Photographing major religious events in Syria was never just a journalistic challenge it was a high-risk undertaking. Beyond the security restrictions imposed by Bashar al-Assad’s regime, access was tightly controlled by the organizers themselves, who rarely allowed outsiders carrying cameras into these ceremonies. For me, documenting Ashura was never simply another assignment; it was a dream that had seemed impossible for years.

In 2021, while working independently and largely under the radar, that opportunity arrived from the last place I expected: a ride booked through a taxi app. The driver introduced himself as Abu Jaafar. Almost immediately, I noticed a military vest hanging behind his seat, a walkie-talkie, and a large ring on his hand. At first, I assumed he was simply another soldier driving a taxi to supplement his income, something that had become common during Syria’s economic collapse. But when we passed a military checkpoint outside the Ministry of Defense without being stopped or questioned, I couldn’t resist asking what he did.

He smiled and told me that he was a senior member of the Abu al-Fadl al-Abbas Brigade, the force responsible for securing southern Damascus, including the Sayyida Zaynab district. I told him that I had dreamed of photographing Ashura for years but had never found a way to gain access. He paused for a moment, looked at me, and simply said, “I’ll help you.”

A week later, before dawn, we drove toward Sayyida Zaynab. From the moment we left, I photographed almost everything I saw, driven by a mixture of excitement and anxiety. I knew my presence there was an exception, and I kept thinking this might be the first and the last time I would ever witness this world through my camera.

As we approached the shrine, the city transformed. The airport road, usually quiet at that hour, had become a river of people. Thousands of pilgrims from Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Lebanon, and across Syria were making their way toward the Ashura commemorations. I was overwhelmed by the scale of what I was seeing, yet I never stopped photographing. One thought stayed with me the entire journey: this opportunity might never come again.

By dawn, I found myself surrounded by thousands of mourners. Men and women dressed in black moved through the streets performing latmiyat the rhythmic striking of the chest in unison with religious chants to mourn the death of Imam Hussein. For me, it was more than a religious ceremony. It was a fully immersive sensory experience. The chants, drums, and synchronized movement of the crowd filled every corner of the streets, while I experienced a rare feeling of freedom as I walked among them with my camera, photographing without interruption.

Among everything I witnessed, the Afghan tents remain the most vivid in my memory. Everyone warned me not to approach them, but curiosity won. Inside, the atmosphere was tense. I shared no common language with the men gathered there, most of whom wore white burial shrouds. The sight immediately brought back memories of the Afghan fighters I had seen during the Syrian war, many of whom wore similar clothing on the front lines. I took a few photographs quickly and left, realizing that my fear came less from the people themselves than from the memories and assumptions I had carried with me.