Ask, Don't Accuse: The Quiet Wisdom Behind the Fatwa That Never Came

🕯 A Question Born From a Famous Fatwa

A few days ago marked the anniversary of an extraordinary moment. In June 2014, when ISIS had just taken Mosul and was driving south, a single statement went out — Sayyid al-Sistani's call to defend the land — and the world woke up to a reality it had underestimated. They had thought of the marja'iyya as spiritual influence only. Suddenly they saw that with ink and pen, the night before, one fatwa could put millions in the field by the following day. Not just followers in matters of law, but real weight, real defence, real power.

But that pride raised a hard question — and many have asked it openly these last months:

Where was the jihad fatwa when the Shia themselves were on the receiving end?

Where was it when girls were slaughtered in a preschool in Mina? When believers in Syria, Lebanon, Iran were persecuted and killed? Why did we not see the same call to arms when our own were the victims?

Critics turned a moment of pride into an accusation of selectivity. The youth especially began to level the charge at the system itself: that the marja'iyya rises only when it suits one identity and stays silent for another. These accusations could not be further from the truth. But the question deserves a real answer — and answering it teaches us something far larger than the fatwa.

⚖️ First: Know Your Place

There is a habit of coming to the teacher and teaching him how to teach. That is not on any of our CVs.

You may be an expert in your own field — construction, medicine, healthcare. Would you tolerate a rookie walking up to you, with no experience, saying "let me teach you"? It is laughable. Now picture someone with eighty years of doing one single thing — extracting Islamic law and applying it to real life — and a passer-by telling him he got it wrong.

So why is that suddenly seen as having merit when it comes to our most esteemed scholars?

📿 But Islam Is Not Anti-Questioning

Does this mean you cannot question a scholar? Not at all — and whoever thinks so has the logic backwards.

Who said you cannot question? You can question what is above the scholar. You can question Allah Himself — He invites you to ask, for the purpose of understanding and certainty.

There are two ways to approach what happens in life:

• Question for clarity — to understand. This is favourable.
• Question for criticism only — this is not. A criticism is formed after you have already reached a conclusion and then decided to attack. If you yourself admit the cards aren't clear, that you're not even sure what's happening, then it is not your place to criticise. Criticism is only earned once you have fully understood what is going on.

It is not your place to tell a doctor why he diagnosed a patient a certain way. It is not your place to tell a scholar of the highest rank why he ruled. But you are entitled to say: help me understand. Can you explain why?

Even Ibrahim (a) did this. He looked to the heavens and asked:

رَبِّ أَرِنِي كَيْفَ تُحْيِ الْمَوْتَىٰ
Rabbi arinī kayfa tuḥyi-l-mawtā
"My Lord, show me how You give life to the dead."

In those days, before Islam appeared, people genuinely could not grasp it — a recurring motif in the Qur'an: how can the dead be revived after they have turned to dust? And Allah replied:

قَالَ أَوَلَمْ تُؤْمِن ۖ قَالَ بَلَىٰ وَلَٰكِن لِّيَطْمَئِنَّ قَلْبِي
Qāla awa-lam tu'min, qāla balā wa-lākin li-yaṭma'inna qalbī
"He said: Do you not believe? He said: Yes, but so that my heart may be at peace."

Ibrahim defends himself instantly — no, no, I do believe — but I ask for the sake of tranquillity of heart. This is the questioning that, if you are not doing it daily, what are you even doing with your life?

🌿 The Qur'an Is Built on Questions

Look how many verses open with people asking, and Allah answering:

يَسْأَلُونَكَ عَنِ الْأَهِلَّةِ
Yas'alūnaka 'ani-l-ahillah
"They ask you about the new moons (crescents)."

Even questions that might feel embarrassing — they ask about the menstrual cycle, an intricate area of law you'll never know unless you ask:

وَيَسْأَلُونَكَ عَنِ الْمَحِيضِ
Wa-yas'alūnaka 'ani-l-maḥīḍ
"And they ask you about menstruation."

They ask about the spirit, and Allah gives the answer:

وَيَسْأَلُونَكَ عَنِ الرُّوحِ ۖ قُلِ الرُّوحُ مِنْ أَمْرِ رَبِّي وَمَا أُوتِيتُم مِّنَ الْعِلْمِ إِلَّا قَلِيلًا
Wa-yas'alūnaka 'ani-r-rūḥ, quli-r-rūḥu min amri rabbī wa-mā ūtītum mina-l-'ilmi illā qalīlā
"And they ask you about the spirit. Say: the spirit is of the affair of my Lord, and you have been given but little knowledge."

They even ask about Dhul-Qarnayn, the two-horned one. The Qur'an, the very champion of asking — is it anti-questioning? Absolutely not.

There is just one condition, one ḥikma, one intrinsic reason that makes it permissible and indeed required: certainty. You cannot be a blind follower. You must arrive at tranquillity of heart. So ask. In fact it is not appropriate to refuse to ask. The scholar's job is not merely to feed you information — you are meant to debate.

Many of the scholars we honour built their whole careers on this back-and-forth. The crowning class of the advanced seminary is called baḥth al-khārij — "outside" study. Outside of what? Outside the standard literature. This is the lecturer's own thesis, his dissertation: here is something I have decided to introduce — come and challenge me, debate me right now. The whole ethos of Islam is built on this.

🕊 The Disease of "Don't Ask How"

There is a worldview — sadly popular in some places — with a principle that says: do not ask how. Bilā kayf. They read verses literally, and where a verse seems to attribute limbs or a body to God, they take it as literal:

يَدُ اللَّهِ فَوْقَ أَيْدِيهِمْ
Yadu-llāhi fawqa aydīhim
"The hand of God is above their hands."

فَاصْبِرْ لِحُكْمِ رَبِّكَ فَإِنَّكَ بِأَعْيُنِنَا
Faṣbir li-ḥukmi rabbika fa-innaka bi-a'yuninā
"So be patient for the decree of your Lord, for surely you are before Our eyes."

الرَّحْمَٰنُ عَلَى الْعَرْشِ اسْتَوَىٰ
Ar-raḥmānu 'alā-l-'arshi-stawā
"The Most Merciful, upon the Throne He settled."

One preacher of that worldview went so far as to claim God has a spine — because how can one recline without a spinal cord? He said it because the verse said it. But if God has parts as we do, does that not limit Him? And what of the verses we have known since infancy?

لَيْسَ كَمِثْلِهِ شَيْءٌ
Laysa ka-mithlihī shay'
"There is nothing like Him in any way."

وَلَمْ يَكُن لَّهُ كُفُوًا أَحَدٌ
Wa-lam yakun lahū kufuwan aḥad
"And there is none comparable to Him."

So when contradiction stares back at them, their answer is: don't ask how. Just accept. Is that sound in the school of the Ahl al-Bayt? Absolutely not. In their school you must ask "how."

What they are demanding is what modern psychology calls cognitive dissonance — holding a thing and its exact contradiction as both true, at once, on the same level. If your mind tells you something is illogical but you are forced to accept it, then enjoy a life of division and conflict.

A great many of our converted brothers and sisters point to exactly this as what drove them out of Christianity and into Islam. I was told to believe things that simply didn't make sense. The Trinity — God dies; He died for our sins so that God the Father would not punish us, so God sends Himself, God the Son, to die to stop God from punishing us. The "explanations" only made it worse. It's like an egg — shell, yolk, white, three parts yet one thing. That doesn't help; you're trying to square a circle.

Islam says: if you ever find a hadith or a verse that does not merely puzzle you but blatantly contradicts everything you know, that is worth questioning. There is no verse you are told to believe blindly without understanding why it is there.

And here is the open challenge: go through the entire Qur'an. Try your hardest. Do you find a single open contradiction? Things may be explained through metaphor, euphemism, simile — these are real. The Qur'an is an intellectual miracle; you cannot take it crudely literally without running into walls. The Qur'an even says so of itself: some verses are clear and decisive (muḥkamāt), and others (mutashābihāt) require deeper meaning.

🩸 Scholars Are Human — And That Is the Point

What does all this mean for the fatwa? It means the scholars are not infallible. They are not the Ma'sumin. They can err, they can miss something they did not consider. You are not dealing with a computer — you are dealing with Bani Adam, a son of Adam.

The great fatāwā are rare. Sistani's 2014 call came three days after ISIS took Mosul on June 10th. Before that, the only comparable moment was 1920 — when Muhammad Taqi al-Shirazi issued his fatwa, the famous Iraqi Revolution. The British Empire was turning Iraq into an extension of itself, and al-Shirazi saw it as a threat to Islam: soon they would seize the shrines, reduce the holy sites to tourist attractions, strip them of their sanctity.

A note in passing on the shrines: they are sanctified, they are holy. You go to draw closer to the Imam who is buried there. Take photographs — these are beautiful moments — but do not beautify yourself using the Imam. I've noticed a trend of people posing, treating the shrine as a backdrop rather than a means of nearness. Some models now, from non-Muslim backgrounds, come and use the haram as a posing background, for a brand, for profit. This is not befitting. The first thing to say when you arrive at any of the Imams is thank you for the opportunity — and then watch how Allah pours out endless blessings.

🪦 The Statement of 2006: "They Are Yourselves"

We have seen before what happens when the marja' issues a statement and people rush to question it. In 2006 the shrine of the Imam in Samarra was bombed — the golden dome rendered to rubble. Imagine it: the holy shrine of the Imam blown apart. The pain of it. So painful that some Shia, tragically, picked up weapons, and if they had a Sunni neighbour they would kill him on the spot — you are responsible, your people, your likes. These same takfiri riffraff were the ones who bombed shrines, killed and beheaded; the shrine was blown up twice.

Sayyid al-Sistani, with his foresight on the geopolitics, saw it would tip into sectarian strife — neighbour killing neighbour, and we are a tribal people. Tribalism can do good — tribes can sit and forgive a mistake and move on. But when one tribe sees itself violated by another, it is no longer one man's hurt; the whole tribe must back him, and then comes war.

So he issued a statement. He still takes flak for it today. He first condemned the atrocity against the shrine — a genuine, massive crime that hurt every Shia. Then he condemned the indiscriminate killing — yes, Shia were killing random Sunnis; Shia can and do make mistakes. And then he said the line that genuinely makes us proud — the line of an outstretched hand that stays out even when the other won't grasp it:

Do not say the Sunnis are our brothers — say they are ourselves.

How could we not call them brothers? Take it deeper: they are not "brother," they are self.

Think about what that means. Picture a Sunni–Shia clash, your haram destroyed — imagine someone blew up the haram of Husayn today and justified it with every defamatory claim. You would be enraged. And by association you would retaliate against that Sunni neighbour. It stops the moment you hear: that is not your brother — that is yourself.

One of the most beautiful images you will ever see is a Sunni and a Shia praying together in the shrine of Imam Husayn — one folding the hands, the other letting them hang at the side — different in form, united on the human level. We can differ theologically, we can pray differently, but socially I will unite with you as far as I can. And if I see you as a victim on the humanitarian level — you are no longer my brother, you are myself. Because one day it is a Sunni sister whose hijab is torn at, and the next it is my own sister, my own daughter, my own sons bullied for their faith. If I won't tolerate it for my own, I cannot tolerate it for the "non-brother and sister."

🕊 The Man Who Watched the Chicken

There is a hadith of two children plucking feathers from a chicken — torturing the animal, and eventually the chicken died of it. A man stood and watched it happen and did nothing. The hadith tells us that this man later died of natural causes, and Allah sent him straight to Hell — for standing and watching the torture of an innocent animal, when he could have stopped it. It was injustice, oppression, abuse — and he simply watched.

Now if that is the price for watching a chicken tortured — what of when you see a fellow human being, an insan, suffer, merely because they were born into a different worldview that to them is correct? Move on, it doesn't matter.

And the worst — the very worst — is when Shia use petty reasons to hate other Shia, and wage wars over them. Get a life. How long will you keep arguing over a scholar who has passed away? He's gone. You spoke about him until he died — can you not now move on? The man who watched the chicken went straight to Hell; what then of one who ridicules and destroys the name of another?

When you wound someone's name, you might as well have stabbed them — it would have been more merciful. As Imam Ali (a) said:

I wish you had struck me with your sword before you struck me with your tongue — for the wound of the sword heals, and I can forgive it, it is physical. But what can heal you when you have destroyed my name while I was innocent of your claims, and for the next decades, every single year, a propaganda machine repeats it upon me?

What was more merciful to Imam Ali was when they fought him at Siffin — not the way they chased his reputation and good name. Even if you cast me as the villain in your story, is it not the case that once I leave this world, perhaps you could let it go?

⚖️ "Was I Not Chosen As Your Imams Were?"

And these are two who both claim Islam — one of them genuine Islam, Ali. To Mu'awiya, in a letter, the Imam argues on Mu'awiya's own terms:

Was I not elected on the same terms by which your leaders were elected? I was chosen by an ummah. Do I not then have a greater right to authority than you?

The Imam invokes the very principle his opponents lean on. They held the first three were rightly chosen by an election process — fine, says Ali, was I not also chosen by the ummah after the killing of the third, when they rushed to me? This is a recognised mode of debate — argue your opponent with what he himself accepts. It is not that Ali derives his authority from election; but even by your logic, I am legitimate. Mu'awiya did not accept it.

Why does Ali even say this? Because he is not interested in bloodshed. It is not worth it. If we can stop, I will meet you halfway. The lesson stands: it is not worth it — move on. The Islamophobe doesn't care about our internal disputes; in fact they love to see us divided. You may disagree with one scholar — go ahead and disagree — but do not weaken the ummah by chasing every chance to spread division.

There are brothers and sisters who go their whole lives never visiting a certain masjid, never attending the majlis of one who died in a painful way, simply because of who that person followed. Isn't that pathetic? If anything, weep over this — the state of our affairs.

🩸 Why a Jihad Fatwa Would Have Been Reckless

So — back to the question. Where was the power these days? First: let the question be for clarity, not criticism, because criticism makes you part of a team that exists only to find fault. Some simply cannot accept the authority of the marja'iyya, so they invent their own sect of "nonsense" — I just can't accept it. When you show them the Qur'anic and narrational basis for the layman returning to the most knowledgeable as the next best thing in the Imam's absence, they say yeah, but it doesn't work for me. If so, you have a personal issue. You are entitled to do as you like — but do not come and antagonise a system the Ahl al-Bayt themselves instituted.

Now the substance. It would be reckless to issue a jihad fatwa in these circumstances. And it is not about numbers. You have to be clever here.

The 2014 fatwa was issued because the enemy — these riffraff — needed numbers, and it was numbers against numbers. Even then, note the kind of fatwa it was. It was a wajib kifa'i — a collective obligation, like the duty that if someone passes and no one prays over them, everyone bears the sin; but if one person fulfils it, the obligation lifts from all. Like returning a salam: once I greet you it becomes binding on you to reply; if one replies, the duty lifts from all, and if none do, all bear the sin. That is how the 2014 jihad was framed — someone must rise. The north of Iraq had fallen; Najaf itself was perhaps ten days from falling. They had said it openly, in their leader's filthy words: we will take your women captive, we will seize and raise your children on the love of our leaders, not yours. In that case it took numbers.

But when you are not facing a numbers problem — when you face a different degree of power — you cannot simply throw bodies at it. You are talking about the blood of innocent people. That is not something you dispatch willy-nilly.

📿 The Weight Scholars Carry: "I Cannot Sleep at Night"

I once watched, live, a respected marja' asked about abortion. We know abortion for no reason is forbidden, and in some instances — when the mother's life is at stake — it can be justified. The questioner pushed: what if it is not the mother's life but her reputation — a mistake, a regret? Can you give the green light?

The answer shows you and me how heavy a fatwa can be. He said:

I do not have the guts, and I cannot sleep at night, knowing that on my neck is the approval of killing — even of a fetus — for reasons of reputation. I cannot do it. You will not find me doing that.

I remember too a recorded debate of Sayyid Hadi al-Milani with his students on a single issue — it lasted six months. Half a year on one question. At the very end he gave his final verdict:

I am not sure — and out of precaution, leave it.

Six months of debate, only to say I don't know. Why? Because, as he was asked and answered:

I am not prepared to use my neck as a bridge for people to walk across. This is God's law. I cannot — be honest — I cannot.

That is why the "new-age" rulings — Bitcoin and the like — so often draw an honest I don't know, I plead the fifth, go to the next most knowledgeable. Many marja' will say plainly I'm not sure, and refuse to issue. This is God's law. It is difficult.

It happened even with a prophet. Musa (a) was made to feel he was the most knowledgeable, and Allah replied: no, ya Musa, there is another — go and you will find a servant of Mine; follow him, he will teach you the ways. You know the story: Khidr repairs a hole in a boat, then kills a boy, then rebuilds a wall for a town that refused them hospitality. Musa questioned all three. And honestly — that's a long day: I watch you tear a boat, kill a boy, and fix a wall for people who were cruel to me, and you don't expect me to ask why? The least I can do is say excuse me, why? And Khidr replies:

أَلَمْ أَقُلْ إِنَّكَ لَن تَسْتَطِيعَ مَعِيَ صَبْرًا
Alam aqul innaka lan tastaṭī'a ma'iya ṣabrā
"Did I not tell you that you would never be able to bear with me patiently?"

Have certainty that it is in safe hands. If Allah has told you there is knowledge you do not possess, it doesn't mean you need to know — it means you must trust. You board a plane and never interrogate the pilot's experience; you simply know he wouldn't be flying if he weren't competent, and you place your life in his hands. So why, with Allah and His representatives, do we say I don't see the wisdom — when not seeing it does not mean it isn't there? There is a difference between not understanding something and not believing it. Just because I don't understand doesn't mean there isn't a good reason.

⚖️ How Hard It Is to Issue a Fatwa

Consider the process itself.

1. The Qur'an. The scholar returns to the whole Book. If a single verse indicates anything against the ruling, he will not issue it. So he must have studied the entire Qur'an — and some of us have never read it through once. That is a tragedy.
2. The hadith. Having found the Qur'an does not directly reference the issue, the hard part begins: he must study the entire world of narration — al-Kafi and beyond, over thirty thousand narrations, every single one.
3. Reason and custom. Where the hadith give no answer to a modern problem, he turns to the logic of common people ('urf): does it read as ugly or as appropriate? Can the ruling shift when the time (zamān) and the place (makān) shift? This is enormous effort.

And here comes an individual to say they shouldn't have done that, or let me tell you how to do your job. You may question for clarity — but do not expect that blood will simply be shed recklessly. It does not work like that.

🕯 Even the Ma'sumin Were Questioned: The Six Who Told Husayn to Stop

Secondly: in history it was not only the scholars who were questioned — it was the Ahl al-Bayt themselves. Imam Husayn (a) was among the first to be questioned for every decision he made. The infallibles were not spared.

Six people told Husayn: what on earth are you doing? Five of them were his own.

After the night Walid and Marwan tried to force a pledge of allegiance to Yazid, Imam Husayn left Medina, bade his family farewell, and went to Mecca for Hajj.

1. Abdullah ibn Abbas, his cousn — it is always the family member who comes to change your mind. Husayn, what do you think you're doing going to Kufa? The Imam replies that he will continue, and nothing can be said to him. Ibn Abbas offers an alternative: go to Yemen instead — fortified by mountains, hard to catch you, and full of supporters who loved your father. Yemen, like Egypt, embraced Islam out of love, not conquest, and loves the Ahl al-Bayt to this day.
2. His own brother, Muhammad ibn al-Hanafiyya — not merely questioning but critically: are you seriously going to Kufa? Don't you know its people can be treacherous, that they'll likely betray you? Stay in Mecca. The Imam answers firmly: O my brother, this is not a response I expected from you. You know my journey must go this way, and I will continue.
3. Abdullah ibn Umar — a huge narrator of hadith, perhaps the fifth most common in the Sunni corpus. He says I fear for you, and the report says he wept for Imam Husayn. (Next time they ask why you weep, remind them the son of Umar wept — it is the sunnah.) I beg you, don't go — you'll live if you stay. But the price of staying was a pledge to Yazid, which Ibn Umar himself had given. There is no way to stay alive without it.
4. Abdullah ibn al-Zubayr — gives the Yemen card again. Don't go to Kufa; go to Yemen, the mountains will shelter you. Husayn knows it's an option. No. I am going to Kufa.
5. Abdullah ibn Ja'far, the husband of Zaynab — my dear uncle, my dear cousin, consider: I can't speak for taking my wife there, but stay, find a way to hide in Mecca, just don't give allegiance. Again: No, I will continue.

No one could stop him. The resolve is staggering — it usually takes one excuse for a man to say you're right and turn back. Here were five, including his own brother. Look at the commitment. He was determined for a specific reason.

Then the statement came: if al-Husayn is seen, even clinging to the walls of the Ka'ba, kill him then and there. That was Yazid's announcement. Imagine preparing for Hajj, with all its journey and expense, and finding a bounty on your head — and Husayn had to cut his Hajj short and leave his people in Mecca for the last time.

🩸 The Bandwagon: The Man Who Switched Sides

On the way, before Karbala, the Imam saw a tent on the outskirts. It was his habit, whenever he saw a tent, to go himself and invite its people to join him. A non-Shia historian reports that Husayn walked to this one tent — interested to offer them the moment of a lifetime: join my camp, join this side. He was surrounded by some twenty young children — his grandchildren, his nieces and nephews — for wherever Husayn went, the young and the old clung to him.

The tent belonged to a man — a bandwagon. This man had fought with Imam Ali at Siffin, against Mu'awiya. But when it looked as though Mu'awiya might prevail — when the Qur'ans were raised on spears and "let the Qur'an judge" was called — he panicked: we're going to lose. He switched sides on the spot, slipping out at night while everyone slept, to join Mu'awiya. When the dead were counted, they couldn't find him; they assumed he had died honourably in battle.

These are the people who switch teams the moment one looks like winning — I was always on the winning side. It's the World Cup: a team loses four to one and suddenly everyone's a fan of Norway. Just keep your loyalty. This man said in effect: forget loyalty, I'll switch back the instant I see we're losing. Some people are that cheap, that easily bought. That is not us.

But it has happened in our days. People saw the crimes leveled against believers in Syria, in Lebanon, in Iran — and some switched sides. Why? They asked: if we lost the shrine, if we lost leaders we can never replace in Lebanon and Iran, does that mean we aren't on the truth? The weak-hearted say that. We are reminded that when even great ones were martyred, only three companions stayed firm. This is the serious error: tying faith to politics — believing that if we win politically our creed is vindicated. It is not so. In terms of war, Imam Husayn died on Ashura and the opposition lived. Does that mean Husayn lost? Absolutely not — nothing could be further from the truth.

Husayn says to the man: Do you want to wash away the wrong you've done? — What are you talking about? — Don't think I don't know. You betrayed my father, you left his side for Mu'awiya when you thought we were losing.

And do you know what had happened to this man back home? While they believed him a martyr — and dying without even a trace, without a grave, is among the highest honors, as if to say ya Allah, I gave You everything, even my own name, even my burial, I want no trace left of me in this world — his wife, believing him a martyr, completed her waiting period and remarried, innocently, proud of the husband she thought had died a shahid. He returned, knocked on his own door, and a big man opened it: who are you? I live here. She saw him: you're alive! — what waiting did you keep? I thought you were a shahid, I was proud of you — and instead you went to Mu'awiya. Such a marriage, contracted in good faith, would not even be counted adultery, because she could not have known better. They took the matter to Imam Ali, who condemned the man's treachery — though any other ruler would simply have killed him for treason. Ali's heart was vast.

So now the son, Husayn, gives him one chance to right the wrong: Join my side. You left my father — join his son now, and Allah will forgive you entirely, and you will be written among the martyrs. The man replies: I saw Ibn Ziyad in Kufa declaring war, and you can already tell — war and battle are not for me. So I left Kufa and pitched my tent on the outskirts, and I ran into you, the son of the man I ran from. But there's a difference: I actually like you, so let me give you my advice. Take my horse — it's extremely fast. Take my sword — it's extremely sharp. Go back to Mecca. Leave your women with me; I'll bring them back slowly. But run. This is your last chance.

🕯 A Million Chances, and Still "No"

Up to the very last day, before he entered Karbala, Imam Husayn had a million chances to turn around — this is only what history documented. They offered him money. In the Maqtal literature, on the day of battle, Abbas spoke to the enemy: this is Husayn — if you wish, let him go to Rome, or to India, just give him these options. He had every chance to leave. And the answer was always No. If it means I capitulate and recognise an entity like this man, that is humiliation — and I will never be humiliated like that.

Husayn keeps counting how many told him to stop — his cousin, his brother, his brother-in-law Abdullah ibn Ja'far who is married to his sister, Ibn Umar, and the rest. He had every reason — and never.

Now comes the day. Even till the last moment, just before the first arrow flies, he is given another chance: just pledge allegiance, and that will be enough. He looks at Umar ibn Sa'd and asks: Do you know who my mother is? — Yes, of course. — Do you know who my father is? — Absolutely; who doesn't know your parents? He says: My parents were the first to see the truth and reject what was false, though they had a thousand other ways open to them. So never question my intentions.

That is you, as a believer, today. Be proud. Don't let anyone question you to belittle you — let them question to understand. Why do you mourn Husayn every year? Let them learn; don't be angry. Let them question your system, your leaders, the martyrs — let them question, if it's genuinely worth answering. And if not, be like your Imam: don't let a question shake your faith.

🩸 The Sword or Humiliation

Umar ibn Sa'd calls from the other side: Husayn, by God, they will give you money — I'll split part of mine with you too. Consider — it's not worth it. We'll give you everything this world has to offer. Just pledge allegiance. If not to Yazid, then at least to Ibn Ziyad, and we'll count that enough. And he says: Never. — Husayn, I'm sorry, you've pushed me to a point I never wanted to reach. You have one of two options: pledge allegiance — that's all I want, recognise one entity, and it could all be over.

But Husayn was cut from the cloth of a man — his father — who, given those same two options, was told: the sword, or humiliation.

They had threatened him. Before all this it was just open threats, ridicule, comments, a statement. A scholar of Kufa was paid for a fake fatwa. Ibn Ziyad knew Husayn's blood would not be cheap: I need a fatwa to cover my actions — I'll pay you money, give me a fatwa. The next day the fabricated ruling came to justify the political atrocity:

Husayn has departed the religion of his grandfather, so let him be killed by the sword of his grandfather.

When Husayn tried to preach, they stuffed their fingers in their ears, and one of them cried: bang on your shields — don't let his magic touch you! They called his words magic, so beautiful they were. Recall the hadith: when the Imam entered Naysabur, ten thousand students rushed to write down the famous hadith of Silsilat al-Dhahab. Ten thousand begging for a single hadith — and here Husayn is begging them to merely listen: I am not your enemy, I only want to preach to you, this is not right. Did you forget I am the son of the only daughter of your Prophet, whom you mention five times a day in your salah? Am I not the last memory of that man? They said: indeed you are. — Then why? And they banged their shields louder so his words could not be heard.

Suddenly Umar ibn Sa'd: Husayn, you are going to be killed. And Husayn replied: So that's how it is — that's how you want to play the game. And then he said:

Surely the son of illegitimacy, the son of illegitimacy, has cornered me between two options — between life and death.

🌙 This Is Not a Normal Muharram

Brothers and sisters — remember now all your loved ones. We have all lost them, whether family, or those we grew up loving and being inspired by; some you know, some you don't. We have lost the most beautiful people. This is not a normal Muharram. Some of us have not recovered from seeing children in a preschool bombed to smithereens, children in the south of Lebanon running with no families and no homes — displaced, if they were lucky enough only to be displaced. There are those still missing, never even documented.

Husayn, upon arriving, asks his companions: tell me the name of this land we have now entered. My grandfather told me it has a specific name. One says: this is the land of so-and-so. — No, it is called something else. They name it again. — No, something else. I have reached the final place of my journey; we will not enter Kufa. What is the name of this land? And he waits. Until they say it: this is the land of Karbala.

When he hears it — as the great poet captured it — Karb (anguish) and Bala (affliction). And this teaches us: sometimes, when I see children being killed — wherever I may be, in Iraq, in the south of Lebanon, in Iran, in a bombed school — I cannot help but carry my heart back to that faithful day.

Then he raised his hands and said:

اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَعُوذُ بِكَ مِنَ الْكَرْبِ وَالْبَلَاءِ
Allāhumma innī a'ūdhu bika mina-l-karbi wa-l-balā'
"O Allah, I seek refuge in You from anguish and affliction."

And he began to foretell it: this will be the place where my women and daughters are taken captive by the armies of Ibn Sa'd. Here is where my infant boy will be killed. In this land my men will be slaughtered. And in this land the innocent will be torn apart.

This is the conclusion: ask, always — but ask to understand, not to accuse. Trust the hands that carry the law, as Musa was made to trust Khidr, and as the believer trusts the pilot of his plane. And when even the infallible Husayn was questioned six times by his own and still walked forward — knowing the captivity, the infant, the slaughter that waited in the land of anguish and affliction — let no question shake your faith, and let no victim, Sunni or Shia, ever cease to be not your brother, but yourself.