al attash

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?

the heart of muslim

Note: The theme of this post is poached almost entirely from Dr. Akber Mithani’s lecture on the night of 3 Muharram 1429.

In the 60th year of the Hijra, 680 CE, Imam Husayn ibn Ali (as) dispatched Hazrat Muslim ibn Aqeel, his cousin and trusted friend, to Kufa in modern-day Iraq to investigate the circumstances of its people, who had pledged him allegiance through a series of letters he had received while in Medina. Hazrat Muslim and his two sons left Medina in Husayn’s service, and arrived to a Kufan public eager to receive Husayn as their Imam, their Mawla, their Caliph. Thousands of Kufans implored Hazrat Muslim to send Husayn without delay, and he did his duty and sent for him.

Yazid, the son of slaves, the usurper, heard about Kufa, and immediately sent the governer of Basrah, Ibn Ziyad, to secure the unrest he saw unfolding there. Ibn Ziyad therefore fulfilled his role as another cog in the machine, another strongman, supported by thieves and foreigners, airlifted into power in Iraq to knock some heads about. And in perfect strongman fashion, Ibn Ziyad informed the people of Kufa that what Yazid willed for them was compliance, not insurrection. Hazrat Muslim, after having dispatched Imam Husayn, once the bringer of hope for Kufa, was hunted for money and fame in the service of Yazid–and the transformation of the people of Kufa was a singular moment, a breath, a turning away, and it set into motion the machine of history.

Hazrat Muslim is alone for days in the streets of Kufa. His heart is heavy because he knows his cousin has already left, is marching toward Karbala and what happens there. On the outskirts of town, he finds a house and knocks on the door–hoping for what, I don’t know. What’s left to hope for in times like this? And he finds kindness, a lover of God in the form of a mother. She quenches his thirst, but he cries for the Imam. This mother feels for Muslim, as any mother feels for any son. And that is the last good person Hazrat Muslim finds in Kufa, the last person he will know that is capable of seeing feelingly with a pure heart full of real love, love for God, the protection of what is right and rejection of what is wrong.

Her son sees with eyes guided by a heart consumed with something else–our hearts can hold only one infatuation at a time–and he hurries to Ibn Ziyad, to dunya for a little bit of money, and for that money he sells Hazrat Muslim. Ibn Ziyad catches Muslim and summarily executes him, lopping off his head, the standard M.O. of terrorists. Before he is killed, Hazrat Muslim has three last wishes. Look at this man, look at the purity of this man’s heart:

1. He knew he owed a debt, so he requested his sword and armour be sold to pay that debt.
2. He requested a proper burial so that he would face the House of God.
3. He requested Ibn Ziyad to send word to Imam Husain (as) to turn back to Medina.

His heart desires only to fulfill his obligations to God. Ibn Ziyad grants his first wish, but disregards the rest: Hazrat Muslim’s headless body is dragged through the streets of Kufa tied to a donkey. His head is mounted at the gates of the city, as if to warn the people: “This is the end of the path of God. Obey Yazid, and save your skin!”

The moment in Hazrat Muslim’s story that captures me more than any other–more than the moment of his death, or the last precious last minutes he spent with the Imam, or the elation or the betrayal of the Kufans, is that brief moment when a son who loves dunya makes a commitment to sell the Good for particles of gold. What drives that man? It’s not greed–greed is a means to an end, it’s an emotional tool we use to turn the most expedient thing, the most profitable thing, into the right thing. It’s not ambition or arrogance either–all of these are merely tools we use with our minds to explain the world to us in a way that benefits us. What drove this mother’s son to sell Hazrat Muslim was the absence of God in his heart.

In the Supplication of Kumayl, Imam Ali (as), Husayn’s father, tells God of his real fear of the Fire. It’s not torment or physical pain. It’s the absence of God. Astaghfirullah. Conversely, the drive he feels toward Paradise isn’t for the streams and the meadows and little bunches of grapes, it’s for nearness to God. Subhanallah.

Now think about why we pray, and fast, and give in charity. We’re like children–we do it for the promise of Paradise and the avoidance of the Fire, to gain reward and avoid punishment. Prayer and fasting and charity aren’t highways to Heaven. They’re conduits to seek nearness to God. We think of reward as Paradise–reward is being near to God. We think of punishment as the Fire–punishment is separation from God. If only we knew.

This mother’s son, who sold Hazrat Muslim to the sons of slaves for dunya, turned away. That’s what turning away does to you. You take this life, in which you can be anything you want to be–a scholar, a doctor, a soldier, a carpenter–this precious gift from God, you take your potential, you take your nafs, and you practically give it away. Even worse, you sell it for a little bit of money. You might as well be an assassin or a whore.

my only armour is lamentation

It’s 1 Muharram tonight. I can feel its crescent. I haven’t been a Shi’a all my life, but sometimes it seems that way. In Muharram, sometimes it feels like everyone’s a Shi’a. But maybe nobody is. Nobody owns Karbala.

I had a phone call today from a newspaper reporter (I’d told him earlier about Muharram being the first month of the Islamic calendar and the special significance it held for Shi’as.) He asked about what we do. I told him about the lectures we hold–in our centre, a guest speaker usually delivers 10 to 12 sequential lectures on a common theme–and the recitation of the histories, and of course the matham and the mournful poetry. But it’s impossible to describe Muharram, at least not effectively, without making it seem like a bunch of rituals to commemorate a tragic moment of history. It’s more than that. Muharram isn’t a vehicle for rituals or religious performance art, any more than it’s a vehicle for partisan history lessons. Muharram is a process. Put yourself into it. I can’t tell you what you’ll be when you come out of it. It probably looks something like this:

O' Thou!
  Whose Name is a remedy
  and Whose remembrance is cure
  and obedience to Whom makes one
    self sufficient;
  Have mercy on one
    whose only asset is hope
    and whose only armour is lamentation!

Source: The Supplication of Kumayl

Ya, Husayn!