As I stand before the divine majestic presence of Aba Abdillah, my heart trembles in a silence words cannot contain. The silver bars of the dharih glisten with the light of centuries of tears, as if every lament has been woven into its shine. My fingertips touch the cold metal, but my soul feels the heat of Karbala’s sun. My lips quiver with greetings, yet my inner self knows this is not the place for mere ritual. It is the place for asking the question that has followed me through deserts and cities, across nations and into the marrow of my being: *Why?*

Why did you, O Husain, rise when the world invited you to compromise? Why did you bring your family into the storm when silence might have spared them? Why did you smile as swords encircled you? Why did you fall, not as one defeated, but as one fulfilled?

And deeper still, why do I, centuries later, find myself here, drawn across oceans to this soil drenched in your blood? Why do millions walk to you every Arbaeen, feet blistered, hearts alight? Why do tears still flow as if your thirst were not yet quenched? Why do I, in my age of corruption and distraction, seek in you the meaning of my struggle?

I stand, and I ask. And in the stillness of the shrine, it is as if your silence answers louder than thunder: the why of my rising was the why of existence itself. To be alive without truth is to be already dead. To bow to injustice is to slaughter the soul.

But still I question, like a restless Socrates who could not accept easy answers, and like a longing Rumi who knew the Beloved hides in paradox. I ask not to doubt you, O Master of martyrs, but to cleanse my own heart of its excuses.

As I gaze at your dharih, I hear echoes of the Prophet, your grandfather, whose birth month is days away. He too stood before idols and asked: Why do you bow to what neither hears nor helps? Why do you sell your daughters and boast of your sons? Why do you cover your oppression with poetry while the orphan sleeps hungry? His “why” shook Arabia; your “why” shook eternity.

And yet, my soul trembles because I must also ask myself: why do I claim to be your follower? Why do I raise your name but falter in your footsteps? Why do I protest tyranny outside but nurture it inside? Why do I march in Arbaeen but stumble in private obedience? If I cannot answer these whys, then my presence before your dharih is but a shadow, not a covenant.

O Aba Abdillah, your why was not power, nor revenge, nor pride. It was the dignity lived in flesh and blood. In Surah al-Fajr, Allah speaks to the soul at peace: *Ya ayyatuhan nafsul mutmainna, irji‘i ila rabbiki radiyatan mardiyya, fadkhuli fi ‘ibadi, wadkhuli jannati.* This verse, I now realize, is not about dying well but about living rightly. You lived as the tranquil soul: at peace with God though the world raged, at peace with truth though betrayal multiplied, at peace with yourself though arrows rained.

That is why your stand was not a defeat but fulfillment. That is why your name is not a chapter in history but a pulse in the veins of faith. That is why every seeker of justice, must come to you and ask: why do I rise? Why do I act? Why do I resist?

As Socrates before the judges of Athens declared, “The unexamined life is not worth living,” you declared by your blood, “The unexamined faith is not worth saving.” And as Rumi whispered, “Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure,” you showed that the pain of Karbala is the cure of humanity.

I confess to you, my Master, that I am not tranquil. My nafs is restless, craving comfort, recognition, and victory. I regret to confess that perhaps I might have joined movements not always for God but sometimes "to belong". I speak of justice but neglect it in my dealings. I wave banners but sometimes forget to purify the hand that holds them. This is why I stand here, not only to mourn you but to diagnose myself.

Teach me, Oh Aba Abdillah, to make my why as clear as yours. You rose because the prayer was being emptied of its spirit ... because the Qur’an was being recited by tongues that betrayed it ... because Yazid sat on a throne that insulted the Prophet. You did not seek martyrdom for its own sake; you sought to defend life’s sanctity by offering yours. That is why your fall was a rise.

If I rise without your why, then, I am not your follower but a pretender. If I resist without *nafsul mutmainna*, then, I am only reshuffling tyrannies and oppression. If I cry for you but live for myself, then, my tears are water poured on stone.

Arbaeen, the walk to your shrine, is not only geography but inner cartography. Each step is a question: why do I walk? To impress? To belong? Or to transform? The road tests not only the feet but the heart. And as I stand now at your dharih, I feel the weight of that journey not on my sole but on my soul.

The Prophet’s mission was mercy, and yours was dignity. Arbaeen is continuity. The Quran is the destination. Between them lies the path of the lover of truth. I cannot walk it by slogans alone but only by burning the idols of my ego. Rumi’s voice returns: “Why are you so busy with this or that, good or bad? Pay attention to how things blend.” My activism must blend into worship; my worship must blend into justice; my justice must blend into mercy. Anything to the contantrary is an exercise in messaging ego. 

Standing here, I realize: the why of activism is not to win history but to win eternity. That does not excuse me from responsibility. It magnifies it. Husain knew he would fall, yet he rose. The Prophet knew he would be mocked, yet he preached. Socrates knew he would be condemned, yet he spoke. Their measure of success was not in the applause of their time but in the tranquility of their soul.

So I ask you, my Master, to let me drink from your why. Let my nafs find rest not in escape but in fidelity. Let me fear not defeat but hypocrisy. Let me seek not quantity but quality. Let me prepare not for monuments but for that gentle voice of Surah al-Fajr: *irji‘i ila rabbiki radiyatan mardiyya.*

I know now that the why is not answered once and for all. It must be asked again and again before every activity, before every prayer, before every step. The why is the prayer itself. It is the bridge from Ashura to my own heart. It is the difference between noise and meaning, between frenzy and fidelity, between *nafs ammara* and *nafs mutmainna*.

And so, as I press my forehead to the dharih, I whisper my vow: I will not leave the why behind. I will let it burn away my illusions, strip me of my excuses, and guide me through my Karbalas. I will let it become my cure, my compass, my covenant. And when my final Arbaeen comes, when my final Ashura dawns, when my soul is summoned, I pray I will hear, through your intercession and by God’s mercy, that most tender and triumphant of welcomes: *O tranquil soul, return…*

As I linger before your dharih, O Aba Abdillah, my new improved eyes with their high resolution do not see metal and wood, they see the ocean of grief that has flowed into this place for centuries. Each tear that has fallen here is not lost; it has been gathered into a hidden river that nourishes the souls who thirst for meaning. I hear its murmur beneath the whispered salutations, as if the tears of mothers from Kufa, the sighs of captives from Sham, and the cries of pilgrims today all blend into a single chant: *Labbayka ya Husain, labbayk.*

Why do I feel both crushed and uplifted in this moment? Crushed because the weight of your sacrifice makes my excuses feel like dust. Uplifted because even in your final breath, you were not defeated. My heart cannot contain both, yet both insist on living there.

I remember, Master, the words of your sister Zainab in the court of Yazid. She stood, unveiled and shackled, yet her words cut deeper than swords. “I saw nothing but beauty,” she said. How could she call that day beautiful, when the skies themselves darkened, when heads were raised on spears, when the Prophet’s family was paraded in chains? *She was not blind to pain; she had transcended it.* Her “why” was not swallowed by grief but illuminated by it. She saw that your stand had torn the mask off tyranny, and in that exposure, beauty was born.

And so I ask myself: can I, in my smaller trials, learn to see beauty? When I am insulted, can I see it as a chance to purify? When I am denied, can I see it as a call to patience? When my plans shatter, can I see the cracks as doors? Or do I shrink, complain, and drown in self-pity? O Aba Abdillah, teach me to see as your sister saw. To behold beauty even in the ashes.

Rumi whispers to me through your shrine: “Don’t get lost in your pain; know that one day your pain will become your cure.” Yes, your pain at Karbala became the cure of Islam, but what of my pain? Will it too become a cure, or will it rot into resentment? The answer depends on my why. If I suffer for my ego, the wound festers. If I suffer for God, the wound glows.

Socrates seems to walk among the pilgrims in my imagination, stopping each with his question: Why do you walk? Why do you cry? Why do you stand here? He would not accept, “Because it is tradition” or “Because everyone does it.” He would probe until the soul itself spoke. And perhaps that is why your dharih draws us, O Husain, not so we can hide behind answers, but so we can be stripped of them until only truth remains.

O Aba Abdillah, when your infant Ali Asghar was raised in your arms, his tiny throat pierced by an arrow, was there not a moment when the heavens themselves froze in horror? How could cruelty strike so deep? And yet you raised him to the sky, offering him to Allah. I cannot think of this without tears burning my eyes. You were teaching us that even the most intimate pain can be surrendered. That the why of life is not survival but fidelity. That even in loss, one can return to God with tranquility.

But I tremble because I do not know if I could bear such a test. I do not know if my tongue would praise God or curse fate. I do not know if my why would stand or collapse. That is why I stand here, confessing: I am weak. My why is fragile. Yet I seek from you the strength to purify it.

I remember the Prophet’s words: *I was only sent as a mercy to the worlds.* His birth was light in a world of darkness. His mission was a call to ask: Why do you live chained when God has made you free? And your mission, O Husain, was the defense of that light, the guarding of that mercy. Without you, the Qur’an would have been a book recited but not lived. Without you, Islam would have been hijacked by hypocrisy.

This is why I ask: What is my mission in my time? Am I only a spectator of history, or am I a bearer of its trust? The Prophet’s light, your blood, Zainab’s voice, they did not travel centuries to become mere stories. They are seeds in my soil. Will I let them grow into a tree of justice, or let them wither into slogans?

Arbaeen is not only about walking miles. It is about walking inward, each step stripping the self. The dust on my feet is nothing compared to the dust on my heart. And yet, as I recall the sea of pilgrims, the men, women, and children who walk under the burning sun, sharing food and water, sleeping on the bare earth, I realize: this is what community looks like when the why is clear. There is no race, no status, no pride. Only love for you, only longing for God. For a brief time, the world remembers what it was meant to be.

O Aba Abdillah, as I stand here, I feel the nafsul-mutmainna calling me. But I am not yet that tranquil soul. I am a soul still restless, still bargaining, still afraid. And yet, your dharih whispers hope. If you could face Yazid’s army with serenity, can I not face my weaknesses with patience? If Zainab could stand in Sham and see beauty, can I not stand in my trials and see purpose? If the Prophet could endure mockery in Mecca, can I not endure the mockery of a world that belittles faith?

I feel tears trace my cheeks, and I do not wipe them. Let them fall into the same river that has flowed since 61 AH. Let them be my small tribute to you, my small washing of my soul. Let them soften the hardness of my heart. Let them remind me that activism without tears becomes arrogance, but tears without action become idleness. The two must join. Weep like Zainab, rise like Husain.

O Master of martyrs, you taught that the why of activism is not to win the world but to win the soul. To defeat tyranny is noble, but to defeat the ego is eternal. To change laws is necessary, but to change hearts is the root. To live with integrity is already a victory, even if the world calls it a loss. That is why your defeat was a victory, your silence was a speech, your fall was an ascension.

I fear, though, that I may betray you not by denying you but by diluting your messege. By turning your name into a slogan, your tears into optics, your shrine into a ritual without transformation. Forgive me if I have done this. Forgive us, your visitors, if we forget that your shrine is not an end but a beginning. That your dharih is not a wall but a window. That your silence is not emptiness but an invitation.

The night deepens. The lamps around your shrine glow like stars fallen to earth. Pilgrims murmur prayers in languages from every corner of the world, yet their hearts beat with one rhythm. I feel small, yet I feel infinite. For in your presence, the why is not abstract; it is embodied. It is blood, it is dust, it is defiance, it is a surrender to the divine.

I whisper my plea: O Aba Abdillah, make my why sincere. Strip me of pride, of fear, of laziness. Let me rise not for myself but for God. Let me serve not for applause but for truth. Let me die not restless but tranquil. And if my life cannot match your sacrifice, let it at least echo your sincerity.

For in the end, when my time comes, I want nothing more than to hear that voice: *O tranquil soul, return to your Lord, pleased and pleasing. Enter among My servants, enter My Paradise.*

As I lean against the dharih one last time tonight, I feel the bars colder than before, as though they are absorbing the fever of my heart. My tears have dried on my cheeks, leaving salt as if to remind me that grief must leave a taste, not just a trace. Around me, the crowd swells and subsides like a living ocean. Some clasp the dharih and wail, some whisper quietly, some stand still in stunned silence. Each carries his own *why*, yet here before you, O Aba Abdillah, all the whys become one.

I step back slowly, as though parting from a beloved, reluctant yet resigned. The shrine glows behind me, not dimmer for my departure but more radiant, as if saying: take this light with you, do not hoard it here. Outside, Karbala’s night is thick with devotion. The dust of pilgrims’ feet has risen to the sky, a silent testimony written not on paper but on the air itself.

I walk among them, my heart still conversing with you, my Master. Why did you accept thirst when the river was near? Why did you let your children face hunger when you could have bargained for comfort? The answer echoes back from your silence: because to drink from Yazid’s water would be to poison the soul, and what is thirst compared to betrayal?

This lesson cuts me. For how often do I drink from the river of compromise? How often do I quench my thirst with convenience rather than stand with principle? I say I love Husain, but do I not sip from Yazid’s stream when I trade truth for ease, justice for profit, faith for vanity? O Aba Abdillah, your thirst was a sword sharper than any blade. You cut falsehood from faith by refusing to drink. Teach me to thirst nobly yet no more.

I pass a group of pilgrims resting on the roadside. An old man is massaging the blistered feet of a boy; a woman offers dates to strangers; children pour water for the thirsty. It strikes me, this is Arbaeen, this is the miracle of your why. In a world fractured by greed and self-centredness, your memory creates a community where generosity is a law and love is the currency. You gave your life for God, and in return, God gave you hearts that refuse to forget you.

Here, Rumi whispers again: “What you seek is seeking you.” We seek Husain, and Husain has been seeking us for centuries, pulling our souls here. What we weep for is not only the tragedy of the past but the possibility of the present. That we, too, can be sought by God if we seek Him with purity.

I lift my eyes to the night sky above Karbala. The stars shine indifferent to empires. Where is Yazid now? His palaces are dust, his throne is rubble, his name a curse. Yet you, O Aba Abdillah, lie here in apparent defeat, but millions walk to you, weep for you, find God through you. Which of you won? Which of you lives? The answer needs no words.

This is why, I realize, activism must never measure itself by the scale of immediate triumph. The Prophet in Mecca looked powerless, yet the world trembled with his message. You, Husain, lay slain under the sun, yet Islam was reborn through your blood. The why is stronger than the what. The why is eternal.

But still, I wrestle. My soul is not tranquil. I ask myself: will I have the courage to rise if Yazid appears in my time? In politics, in business, in my own heart? Or will I rationalize or dish out excuses? My fear is not death; my fear is betrayal. Betrayal of you, betrayal of truth, betrayal of my soul.

I hear Socrates’ voice mingling with the call of a muezzin: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” And I hear the Qur’an respond: *O tranquil soul, return to your Lord.* Between the two lies my struggle. To examine my life until my soul is tranquil, to ask why until my why is pure.

The Prophet’s birth, his light entering a world of darkness, was the beginning of this journey. Your stand at Karbala was its preservation. Arbaeen is its continuation. And the Qur’an is its destination. All converge here, in this land where your blood soaked the soil.

I imagine, O Aba Abdillah, that if you could speak to me now, you would not ask for my tears alone but for my transformation. You would not be satisfied with my presence at your shrine but would ask what I will do when I return home. Will I stand for truth in my workplace, in my family, in my society? Will I resist the Yazids who tempt me with gold, with fame, with fear? Will I remember that the why is not applause but God’s pleasure?

I feel the night deepen, pilgrims lying down under the stars, the shrine still glowing like a sun that never sets. My heart softens into prayer: O Lord of Husain, make me worthy of Husain. O Lord of Husain, make my why sincere. O Lord of Husain, when my end comes, let me hear the words of Surah al-Fajr. Not as theory, but as destiny: *irji‘i ila rabbiki radiyatan mardiyya, fadkhuli fi ‘ibadi, wadkhuli jannati.*

And if my soul trembles that it is not yet tranquil, let it at least tremble toward tranquility. If my heart doubts its courage, let it at least long for courage. If my tears fall without deeds, let them at least water the seeds of future deeds. For I know, O Aba Abdillah, that you do not reject the weak who confess their weakness, nor the sinner who weeps for forgiveness.

As I take my final look at your shrine tonight, I whisper: My Master, I have come with questions, and I leave with questions still. But they are not the same. Before, my why was a burden; now it is a lamp. Before, my why was a wound; now it is a cure. Before, my why was restless; now it leans toward tranquility.

O Husain, O beloved of the Prophet, O martyr of Karbala, accept me among your seekers. Do not let my life be noise without meaning, motion without direction, activism without soul. Let my why live in the shadow of your why, until the day I too am called: *O tranquil soul, return.*