Ashura

They ask me, “Why do you cry every year? Why do your eyes still shed these tears?” And I answer, before you ask me why I mourn, tell me first why others rejoice on the day Husain was torn. Tell me, When Nuh was saved from the raging sea, who made that day a celebration for you and me? When Ibrahim emerged from the fire’s glow, who declared a yearly festival so all would know? When Yusuf rose from prison to the throne, who made that day a celebration widely known? And when Isa’s disciples asked for heavenly bread, a table from the skies by Allah spread, Muslims recite the verse and move along, yet no yearly celebration echoes in their song. But somehow… when Husain is slain… when Zaynab is left with unbearable pain… when Abbas falls beside the stream… when Sakina wakes from a shattered dream… I am told to smile. I am told to cheer. I am told this is a blessed day of the year. Forgive me. My heart cannot go there. Not while Husain lies there. Not while the tents burn there. Not while the children cry there. Not while the family of Muhammad suffers there. You call it celebration. I call it devastation. You call it a feast. I call it a wound. You call it a holiday. I hear the cries that filled that afternoon. For what exactly am I meant to celebrate? The family’s fate? The severed hopes? The lonely night? The massacre carried out in broad daylight? Should I celebrate Abbas returning without a hand? Should I celebrate Akbar falling upon the sand? Should I celebrate Sakina searching through the flame? Calling for her father, yet hearing no reply to his name? Should I celebrate Zaynab watching her world disappear? Burying her sorrow while drowning in tears? Tell me… what exactly am I meant to celebrate today? Would you stand with Husain, or turn away again? Then tell me… how can Ashura ever be the same? Tell me… how can my eyes stay dry, when even the heavens seemed to cry? How can my heart not break in two, when all Husain asked was that we remain true? No. My heart refuses. My soul declines. For Ashura belongs to Husain. And Husain belongs to all times. Because every tear says: “Husain… I remember.” Every tear says: “Husain… forgive my shortcomings.” Every tear says: “Husain… I was not in Karbala, but my heart is.” Every tear says: “Husain… I will never leave you.” And if some are troubled by these tears, perhaps it is because these tears reveal what others wish would disappear. For Karbala is more than a story. More than a memory. More than a page. Karbala is a mirror held before every age. A mirror exposing tyranny and pride. A mirror exposing what some wish to hide. A mirror asking every soul the same refrain: When truth stood alone, where would you remain? So do not ask me why I cry for Husain. Ask me how a heart that truly loves can look at Karbala and not be moved. Ask me how I could hear of Husain’s final stand, yet not feel the grief of that sand. Because if these tears ever disappear, then it is my heart I should fear. Some wounds do not heal with time. Some griefs do not fade from the mind. And as long as Ashura remains, my eyes will remember Husain’s pain.