Attending the Majlis of Imam Hussain AS as a Woman: How Azadari Heals, Empowers, and Gives Us a Space of Our Own

Since I was a child, the arrival of Muharram each year has brought with it a shift in the air—an invisible yet deeply felt grief that descends long before we gather in our centres or a black flag is raised. When the chand (moon) of Muharram appears in the sky, it signals the beginning of mourning for a family we’ve never met in this earthly realm but whose pain is carved into our soul from a very young age.

It’s unexplainable how a Shia child can instinctively feel this weight, a collective remembrance and grief inherited through generations like muscle memory. The days leading to Ashurah feel like walking through fog, heavy and solemn. And then, after the night of Ashurah passes, there’s a feeling like rain has washed over everything—the kind of release that only comes when you’ve cried until your heart feels a little less burdened. It cleanses your soul in the same way the Earth feels nourished and fresh after a storm.

But beyond the theology and history, beyond the ideals that the majlis teaches us about resistance, sacrifice, and divine love, there is something else that Muharram gives us, especially as women.

The majlis is a radical space of healing, a sacred circle passed down to us by the women of Karbala, who endured what no human should ever have to. It is a space not of restraint, but of emotional liberation.

One of the greatest tragedies of Karbala did not end on the 10th of Muharram—it began after it. It was in the aftermath that the women of the Prophet ﷺ’s household were stripped of their chadars (hijab), paraded through cities, and made to stand in the courts of tyrants. The best of creation was made to endure the worst oppression. And yet, it was also in this aftermath that a woman—Bibi Zainab AS—rose to speak truth to power, her voice unwavering even as her body carried the weight of grief, witnessing the physical horrors of what happened to her brother and hearing the blood-curdling screams of the women and children. It is her legacy that lives on in every majlis we hold.

Outside of Muharram, so much of religious practice can feel rule-bound—there are fixed times to pray, to fast, to complete certain mandatory practices. But during Muharram, there is a shift, and the heart takes over. Majlis is not about ritual precision; it is about emotion and love that is experienced communally amongst other women. Their tears, like mine, pour for our shared heartache over the story of Imam Hussain AS’s brother Hazrat Abbas AS, and their souls stir at the thought of hearing Sayyeda Zainab speak in Yazid’s court. There are no instructions for how to grieve, how to remember, how to mourn. And perhaps that is why it is so deeply liberating.

But beyond the catharsis of shared sorrow, majlis is also something else. It is a renewal of a promise—a vow to carry forward the legacy of Bibi Zainab. Too often, we are taught to view religious stories as frozen in time. But the memories we carry from the deserts of Karbala, the palaces of Kufa, and the marketplaces of Shaam are etched into our hearts as we gather—whether to mourn, to protest, or to resist. 

Bibi Zainab is not just a figure of the past—she is a blueprint for every woman who has ever stood amidst the rubble of war and refused to be broken. When we see women offering Eid salah among collapsed buildings in Gaza, when mothers in Lebanon rock their children to sleep against the sound of drones, when women in occupied lands raise their voices despite the risks, Zainab is present. Her strength lives on in the way we endure, in how we refuse to look away, in how we show up for one another.

In the majlis, we don’t just remember her—we embody her. Every noha (poem of mourning) recited, every tear shed, is not simply a retelling of history. It is a reflection of our own lives and losses, a reminder that sacred strength can rise even in the most broken places. 

As a young girl, I remember sitting cross-legged on the farsh-e-aza, the white chadar spread across the floor, transforming our living room into a sanctuary of sorrow. The carpets were lined with tissues, water bottles, and the quiet rustle of black clothing. In the corner, someone had lit agarbatti (incense sticks), the scent of sandalwood and rose lingering in the air. A single black alam (flag) leaned against the wall, and handwritten signs bearing the names of the Ahlul Bayt (Family of the Prophet ﷺ) were pinned above the majlis area in careful Urdu calligraphy.

Around me sat women of all ages—some with their heads bowed, others rocking gently, some silently weeping, and others audibly calling out “Ya Hussain” or “Ya Zainab.” The sound of sobs overlapped with the rhythmic thudding of chests as the noha began. Poetry was recited in a cadence that pierced straight through the chest, evoking images of thirst, of trampled tents, of a sister watching her brother fall to his knees, helpless. In these gatherings, we are channelling generations of heartbreak into each beat of their mourning.

It was here that I learned the many ways a soul can cry. In this space, time seemed to pause. The world outside, the errands, the noise, the burdens, faded away, and what remained was a sacred sanctuary for grief.

The beauty of the women’s majlis lies in its rawness. There are no performative expectations, no need to compose yourself. The space welcomes brokenness.

In a world obsessed with individualism, with curated images of strength, the majlis invites communal grief. We come together not to centre ourselves, but to lose ourselves in a grief far greater than our own. And somehow, through that act, we find healing.

Though patriarchy has gripped many traditions, Muharram remains an exception. The institution of majlis itself was a defiant act, birthed through the oral resistance of women. Today, that resistance lives on. Elder women in our communities prepare niyaz with trembling hands and teary eyes, teach us how to tie the alam, how to place the agarbatti, and how to recite the noha with our sisters and mothers. These are traditions passed not through books, but through the rhythm of our mothers’ and grandmothers’ voices.

The entire space—from the setting of the farsh-e-aza, to the distribution of food, to the structure of the lecture—is curated by women.

The world rarely gives women sacred space. But the majlis is ours. In it, we are not guests—we are the caretakers. And in our hearts, we believe the soul of Bibi Fatima AS is our guest, weeping for her children alongside us. We hold grief and pass it gently from one generation to the next, like a flame that refuses to go out.

Life as a woman is full of boundaries—spoken and unspoken. We bear burdens that are invisible to many, carry stories that cannot always be told. But when I think of Bibi Zainab standing in Yazid’s court—grief-stricken, unveiled, and yet unbroken—I remember that strength and spirituality come from being in touch with our grief and our emotions. They all live together in this space of women’s majlis.