BY JANNAH M

I sigh as Hussain proceeds to drag the child’s body away. Men, elders, and even children. All have shown themselves willing to lay down their lives for this man, this son of Ali ibn Abi Talib, all for some sort of crusade against our Caliph. I still longed to understand. Was he truly the decadent man that these insurgents believed him to be? Now I saw with my own eyes that they were willing to die for the idea that he was. This man, Hussain ibn Ali, even seemed all too willing to allow it. Not even the deaths of his own loved ones, which he now grieved, brought him to the brink of surrender. No, he continued to fight and now I understood that he was likely willing to fight to the death.

I am a blind man struggling to navigate an unknown world around me, or surely I am that insect emerging from its cocoon for the first time in a changed world – except the threats against the delicate creature are much less clear. That is what I feel like in this moment as I continue to observe Hussain and the rituals of death he gently performs on these blood-soaked plains. He is bold, even in his movements, I observe. Everything he does is carefully orchestrated with purpose, almost as if he had predicted this very outcome he is now confronted with. It leaves me feeling flustered with no means of making sense of the situation. Instead I find myself beginning to doze off, lulled by the gradual numbing of the pain in my leg, apparently into another world away from all the violence and bloodshed.

A world with flowing rivers and abundant vegetation is where I am, a stark contrast to the barren desert plains around me. I catch glimpses of the faces of my loved ones. They smile at me and send me small words of encouragement, all carefully weaved into a poetic notation. A feast for the senses. I also see the faces of the stablemaster back in Damascus. I even see the faces of the two travellers I had interacted during my first night on the road. Finally they all begin screaming in my head. “I told you so! I told you so! I told you so…”

“I told you so!”

I bolt awake as the screams become nearly overpowering. They quickly find themselves replaced by images of the men here. Harmala, Zayd, and all the others. They are intoxicated, desperately fighting for domination of my mind. It all becomes too much, forcing a scream out of the depths of my own lungs and into the void. As I slip back to the hellish reality I now occupy, men, I had begun to believe had long forgotten about me amidst the chaos, all briefly glance in my direction.

It only takes me a split second to realize why the men’s attention upon me was only so brief. Three more warriors from Hussain’s camp approach, fully willing to lay down their lives like the others. They begin to fight as fiercely as the others, taking many of our men with them before finally falling like those to come before them. They too begin to pop in and out of my head, fighting with Harmala and Zayd for complete dominance over my consciousness.

Shades of green off in the distance, looming ever closer, is what it takes to finally bring me back to my full attentive state. The colour, some of the first I’ve seen in days besides the coppers and greys of the desert, stands out amidst the dunes and flowing river. Its source gradually becomes clearer as it advances towards my position: a last desperate man atop a horse with banner in tow.

Upon first glimpses of the man I notice a pair of large feathers protruding from his helmet, as well as the waterskins strapped to his belt. With an appearance of full determination he rushes towards the river, carefully manoeuvring towards our troops. As he approaches he peers out in search of one man in particular. “Oh, Umar ibn Sa’d!” He begins, “This is al-Hussain, son of the daughter of the Messenger of Allah! You killed his companions and his family members, and these are his women and children who are thirsty! Give them some water, as the thirst is burning their hearts. He is even saying: ‘Let me go to Rome or India, and I will leave Hijaz and Iraq for you.’”

Our men scoff at the flagbearer’s pleas as one commander, Shimr I recall, steps forward. “Oh, son of Abu Turab!” He snickers with a hint of mockery in his voice. Father of dust. “If the face of this whole Earth was water and it was under our control, we would have not given you even a drop of it until you pledge allegiance to Yazid.”

Almost immediately my eyes light up upon the realization that Hussain is no longer acting alone. This flagbearer was undoubtedly an accomplice and just as willing as the others to die. Yet, it is his request, something so simple, that surprises me. Water, even just a few drops for the children, after days of blockade. It indicated that the children, at least those that remained, were indeed thirsty and that Hussain was willing to let them deteriorate for the sake of his mission.

But had our own men not just slaughtered children?

I once again picture the two boys slaughtered upon these plains, boys no older than my own, boys who had had an entire future ahead of them. They had not even been given a chance and I had been powerless to help them. The next boy had not fared any better, he too being struck down like a wild animal. Were we savage hunters or valiant warriors fighting for Islam? Suddenly I was not so sure. More tears begin to flow from my eyes as I watch the flagbearer ride away, helplessly and empty-handed.

It is over, I realize. Maybe the flagbearer had ridden away in defeat and to plead for his master’s surrender and oath of allegiance. Maybe, just maybe, Yazid would finally get what he wanted and we could all go home.

But nothing was ever so simple, was it?

Mere minutes later I spot the same radiant green flowing from the direction of Hussain’s camp and towards ours. The flagbearer had returned, and this time he rode with sword in hand. Off in the near distance I hear the commotion of our Generals barking commands at our troops. “Fire!”

Volleys of arrows begin to rain down in the direction of the flagbearer, but still he rides on as if nothing in this world can touch him. As if completely unfazed by the arrows raining down upon him he effortlessly swings his sword through the approaching waves of soldiers. They desperately leap out of harm’s way to avoid the blade as the bold man continues his descent towards the riverbank.

It is only upon reaching the riverbank that the flagbearer’s assault ceases. As he dismounts his horse I notice his eyes meet mine. As he glances directly at me I pick up both sheer exhaustion and determination in his fiery gaze. “Go…” I utter as I force out an arm to usher the man freely towards the riverbank. He says nothing at all and simply nods as he creeps down to the water’s edge.

As he proceeds to fill the waterskins in his possession, resisting his own strong temptation to drink, I hear him begin to recite poetically, in a calm and melodic voice.

“Oh, my soul! After Hussain be in disgrace,

For after him, you better not be.

This is Hussain arriving at death,

And you drink the cold water?”

Without sparing even a moment the man finishes filling the waterskins and reattaches them to his belt. As he approaches his horse I notice him staring directly at me. His lips move as if to mouth a silent “thank you” before he rides off.