O Imam Hussain!

We were weeping over the loss of your daughters, we were mourning the miseries of infants, and we were feeling a strong resentment against the brutality of those beasts. I was wondering – what if I see my father being butchered? This thought ran a shivering thrill from my head to toe, so I felt like pouring the pain of my heart out. I was not even able to take the thought of it, how could they absorb those scars? Your little daughter of four years? How can she forget that horrible memory? Tears started flowing from my eyes when I heard a loud sound and then shrilling shrieks…

My father was trembling in my own hands. His white shirt was as red as yours, Maula. My brothers were as young as your son, Ali Akbar. Yazidis came here to attack my home this time. They are gone but with the lives of my loved ones, Maula. They are still alive, but I can’t bear the pain of the memory, like your daughters. I am unable to endure this heartache. I am taking pain killers but they are not killing my pain, I am bleeding internally, Maula, but nobody can see those blood stains. My father didn’t had to go somewhere, like you left Madina, but Yazidis of this time are too shameless – they came here at my own home to kill my father. The Yazid of this time also kills women along with men. We are not safe on the roads, or under our own roof. Where should we go Maula? We are homeless in our own home. We are helpless in our own land. This war is not ending Maula. It has no boundary, we are tired of holding funerals, Maula, help us!

O Maula!

When we were crying out of misery in helplessness, like your daughters, the others were busy in the tension of reign. Nobody was with us, they were playing hide and seek. One was launching protests and the other one was placing hurdles in his game but nobody was empathizing with our pain. Our shrieks were not louder than the speakers of their protests; our pain was not greater than the threat of losing their chairs. They were blaming, condemning, and then gaming again but we were lonely like your children, Maula. When we were arranging funerals, they were arranging musical instruments for their protests. When we were digging graves, they were throwing soil blockers on the roads. I hated them all, Maula, I wanted to condemn them but you taught us to endure. I am done with enduring Maula, what else can I endure? I don’t have anything else to endure, my life is taken, and I don’t have anything else to lose.

O Maula!

My father is coming to you, please take care of him. He was in so much pain, I can’t forget his last breath and his red attire. Please keep him softly under your shawl. I heard that the Prophet will embrace the martyred, Hazrat Ali will praise their bravery and you will tell them that God’s will is greeting them. I could not tell him how much he meant to me. Please tell him that I love him a lot. He would be worried about our school fee, for grandmother's medicines, for warm clothes, and for purchasing other household items, as it was the end of month. But tell him not to be worried because mother was selling her wedding set yesterday, and I have some savings from my pocket money, too, although it was for Abdullah’s color pencils but he is with you so I can buy some rice and wheat. Tell him that we don’t cry in front of each other, but I saw mother embracing your favorite black shirt last night. Guriya does not tease mother by insisting to sleep with you at night, and she sleeps silently with us but I found your picture in our blanket yesterday. Granny does not ask mother to repair her glasses but she said that she is tired of watching TV. Tell him that we all are living perfectly. Tell him to not to be worried.

O Imam Hussain!

The Prophet declared you as the prince of paradise, then how can those who persecute us even reach the door of heaven after slaughtering innocent lives? They are making this world hell, to get your heaven. And I have a firm belief that they will burn in their own fire. I am leaving my case in your court, and I know your family is the best judge. You have to give us justice, you have to soothe our hearts. I don’t have any more expectations from the black princesses of my land - they are all equally involved in the murders of my people. We were dying and they were politicizing our dead bodies. Ask them, Maula, they are the real culprits. We are waiting for your justice and I know it will come to us. It will burn them all brutally. It is a collective curse from several wombs, millions of brides, hundreds of sisters, and thousands of daughters.

Do you think you will escape from damnation?