By Mr. Syeed is a filmmaker.

Jan. 25, 2019

Here’s what I knew about my grandfathers: They were both pirs, spiritual guides of Sufi orders in Kashmir. Also: Both had long white beards, wore turbans and rode horses. So, as a nerdy Muslim kid growing up in Indiana, I imagined my grandfathers were like characters from Narnia or Middle-earth, Shariah-compliant wizards who dispensed wisdom and miracles.

I badgered my parents, aunts and uncles for stories to shore up this supernatural status. They tossed me some scraps. How Dadajan cured a follower’s cancer. How Abajan exorcised a jinn from his possessed wife. How Abajan, on his deathbed, saw the Prophet Muhammad appear at his side.

My elders were hesitant to share much. My grandfathers themselves hadn’t broadcast these stories. And my parents’ generation grew skeptical of the family traditions. They came of age at a time of seemingly unfettered progress in Kashmir: They replaced their cooking fires with gas stoves, piled up advanced degrees, landed cushy public service jobs. My parents, aunts and uncles came to see pirs as backward, or un-Islamic, or charlatans eager to make a quick buck off exorcisms and amulets.

And yet, pirs persist. Curious what life might be like if my parents had carried on the tradition, I wanted to make a film about faith healers today in Kashmir.