What went through Hurr’s mind when he took that first intrepid step 1400 years ago, when he turned away from Ibn Ziyad and Yazid and put one foot in front of the other toward the way of Karbala and the Imam? It’s hard enough to do the right thing at the best of times, but try and imagine yourself in Hurr’s shoes, having draped yourself in the guilt and sin of expedience, having weighed yourself down with deeds serving dunya. Not just that, but Hurr’s a soldier–that’s treason he’s doing, which must wrack his brain and tear him apart, although it’s treason against evil. His heart guides him, though, not his mind. Your mind tells you–or that whisperer–”Why turn back now? It’s too late. Don’t worry: I’ll keep you company in the fire.” But your heart can always turn back to God.
Look at his joy as he joins the Imam. He’s the first on the battlefield, the first to fight for him. He knows this isn’t a real fight. It’s a turkey shoot, the most graphic and one of the first of a long line of turkey shoots in Iraq. He knows it’s hopeless, but he puts himself in front of the Imam, because that’s what turning toward the Good means–when Injustice hunts Beauty and Truth, sometimes your only weapon is yourself.
My grandfather was a smoker–by some accounts, a smoking entusiast–all his life. I never met the man because he passed away the year before I was born, but my father told me stories of how, when he was snowed in during winters and couldn’t replenish his tobacco supplies, he’d cut the ends of spent cigarettes and harvest the tobacco, rolling it into fresh papers. When the papers were used up, he’d use newsprint. And when the tobacco was truly in the vapours, he’d look in the cracks of the floor.
Just before my grandfather died of lukeimia, he called my father to see him. My father hadn’t seen him in some time, and when he went to his hospital room, he was shocked–this man, always severe, was once a picture of masculinity, clothed in wirey muscle. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anyone in the final stages of lukeimia, but you can imagine a shell, a waif–hardly anything left. My father tells me he was taken aback. His father tells him, “Hey you, come here!.” He gets close. “I’ve got something I need to tell you.” Closer still. “I’ve just quit smoking. I’ve never felt better in my life.”
It’s not too late to do the right thing. Turning towards the good is always best. If I had to pick a hero from Karbala, someone I wanted to be, I might pick Hazrat Abbas (as)–what strength!–or Bibi Zainab (as)–what eloquence! But I’d be better off setting my sights on Hurr.
