When I was invited to attend the recital of a poem, my expectation was a simple hymn and a long intervals of waiting. The poem, “nauha/nohay”, that were read here in Abbot Road/Nisar/Mubarak Havelli, were in remembrance of a Holy Man and His family. The descendants of the Prophet (PBUH) of Islam.
The moment is difficult to explain. The voices sung, but there was no music. The eyes of all readers involved were red from holding back tears to concentrate on the words. Then there were a few seconds in between choruses where they wept. It was passion, passion for the greatness of their icon. However, in my limited understanding of the depth of the story, there was a sense of humanity. A vivid sense of “what are you doing?!”, or, “what have you done?!”.
This poetry is similar to the folk singers of Britain and its tales. The objective was to spread the story, glorifying a certain individual in their success. This is where the fascination struck. If we, the public who is keen on battles and its outcomes, would deem the Battle of Karbala a loss. But, here. At this location with its own history, its own predecessors. An ideology was saved on that day of the 10th of Muharram. Traditions passed down for over 1400 years, to repeat and remind the public of the ill done to the family of their Holy Prophet (Pbuh).
Whether you were in flavor of some of their extreme practice’s, or were in awe of their passion. A fact spewed from these moments: The people of today, having no relation to Muhammad (Pbuh) by blood but only by faith via scriptures and records, to this day mourn what the followers of Muhammad (Pbuh) did to His Family, the “Ahlul-Bayt”.
The ideology behind all of this is not restricted to this blunt protest against hypocrisy, it is the constant protest against all tyrants and dictators.
If Hussain was alive today, he would be a rebellion against the same leaders we once voted for.
If this is a battle, then success lays in the victor of lands. Yet, that victor is ambushed by curses, where as the name Hussain became immortal.
These are the moments of Arba’een, that I will remember.
