Shafaq News

Before sunrise on Eid al-Adha morning, the roads leading into Najaf begin to fill with headlights. Families drive through the night from Baghdad, Basra, Diyala, and other provinces —not toward celebration, but toward graves.

By dawn, the narrow lanes of Wadi al-Salam Cemetery are already crowded with mourners dressed in black. Some carry candles and incense. Others hold bottles of rosewater or bags of Kleicha, the traditional date-filled pastry distributed as sadaqa, a form of charity offered in the name of the dead. Between rows of graves, families recite the Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Quran, while the sound of weeping drifts quietly across the cemetery.

Children weave between tombs carrying plastic chairs. Elderly men lean against gravestones, reading verses under the early morning light. Workers move through the lanes sweeping dust from family plots before visitors arrive. Even on Eid, when much of Iraq turns toward gatherings and celebrations, Wadi al-Salam moves to a different rhythm, one shaped by memory, ritual, and loss.

Known in Arabic as the Valley of Peace, Wadi al-Salam stretches across the western edge of Najaf, roughly 160 kilometers south of Baghdad. Considered the largest Islamic cemetery in the world, it surrounds one of Shia Islam’s holiest cities, home to the shrine of Imam Ali ibn Abi Talib. For many Iraqis, visiting the cemetery and praying at the shrine are inseparable acts, part of a spiritual journey that moves between mourning and devotion.

Read more: Wadi Al Salam: Najaf’s ever-growing city of the dead

Fourteen centuries of continuous burial transformed the cemetery into what many Iraqis describe as a city of the dead. Mausoleums rise above the ground while catacombs extend beneath it. Some grave markers carry classical Arabic poetry. Others display fading photographs of the deceased —soldiers, clerics, tribal figures, poets, and political leaders whose stories remain fixed to stone walls and plaster tombs.

Historical researcher Hassan al-Hakim told Shafaq News that the cemetery existed long before the rise of Islam, when the area was known as al-Thawiyya, an ancient burial ground. The discovery of Imam Ali’s tomb later turned Najaf into the most important Shia burial destination in the world.

“Burial near the Imam became something people actively sought,” al-Hakim explained. “Over centuries, the cemetery expanded until it became a complete city for the dead.”

That expansion also created an economy of its own. Along the cemetery’s main roads, hundreds of small offices provide what Iraqis call daffana services, a term derived from the Arabic word for burial. The businesses handle grave construction, catacomb excavation, plot sales, and long-term maintenance for families who may live hundreds or thousands of kilometers away.

Abbas al-Najafi, who inherited one of the offices from his father and grandfather, said many Iraqi families maintain relationships with cemetery caretakers across generations.

“People trust those who look after their dead,” he told Shafaq News. “Now Iraqis living abroad contact us through social media asking us to locate graves belonging to relatives buried decades ago.”

He noted that burial customs have also changed over time. “In the past, burial was communal. Today, nearly ninety percent of families own private plots.”

Near one of the side lanes, workers repaint names on old gravestones while others repair damaged tombs cracked by time and weather. Some families install small trees or metal canopies to shield graves from the scorching summer sun. Others leave framed photographs, prayer beads, or handwritten notes tucked into the edges of stone.

Beneath the cemetery, however, lies another history.

During the years of mandatory military conscription under Saddam Hussein’s regime, many draft evaders and fugitives hid inside Wadi al-Salam’s sprawling underground catacombs. Al-Najafi remembers those years clearly.

“We spent nights underground by candlelight. We used candle stubs left near the graves and followed the news on an old radio. Sometimes we survived on food left behind by grieving families.”

He paused before recalling the dangers below ground. “The scorpions frightened me more than anything. Sometimes we woke up and found snakes moving through the tunnels searching for scraps.”

After the 1991 uprising against Saddam Hussein, Iraqi security forces tightened control around the cemetery, making the catacombs difficult to use as hiding places. Many who had escaped conscription eventually returned following later government amnesties.

Yet on Eid morning, the cemetery’s older memories blend almost seamlessly into present-day rituals.

A middle-aged laborer carrying a sack full of empty rosewater bottles moved quietly between graves, collecting discarded containers. He barely stopped when approached by Shafaq News correspondent.

“We collect them for the owner,” he said while continuing through the crowd. “They get washed, refilled, and sold again.”

Nearby, a woman from Baghdad sat beside the grave of her son beneath a small canopy she had installed to create shade. She had left her home shortly after midnight to arrive in Najaf before dawn. A young tree planted beside the grave swayed lightly in the afternoon wind.

Her son, Ali, was killed in combat. “He broke my back when he left,” she said through tears. “I became alone, even though my daughters are still with me.” She paused while adjusting flowers near the gravestone. “I dreamed of seeing his wedding and his children, but fate stood between me and my happiness.”

Around her, visitors continued arriving in waves, some carrying trays of sweets, others reciting prayers quietly beside newly painted graves. Loudspeakers from nearby mosques echoed across the cemetery as the afternoon heat intensified.

At one point, the woman looked up and asked a question that seemed larger than her own grief.

“Why can’t we live the way we see on television?” she said. “Countries enjoying celebration and abundance without losing their sons to wars and fighting.”

By midday, the crowds slowly begin to thin. Families leave the cemetery on foot toward the nearby shrine of Imam Ali, completing a ritual that has shaped Najaf for generations. The burial offices close their shutters one by one. Workers gather abandoned bottles and extinguished candles from the pathways.

Under the afternoon sun, the small tree beside Ali’s grave continues casting its narrow patch of shade.

Wadi al-Salam will not remain quiet for long. It never does.

Written and edited by Shafaq News staff.