In the knowledge of Hur.

There will be no water. But you know that. There will be no mercy. But you knew that too and that they will show wanton cruelty to you and Asghar, Sukaina or Roqayyah. The others too.

Did you know though about Hur? Did your father tell you that from the depth of
Evil, a heart would change and his shame - in days, not even that, but hours - would and did and can change to never ending loyalty?

Today he says, “No water.”
Tomorrow the pain of thirst begins,
But you are sated,
And it is he
Who finds himself thirsty
Desperate and in despair
As he drinks from Furat
A poison that cannot nourish
Or sustain life.
Instead maybe he is made aware of
The death he is already dying.

And on his knees he falls in front of you hopeless and contrite, unforgiven without your say – except that you already said it. And you smile. Not for his humiliation or his pain, or the humbling of your enemy - their deaths in Karbala, today and today, and today, are not succour for the valiant true.

You smile because you know Hur. And you can see glory upon glory in his hands, and his happiness – eternal - in closeness to Him, because He it is who rushes towards those that take just one step towards Him. And though we cry, we weep, ashamed and contrite, so we think, through your tears and pain - you are, you all are, happy in the knowledge of Hur.

No Words.

What is there left to say,
when you have been to
Sayyeda Zainab?

Every mother of Grozny,
The sisters and mothers of Srebrenica,
Afghanistan,
even Iraq in all its bloody
ridicule,
know what you are Zainab.
They know what is Zainab.

I saw your follower in Zaria,
a photo of a coffin,
Another son who died for truth.
He died in Kaduna for
Palestine,
He is another of the 1400
years of Karbala's martyrs.
And his mother knows,
Dear Lady Zainab,
That there is nothing left to say
that hasn't already been said.

The grief that crushes into silence
Cannot be obeyed,
And so,
No matter it is just repetition,
No matter that everyone
already knows,
We say together again, and
again,
The truth that everyone
knows if they but dare:
Ya Hussain. Ya Hussain.
Ya Hussain.

I saw you, Zainab

I saw you Zainab, wizened and grey
Your maybe 60 years all of a sudden upon you
As corpses and maimed flowed in front of you
Your eyes beholden to bloody streets
Makeshift stretchers, blocked and broken ambulances, burnt out
bombed.
And in your anguished cry you hit
yourself again and again
As if to say, though you did not need to
Today is Ashura and this is Gaza.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8rGOWkWYqJ4

Bismillah...

Too much has been happening these last few days. At least too much to keep me from my pen any longer, as has been the case for some time now. Maybe I just realised I've been silent too long.

In this week I received a leaflet from the BNP, and then one from New Labour for the European elections. I was hard pressed to see the difference. Both celebrate the iconic 'white' family on their cover. Obviously the BNP would do that, even having the audacity or ability however you see it, of sending leaflets to households in the country's most ethincially diverse borough. Believe me it was at once strange, funny and nauseating to read it, standing as I was in a street where so many nationalities are represented, not as newcomers (only the Hungarian family next door and the two English boys across the road fall into that category), but of Australians, and Barzilians, Portuguese, Gujerati, Pashtoon, Punjabi, Russian, Somalian, Nigerian, Tamil, Iranian, Iraqi, the list is endless and doesn't include thos emixed up homes like my own that managed (I pray without any hypocrisy) to get over the 'race' thing.

Whilst the BNP's leaflet was doubtless generic, New Labour's carried some local heading on it. Where would this family be in Brent? I would ask my New Labour MP, but as he has never spent a night in the borough since winning the seat in 1997 (well maybe a few nights...), I think he would be genuinely flumaxed.

Maybe I should have asked some of the Milwall supporters who graced the streets of Wembley this weekend, which I drove through to give my step-son a lift to a friend's. Between the car and his destination (via mounds of police horse poo and rubbish kindly deposited by said fans) he was growled, yelled and sworn at about three times. He was surprised to say the least and a bit confused. I was strangely unnostalgic for my youth at that moment when sometimes almost everyday was like having Milwall fans in your school (I grew up in North, north London, somewhere near Amy Winehouse. Having found out where she grew up, I now understand where some of her problems might have come from).

Then of course there was Sri Lanka... More on that when I have gotten my thoughts together some more.

...

I am Hussain
and I have risen
so too Qasim, Abbas and Hur
and Zainab, dear Zainab
bears witness to our deaths
again
in preference to life with humiliation.
And amongst her tears and
those of whom we leave behind
Is the consolation that bears
witness eternally.
That they that hate
and mutilate and hurt us
Murder us and trample upon us dead,
fail
here and hereafter
for we die with dignity
and our torch, our fire –
our call for justice
and the struggle to ensure its final final victory – burns
never to be extinguished
neither in Karbala
or Filisteen.

I am Hussain and I have risen in Gaza:
“Is there anyone here to help me?”