Jennah Adam
8th December 2016
Hidden beneath the golden dome of the Land of Massacres and Calamity was a great Secret that I sought to unveil. I caught snatches of this Secret being alluded to between the whisperings of the Hussaini flags as the wind ruffled them to agitation. The calligraphic letters that curled and twisted on the banners murmured amongst themselves in the silent spaces between the words they formed. Sometimes a rusted door hinge would shriek about the great enigma, but it would be quickly silenced. Other times the scraping of sandals against the pavement would hint at it, but it was in a language too foreign for me to understand.
My destination was far, but I was adamant. I decided to embark on this journey and learn for myself the mystery behind this unprecedented phenomenon. There must be a reason for this flame of passion that rose from the embers of time. This could not be a mere passing movement if it had survived the battering of millennia. There was something ethereal in voices of the travelers when they cried out the name of their beloved. Something alive, timeless, and Divine.
I shaded my eyes against the glare of the sun and looked down the road that stretched before me. Like a running brook, lovers streamed toward the golden domes. Dirt roads were now garmented with the black cloaks of the travelers. Streets and highways turned into rivers that flowed souls rather than water. Here, the Secret I sought was singing, but I could not decipher its words.
I looked down and saw an ancient stone wedged in the desert sand. Kneeling, I said to it, “O stone! Tell me of the great calamity that you once witnessed!”
It replied, “Of what shall I speak? Of the blood shed or the water deprived? Of the betrayal or the imprisonment? It was against me that the swords struck, hitting bone first then my sides. I counted the bruises and slashes on the neck that was once kissed by the Wise Prophet before I saw it raised on a lance. I felt the earth shudder beneath me as horses trampled over the body of Fatima’s beloved. The arrows that did not strike the chest of Ali’s son clashed against me. How can I recount to you a scene that has made even a stone like me shudder with despair? But no matter, I have collected my story and will recount it in truth on the day The Creator instructs me to unfold my secrets. But tell me, what have you witnessed?”
“Me?” I replied. “I am afraid I live in an age far removed from such men of nobility. We do not have people who sacrifice themselves for truth and loyalty anymore. I have seen death and carnage like you have, but for causes too vague to be truly believed in or too selfish to be honorable. There are those who sacrificed themselves on this land, but it was for greed and bloodlust, and rather than protecting lives they felled as many as they could. The word ‘sacrifice’ has been twisted on the tongue of Time and is now changed to ‘suicide.’ The values of old are gone. I see no heroism.”
“You should become a stone, then,” it replied wryly. “For my part, I witnessed the very acts of nobility and heroism you say your kind lacks. I have seen men embrace flames to keep them from spreading. I have seen women risk their lives and the lives of their children to protect strangers from those who breed flames. A few moments ago, I saw a man march past here, with an wizened old woman on his shoulders. He had been carrying her on his back for days, but he is not the hero in this case. This act is compassionate in its own right, but pales in comparison to the years his mother spent in tireless and thankless servitude to him and his siblings. No, the mother here is the one with true nobility. You frown. Were you expecting a more grandiose account?”
“I want to know what compelled the man to carry his mother,” I said, “or what makes mothers carry their children on such a long and tiresome journey. Why leave the comfort of their homes for something that brings neither profit nor enjoyment? They have not come for laughter or leisure; they are tired and weeping. Yet they do not complain! What is it that draws them here?”
“Ah,” the stone returned, “that is a secret. You may want to ask the flag, however. It is much taller than I and has witnessed life from a loftier angle.”
I found the flag hanging limply in the momentarily still air. I approached it cautiously, as I knew flags had a tendency to lash out with little warning. “O Flag!” I cried, “What have you seen from your station that I have not? What is the great Secret that turns the solid earth to mist and makes the dead rise from its depths?”
“I am but a flag on a pole,” it replied. “Fabric and motion, nothing more. But I have the memories of other flags like me. Once, on this very earth you stand on, someone carried a flag twice as tall as I in one hand. He had the mien of a nobleman with the strength of a lion. They called him ‘The Moon of the Hashemites,’ but by the winds that give me life, I have never seen a moon shine as brightly as that man’s face.”
