The lines start in all corners of the country. People of every age, wearing dark clothes, some holding flags, some dancing, some vocal, some reflective. Groups of men together, groups of women, families. The processions move along roads from every direction towards Karbala—which could be anything from a few hours to over a week’s walk away. Look down on the country from high above and these processions might resemble a kind of slender-limbed starfish, with this city as its centre point. On the ground, the locals use another animal as their analogy for the apparently endless, creeping line: they call it the ‘black anaconda’. 

However ominous the nickname, the annual pilgrimage of Arba’een brings a spontaneous