I left the holy city of Qom with its dozens of mosques and religious schools, in the early morning. Drizzling rain and an eerie mist obscured my visibility across the open plain. I was now well into my solo, on foot crossing of the Islamic Republic of Iran, from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf. Just weeks previous to entering the country it had been revealed that the Iranian government had been keeping under wraps a nuclear facility outside the city I had just left. Sensitive military sites, let alone those of the nuclear persuasion and wandering foreigners do not a good match make.

By day, I often came within a few hundred metres of artillery emplacements. Young soldiers sat or leaned upon the huge cannons talking, smoking and gesturing animatedly. Wherever I found myself at dusk, I was overlooked by military installations, all strategically placed, every one had a fine view over the rolling hills and small valleys within which I needed to pitch my tent. Stumbling on and on through a seeming ocean of brown, tussock strewn mounds, as the dark of night set in, I would quickly erect my tent and eat my meagre bread and cheese dinner, as the generators powering the lights of the bases, dulled under camouflage netting, hummed endlessly away. Occasionally, laughter or the crashing of metal drifted down through the small valleys to where I lay.

As I slept my mind drew vivid images of an elite group of Revolutionary Guards on patrol, coming across my camp and hauling me off for some serious questioning. My fantasies never eventuated. It would seem that the elite of Iran’s military were no match for me in my glow in the dark, fluorescent safety-coloured kit. I remained invisible as I headed south across the plain.

Early one evening I stumbled into the small town of Natanz, limping on my bruised, swollen and damaged feet. A fast pace over rough terrain in order to avoid suspicion close to the nuclear site had caught up with me. Friends in Qom had phoned ahead and detailed a local man named Adi to look after me. A curious character, he was keen to explain himself, proudly announcing not to be Muslim. He believed in no god, but towed the line in a society where open declaration of non-belief is not really an option.

Strangely enough, Adi requested I join him that evening in attending Islamic religious theatre. A curious offer after his assertion of non-belief.

After a short drive across town and now on foot, Adi led me down red powder dust alleyways amongst finely constructed, mud brick dwellings clearly many hundreds of years old. They looked unchanged in that passing of time, still solid and strong. Twisting and turning, looping back upon ourselves I quickly lost all sense of bearing. Our path seemed to lead us deeper and deeper into a labyrinth of narrow paths and dirt plazas. The way was lit by flickering and intermittently powered light bulbs. A final turn and we were faced with a set of massively built, heavy wooden doors which were strengthened with ancient steel supports. Thin lasers of light escaped from beyond the entrance at the hinges, above and below. The unmistakable murmur of a significant crowd drifted through these same cracks. A scattering of men were collected along the walls of the alley, smoking acrid odoured cigarettes and talking in low, deep voices. Their interest was piqued by my presence and quite possibly my bright blue sweater and black trucker cap had a hand in it as well. No matter. They returned my greeting with warm smiles that belied their gruff demeanors.

As though our arrival was forewarned, one of the enormous doors, slowly creaked open. At Adi’s insistence, I crossed the building’s threshold. We had entered an arena known as a hoseinieh, built specifically for the performance of ceremonies during this particular period. The theatre I had come to witness was part of the commemoration of the death of Imam Hosein ibn Ali in the Battle of Karbala. As a martyr he had become a most important figure in Shia Islam, the dominating code of Islamic worship in Iran. By happenstance I found myself walking across the country during a month of worship in the Imam’s honor that would culminate in Ashura - a day of mourning and self-reflection.

The sights, sounds and smells that greeted me in the hoseinieh came from an ancient time and assaulted my senses completely. The room was a huge complex with a roof of rough canvas covered in hundreds of Islamic motifs supported in the middle by two huge wooden columns. Thick, white smoke hung in the air and yellow straw covered the floor. Hundreds of black-cloaked women sat and whispered to each other on one side of the hall or in stalls above, while stoic black-shirted men occupying the other spoke with serious faces. Children ran between the crowds of people, laughing and screaming.