When she motioned for me to join her, I shook my head. That circle belonged to the women who understood Arabic, the women who were real Iraqis. But as the evening wore on, I had regretted my decision to sit on the sidelines. I’d hoped she’d ask me to join her again, but she didn’t. Now I wondered what I would do if they assembled for the latmiya again.

  As soon as the recitation started, Mama took my hand and brought me into the circle. I was relieved she did not ask, that I did not have to choose. My heart pounding, I watched her for a hint as to what I should do. When she started to move, I copied her, bending so that my hair spilled forward while slapping my forehead with both hands. The movement of my hair brought relief from the crowd’s heat, a small breeze on my sweaty neck. The muscles in my back warmed and loosened as we moved in circles around the room. Bend, slap, stand, and step.

  On my third revolution around the room, something amazing happened. I understood. After years of attending services in an incomprehensible fog, one line opened up my world. The speaker called out, “Abd wallah, Ya Zahra, ma ninsa Husayna.” At first it was nothing more than a tight knot of language, but after the third or fourth time of repeating it, that knot unraveled into distinct, intelligible words, “I swear to God, O Zahra, we will not forget Husayn.”

  Shia legend had it that Imam Husayn’s mother, Fatimaaz-Zahra, attended every majlis, or gathering, where the name of her martyred son was mentioned. These words were being spoken to a presence among us. Each time we repeated them, the cries of the group grew louder, and the women in the circle no longer stepped, but jumped, bringing their hands high up into the air and then pulling them right down on the top of their heads. I jumped with them, beating each side of my head with my hands, and before I knew it, I was crying with a mix of emotions. Relief to have understood, overwhelmed by the power of the words on my tongue. I was promising a mother that I would not forget the death of her son.

  A realization surged through me. Many of these women had known the pain of Fatimaaz-Zahra firsthand. The Gulf War had just ended, and there wasn’t a woman next to me who hadn’t kissed her father or brother good-bye without wondering when she’d see him again. For the first time, I understood the Shia adage “Every day is Ashura. Every land is Karbala.” Daily, the martyrdom of Imam Husayn played out in someone’s life, somewhere in the world. This was especially true in Iraq, a country whose modern history was marred by tragedy and tyranny. I thought about Manal, standing across the circle from me. At the height of the Iran-Iraq War, armed soldiers had stormed into her uncle’s home, accused them of being Iranian sympathizers, and deported her right along with them. She never saw her parents again.

  This thought made me cry even more. Each time I brought my hands up to my face, I slapped myself a little harder. The tender skin on my face stung, but it was a good hurt. Just a small burn. A little reminder of how lucky I was to know only such inconsequential pain.

  When the latmiya was over, the women fanned their abayas to cool down and moved about the room, exchanging hugs and kisses with the wish “May God accept your prayers.”

  Mama came over to me, sweaty and out of breath. When she kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “I am proud of you, hababa,” a bud of warmth bloomed within me. I was a good girl.

  Mama’s elderly aunt motioned us over to the pew where she sat. Leaning on her cane, she said, “When I see you with your daughters, I think of Zaynab and cry more.” Mama squeezed my hand. She was honored by this comparison to Imam Husayn’s sister, the hero of Karbala, the one who had condemned her captors for the injustice done to her brother in a fiery speech, the one who had held the first mourning assembly in his name.

  The following day, we reconvened on the men’s side for a special ladies’ session. Stretched across the walls were black banners with Imam Husayn’s name painted in bold white Arabic lettering. At the front of the room and just behind the chandelier in all its incongruent splendor was the Seyyid’s chair, raised on a platform and covered in black fabric. This space was not expansive by any means, but it felt ample and generous by contrast to the women’s side. The older women spread out along the pews, their bodies relaxed; children ran in every direction.

  Right away I joined the circle of women, waiting for the recitation to start with their headscarves dropped to their necks, their abayas open so that they draped on either side of their bodies. Our speaker, an elderly women in a crinkled scarf, pulled toward herself the microphone positioned in front of the Seyyid’s chair. At the start of her reading, two women from the edge of the circle stepped into the center; depending on the speed of the chant, they either bent forward and brought their hands up to their faces or jumped from side to side, bringing their hands down on top of their heads. Sometimes they turned around and faced the women in the outer circle, stopping in front of each woman to make a guttural “huh, huh,” noise that acted as an invitation to match their fervor and energy. Although I was too afraid to go in the center of the circle, Mama wasn’t. She led the women in the outer circle until she got tired and had to retreat to its edges.

  At times, I looked over at the other women, those standing outside of the circle and lightly beating their chests, those sitting on the pews and crying quietly. I wondered what kind of woman stayed on the sidelines. Within our own tradition, these lamentation rituals were surrounded by controversy, and I wondered if the women looking on were not as devout, or if they did not believe in the latmiya, if they thought the practice was too extreme. I wondered what it said about me that I was standing there. I thought about my teachers, my friends from school, my friends who were Sunni Muslims. What would they think if they saw me standing here, beating myself? But as we moved in slow, deliberate circles about the room, I was surprised that something so mournful, something so cult-like in its outward appearance, could feel so beautiful to the insider. The women’s silky black abayas flowed with their every movement, making their bodies appear as if they were dripping in sadness. Their faces, red from tears and the marks their hands left on their cheeks and foreheads, spoke of things too powerful, too gray to explain. Yes, love and devotion to the imam had brought them to the edges of this circle, but their bodies, now given the permission to speak, had so much more to say.

  In this circle, we were witnesses, people with the power to keep a tragedy alive for more than a millennia. The Shia may have been the historical losers, our desired successors never assuming power without it ending in bloodshed, but we were also the masters of memory, victorious in our ability to give relevance to our past. It struck me as something every atrocity deserved, a group of people who would honor their suffering for the ages.

  When the session concluded an hour later, my back ached from the repetitive bending forward, and my tight muscles told me something of why not everyone participated. But at the same time, I felt a satisfaction that canceled out the hurt. I did not understand all the words that had been chanted around me, but I had participated in a tradition larger and grander than my teenage self.

  My satisfaction was short-lived. Instead of kissing and hugging me as she had the night before, Mama took my chin in her hands and said, “What did you do your face?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your face,” she said, feeling gently under my eye.

  “What about my face?” I asked.

  “You gave yourself a black eye. You know yo
u’re not really supposed to hit yourself?”

  “Really?” I said, touching my hands to my cheekbones, trying to feel what Mama saw. But the only thing I felt was the sting of tears. I was afraid to say more. I was afraid I would cry for misunderstanding so much.

  “You’re supposed to bring your hands up to your face but when you get there you just tap.”

  I felt flush. I thought hurting yourself was the whole point.

  Drawn by the commotion, a small group of women formed around me, each one of them offering a piece of advice as to how to perform the latmiya. I fought away tears until I picked up on something in the tone of their advice. It was pride. Mama stood next to me, explaining what had happened, and she had a pleased air about her. She shook her head with an almost imperceptible smile, as if to say, “Look what she’s done in the name of Imam Husayn.”

  Watching Mama with the women around her, I realized the power of that little mark. It announced to the community that I had stood with Mama during the time of the latmiya, that I cared about my religion, and that I wanted to learn more. It proved I was different from the girls who had sat at the back of the room and whispered with their friends. I felt pure, good, obedient. Even though I didn’t recognize the girl that had been spinning in the center of the room moments before, I liked her. She belonged.

  Baptizing the Annas

  Caitlin Constantine

  I gather my scriptures and wait for my Sunday School leaders to finish the morning lesson on the importance of faith in our daily lives. Once the Young Women’s class is over we head to Sacrament meeting, the most boring part of church, where we are required to sit silently for a whole hour listening to our elders drone on like dial tones about gratitude and prophecy and blah blah blah. We’re only thirteen. How can my friends and I be expected to pay attention to church stuff for three hours every single Sunday?

  Just before we are dismissed, Sister Armstrong stands up and makes one last announcement. “I have some exciting news,” she says, grinning. “Our class has been selected to perform baptisms for the dead at the temple.”

  I stop packing up my belongings and blink at Sister Armstrong. Baptisms for the what?

  I had converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints more than four years earlier when my father married my stepmom. Her family had been Mormons since the church’s earliest days. Because I was nine the church proclaimed I was old enough to make my own decision—they wouldn’t baptize me right away like my younger siblings. I had to take weekly lessons for months just as if I were an adult. Much of what the missionaries taught me was confusing, but I wanted so badly to be a Mormon—and, more importantly, to be part of my new family—that I just nodded and agreed, as if I understood everything.

  It was no wonder that every week still brought new surprises about my adopted faith. Most things, like tithing, taking the Sacrament, and missionary work are like normal parts of any church, but “baptisms for the dead” sounds positively grotesque. Before I can stop it, my mind conjures images of decaying bodies floating in a baptismal font, bits of flesh and gore breaking free from the corpses as they are plunged underwater. I shudder.

  “For those of you who don’t have temple recommends, you’ll have to make an appointment for an interview with Bishop Carlson.” She continues smiling beatifically at us. “What you’ll be doing is very important. You’ll be giving people who died without hearing the Gospel a chance to return to Heavenly Father’s side one day.”

  After we are dismissed, the other girls get up and leave, already chatting and laughing, as if Sister Armstrong has just announced another car-wash-and-hoagie-sale fundraiser for Girl’s Camp. Their voices drift in from the hallway and I briefly consider joining them, but I linger in the room. Mustering up my courage, I slowly walk over to Sister Taylor, who is putting her teaching manuals and Scriptures in her big shoulder bag. I sit down next to her. Sister Taylor is the leader of the Beehives, our young women’s group, and I spend more time with her than with any other leader. I trust her to answer my questions without making fun of me.

  “Uh, Sister Taylor?” I stammer. “What exactly does Sister Armstrong mean by ‘baptisms for the dead’?”

  Sister Taylor puts one last notebook in her bag and calmly looks at me. “It means we do baptism by proxy.” I must look even more confused because she continues. “We do them in place of people who have died. You will be baptized on their behalf. It’s how we give others the chance to accept the Gospel even though they weren’t able to do so when they were alive.”

  Although I still don’t understand the “by proxy” part, I am somewhat relieved. Instead of sharing a pool of filthy water with a bunch of rotting corpses, I’ll be immersed in sparkling clean, chlorinated water just like my own baptism, but this time I get to do it inside the temple.

  THE TEMPLE IN SALT LAKE CITY has towered over my life for as long as I can remember, even before I was baptized a member of the church. It radiates holiness and virtue, from its white spires that shimmer in the sunlight to the golden statue of the Angel Moroni calling upon the faithful below. The temple isn’t just physically imposing; it also looms large in my future life. When I marry, the ceremony will be within its walls. When I have a family, I will be sealed to them for all time inside. Without the rituals performed in the holy temple, I would be forever cut off from the Celestial Kingdom and from living alongside Heavenly Father for all eternity.

  The closest I’ve ever come to getting inside the temple is walking through the grounds during Christmastime and admiring the millions of lights that decorate every spire and towering archway. Being baptized for dead people will be my first chance to penetrate this most heavily guarded sanctum. I feel a delicious thrill of excitement.

  But before I can explore the enticing secrets of the Salt Lake Temple, I have to obtain a “temple recommend” by passing an interview with Bishop Carlson. Because I’ve known Bishop Carlson since the days when the most complicated decision in my life was picking the color of my Trapper Keeper, I figure it won’t be a big deal. Bishop Carlson is a rotund grandpa of a man perfectly suited to play Santa every year at the ward Christmas party. He calls his wife, Louise, “Squeezy Weezy” and sometimes he falls asleep on the stand during Sacrament meeting. He once helped me catch, clean, and cook a trout at Girl’s Camp. I adore him.

  No one ever talks about what it takes to get a temple recommend, so I’m not sure what to expect at my interview. I arrive at my appointment with Bishop Carlson a few days after Sister Armstrong’s announcement. His small office is stuffed with a desk the size of a raft, so I have to turn sideways to get to a chair. The walls are covered with framed prints of Joseph Smith and Jesus. I know these pictures well; every home—including my own—displays them prominently in living rooms and entrances. In the standard-issue portraits, both men radiate sainthood, with the same ruddy pink cheeks and piercing gazes that seem to look right into your soul. A photo of the Salt Lake Temple also adorns the scant wall space. I look at it longingly as I take my seat on the opposite side of the desk and primly fold my hands in my lap.

  Bishop Carlson welcomes me into his office with a few minutes of small talk and looks at me with his kind, twinkling eyes. “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he says. “I need you to answer truthfully, okay?” I nod. He picks up a piece of paper, peers at it through his bifocals, and clears his throat.

  “Are you sexually pure?” he asks, his voice suddenly businesslike.

  I stare at the coarse brownish-green carpet, dumbfounded. Am I what? I don’t know what I expected him to ask me about, but this is not it. Bishop Carlson’s eyesight is bad, but is it so bad that he misses my pink eyeglasses, my too-short pants, my bony knees and elbows? Even if I wanted to be sexually impure, I doubt I could find someone who would be willing to help me out.

  I manage to croak out a yes. He makes a note on a piece of paper, and I wonder if my answers are going in a file somewhere. He moves on to the next question.

  “H
ave you ever used alcohol or drugs?”

  I shake my head, no. I can’t bring myself to look at him, even though it occurs to me that he might take my lack of eye contact as a sign of guilt.

  “Have you ever touched yourself? Have you ever smoked? Have you sinned?”

  He recites his list of questions in a bored monotone. He probably asks these questions every day. No adult or teenager in the community is spared this indignity, I’m guessing. Does everyone else feel this embarrassed? Does anyone else think it’s weird to be asked to share such personal information? Does anyone tell the truth?

  I sneak a quick glimpse at the photo of the temple, white and pure and tall enough to reach Heavenly Father, and remember why I am doing this. The temple better be worth it.

  I take a deep breath; my eyes never leave the floor. “No,” I say, “I have never touched myself.” “No, I have never done drugs, I have never used alcohol.” “No,” I say, “I have never sinned.” This last statement is a lie, but I haven’t committed any of the Big Sins, like murder or premarital sex, so a no seems justified, even though lying is a sin itself. I sidestep this moral quandary and keep answering the way I know I am supposed to, just to get Bishop Carlson past the sex questions. I’m sure that Heavenly Father understands my plight and won’t hold my dishonesty against me.

  Soon we move on to more familiar territory, where my years of Sunday School and Sacrament memorization ensure I am well versed. When Bishop Carlson asks about church doctrine, I finally lift my head and look him directly in the eye. I’ve made these same statements in public many times: while bearing testimony in front of the ward, giving talks during Sacrament meetings, and taking part in testimony meetings during youth camp. This part is easy.