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?

patience

Zaynab bint Ali ibn Abi Talib marches from the hot sands of Karbala to Kufa, her head naked to the hot sun, pushed along the road and through the streets by foul men too stupid to realise what they’re doing, or too weak to care. She’s raw and abused by these men, but her concern isn’t for herself–the little ones, the girls, they need her now. She can’t concern herself with her own grief. Muhammad and Aun, her two young sons, their lives thrown onto the plain with their uncles. Hazrat Abbas (as), the strong, who when they were smaller would teach them swordplay. Imam Husayn (as), the son of a Lion, himself a Lion, his life and those of all his companions taken for pride and dunya, stripped of dignity by men without shame. They’re all behind her now, and the ones who need her are right here.

Sakina needs her. The little Sakina, may God comfort her and give her peace, needs Zaynab’s strength. And Imam Zayn al-Abidin (as), he’s still weak with sickness. And the others too. The brutes torment them as they march toward Kufa.

What would you do? What do you do when you’re stuck in traffic? You curse. What do you do when the fellow in front of you at the ATM takes too long? You grumble under your breath. What do you do when a co-worker frustrates you, doesn’t seem to get it? You lose your cool, you backbite, you ridicule. Maybe not all the time, but you do. “Why am I surrounded by idiots?” you might say. “Why me?” Who doesn’t? And that’s hardship?

All Hazrat Zainab has left is sabr. Karbala’s behind her, and Medina, home, is so far away. The anger and grief is inside her. Of course it is–she’s extraordinary, but she’s also human. She knows, more than any one of them, what’s happening here. She’ll tell Yazid, the son of slaves, “My Husayn has been killed and the partisans of Satan are taking us to the fools so that they may get their reward for insulting God.” But that’s not until Sham, Damascus, the court of Yazid, that son of slaves. Not yet. For now, just the dust and the heat, putting one tender foot in front of the other.

you can turn back…

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.

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!