When you think about Hazrat Abbas (as), the son of Imam ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib (as) and brother of Imam Husayn (as), don’t blame yourself if you imagine someone of cartoonish proportions, a super hero. It’s the stories we hear about him, the legends we’ve built about this man. They’ve said if Husayn were the heart of ‘Ali, Abbas was his arms, his strength, his power. They’ve said that when enemies of justice and freedom heard Abbas’ name, they’d scatter: the turning point in any fight was the minute Abbas showed up. That’s Abbas, the legend.
Abbas, the human being–and what a human being!–is in Karbala. His tiny army has left everything on the field–nothing’s left for tomorrow, because this is Ashura, this is every day, there is no tomorrow. He is conflicted, pacing, anxious. From the start, he’s wanted to be out there with his brothers; he’s asked for permission (he, the commander) from Imam Husayn (as) to go, and he’s tried to go, and the army on the other side, the forces of Umar ibn Sa’ad and Ibn Ziyad, and Yazid, that son of slaves–they don’t want him to go, and he knows it.
But there’s something for him here within the camp, a greater need, and it’s for him to know. Bibi Sakeena (as), this tender child, daughter of the Imam, prescious comfort, she needs him because his massive presence comforts her. He hears her: “Al Attash! Al Attash!” It’s the thirst, and it’s killing everything here. Umar ibn Sa’ad’s blocked access to the river and they haven’t had water for days. They’re all about to die. But the little girl’s voice tears Hazrat Abbas in half.
It’s time for action. He grabs the water skin and his ‘Alam (standard) and heads to the river. The guards, frightened, scatter predictably. He reaches the water of the Euphrates and cups it in his hand–he’s so close–but doesn’t drink it. He can’t drink before Sakeena.
He rushes back. Umar ibn Sa’ad calls out his men, many weaklings against one strong man, and they rush at him. We’ve all heard the stories, and if we haven’t, it’s sadly predictable: they take Abbas’ arms, stab at him, knock him down. It’s terrifying, gory, and sad. I can’t think about it.
But the pain doesn’t mean anything to a man with a pure heart. What kills him is seeing the waterskin pierced by arrows, Sakeena’s water, Sakeena’s hope, mixing with his blood and the sand at Karbala. O, Abbas. I’m so sorry.
The Imam comes to him and holds the head of his friend, his brother, with care. Abbas has given the Imam everything he could ever hope for. Abbas has devoted his entire life, even his death, to the service of his Imam, his master, his mawla. Imam wants one more thing. Can this Abbas, this helper and devotee, who has his whole life called Husayn “master:” can this Abbas now call him brother?
