This Is Muharram
I am not Sayyed Zaynab.
I am a girl,
born centuries too late
to stop the blood
or touch the hem of her abaya.
But the grief found me anyway.
It passed through the dirt,
through the sky,
through the mouths of mourners
who taught me the names.
They say it happened long ago.
But in my chest,
it’s happening now.
Muharram is here.
Drench yourself in black.
Let it seep into your skin
like grief passed down
through generations of ash.
This is not a month.
It is the wound that opens
on the same days
every year.
Muharram is not a month.
It is the feeling in your chest
when all you can do is cry.
That burn.
That ache beneath the ribs
that no doctor can name.
It is the burn of helplessness.
Of being born too late.
Muharram is not a story.
It is your body
remembering something
your mind never lived.
It is the burn.
The one that says:
If I could go back,
I would give my life
so he didn’t have to.
But you can’t.
So you cry.
And wear black.
And whisper his name
into your children’s names.
Because mourning him
is the only way
to stay human
in a world
that watched him die.
Now is the time to mourn,
not with your body,
but with your tears.
I’m crying
because they told me
the grandson of a Prophet
was raised,
his head raised,
on a spear.
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Not in a dream.
Not in a story.
But in front of children,
in front of his sister,
in front of the same wind
that once kissed the Prophet’s face.
I’m crying
because they told me
Zaynab saw it happen.
Cry for the child
who never drank water.
Ali al-Asghar,
six months old,
killed mid-cry
by an arrow longer than his arm.
Cry for Abbas,
the one with no arms
but infinite loyalty.
He did not fall,
he rose,
carrying water between his teeth
for thirsty children
who would never drink.
Cry for Qasim,
who went to his death
smelling of perfume.
He was just a boy.
They shattered him
until his body became dust,
and his uncle
had to gather him
like broken glass.
Weep for Ali al-Akbar,
mirror of the Prophet.
His face was so beautiful
even the enemies wept
before they cut him down.
He rode to his death
with the scent of Medina
still clinging to him.
I’m crying
because I was born too far away
to touch the hem of Sayyed Zaynab’s grief.
Too far
to shield her eyes.
Too far
to scream when the sky didn’t.
I wish I was there.
I wish they had cut me,
not you.
I wish my arms were taken,
my body broken,
my head raised
if only yours could rest
where it belonged,
on the chest of the Prophet.
This isn’t politics.
This isn’t division.
This isn’t fitnah.
This isn’t war.
This is murder.
Do not beat your chest.
I want you to quench the thirst
of people
on his behalf.
Do you understand what it means
to die thirsty?
To fall beside a river
you cannot touch?
To hold a child
whose lips are dry
and know you have
nothing?
Be Abbas.
Walk into the river
and return
without drinking.
Give.
Give until your hands are gone.
Then give your name.
Do not beat your chest.
I want you to wipe your ego off,
wash it from your face
like dust before prayer,
and cry.
Cry for the Prophet’s family.
not as symbol,
but as a father,
a brother,
a child,
a woman
watching it all
and still standing.
Cry because Zaynab stood
where every man had fallen,
her spine steel.
She did not scream.
She did not run.
She carried the weight of Karbala
with no hands to help her
and no shade to shelter her.
Cry for Hussain.
Because no one helped him.
Because we would not have either.
Because the silence still lives
in our mosques,
in our politics,
in our fear
of loving too loudly.
