I. Imam Hussain and the Prophet Muhammad

The grandsons of the Prophet, Hasan and Hussain, held a beloved place in his heart. The Prophet called them the Masters of the Youths of Paradise and tasked them with a special future. Descendents of Prophet Abraham through Isma’il, the line of Muhammad represents the best hopes of humanity and the Muslim world and the promise of justice on earth. But Muhammad knew that they would face persecution and hardship just as he had faced during his own time. The full realization of the mission of Muhammad was far from complete in society -- it is up to his progeny to complete the promise of the message Muhammad brought to humanity.

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Prologue

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It was a massive affair. A curse was not to be taken lightly; in some ways, it was worse than fighting. Bring your women and children, said the Prophet, reciting revelation. I will bring mine. Let us invoke the wrath of God, the evils of this earth, on the liars.

      The visiting delegation to Medina, a denomination of Christians who had come to investigate the claims of the proclaimed prophet, had gone to rest last night. They had been challenged to a mutual cursing by the Prophet after their discussions had reached a roadblock. That night, they had consulted with their elders, deliberated amongst themselves. They clutched their rosaries and prayed; they lay awake pondering over the events of the day. They would return any moment now, as the date palms swung in the heavy air of the morning.

       The people of Madinah came and congregated, waiting to see: “will they accept our Prophet?” “Will there truly be a curse?” They clustered together, held their breath. All was silent but for their troubled murmurings.

      The delegation came forward, appearing like small trees in the distance in their monk garb. They arrived at the meeting place, solemn-faced. And finally, the man himself, the Prophet Muhammad came forward, a cloak around his shoulders and those who accompanied him: his daughter, still a young woman, her husband, and her two young sons, the eldest of whom held the hand of his grandfather, the other held in his arms, clutched against the Prophet’s chest. A murmuring broke out among the monks, the crowd. One of the monks turned to his companion.

      “The elder told us not to proceed if Muhammad comes with his family.”

      “I know.”

      “So what are we to say?”

      The leader of the delegation stepped forward. He appraised the family. What compels a man to come forward and subject his family to danger, to the unthinkable? What kind of conviction must one have seated in his breast to know that the safest, most tranquil place for them is at his side, despite the dangers? The monk pondered this as he gazed upon the family. Then bowed his head in respect.

      “We do not wish to incite the curse, or to withhold God’s mercy. We will pay tribute to you, and do as you wish.”

      A collective sigh of relief—and dignity, the set jaw of the Prophet. It was a victory for the Muslims.

      Muhammad clutched his sons close— so they had been referred to, in the verses revealed to him.¹ His sons. Throughout their lives he would call them his sons, not his grandsons. They were beloved to him such that the scrolls of history preserved and narrated that love, that preference. Now, in his success, he drew them close against him, those small boys. Could there have been anything so warm and comforting to a child? To be wrapped closely with those he loved most in the world— mother, father, brother, grandfather—all together. This was the household of the Prophet, so too he would refer to them— the people of his house, the House of Muhammad. Ali, Fatima, Hasan, Hussain.

      In just a few short years, he, their patriarch, would depart from the world. He would be followed by his daughter, the mother. Then the father, then the elder brother, each brutally killed. One day, the infant who now was clutched against the chest of his grandfather would, too, approach an enemy, clutching his own son to his chest, his own family behind him. Perhaps this memory of standing with those he loved most was etched somewhere on the fabric of his soul, somewhere beyond the realm of memory and time. Perhaps all of our lives can be summed up as a return to some kind of togetherness, to the source of love.

      When the time would come for him to leave his earthly existence, for him to be murdered, betrayed in cold blood on a dusty plain just a few decades after this moment, sages in the centuries that followed would speculate that in those final moments, he saw these very people beckoning to him. His family standing, welcoming him: a reunion. “You have traversed your journey of life,” perhaps they said. “You have withstood quietly and boldly the injustices perpetrated against us and you. You have lived a simple life, and to live simply is the most difficult task of all.”

      This dialogue is but speculation. But the story of this family, and the story of this child, comprising the lifeblood of Islam, are true. He was born into a family that would loom large in the pages of history, a family regarded as pure, select, miraculous. Millions upon millions of people would go on to travel to their burial sites in the centuries to come. The child held in the arms of the Prophet during the incident of mubahala would go on to inspire centuries of poetry, art, massive events and even revolutions. Fourteen hundred years ago he was born into the loving embrace of his grandfather, and just over fifty years later, would be killed brutally by the people who attested to his grandfather’s Prophethood and spoke the same language, prayed in the same direction. His name is Hussain. This is his story.

I. Imam Hussain and the Prophet Muhammad

Revelation at Hira

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The  grandfather of Hussain, the holy Prophet Muhammad, is forty when he becomes a Prophet, sitting secluded from society in the cave of Hira. He spends weeks of the year here, in this private space, in silence and reflection. Away from the noise, the hustle and bustle of Mecca, he would come to think, reflect, and pray to God. On one of these nights when the Prophet was in the Cave of Hira, taking deep breaths, he is thinking. The solitude, the vastness of the night, the distant weight of the cosmos impresses upon him the infinite vastness and beauty of the created universe. The stars above Arabia paint the ashen and deep black hues of the sky with glowing white, yellow, and blue pinpoints of light. The breath of the Prophet is steady and calm.

     Suddenly, he hears a voice, clear as day: “Recite! Recite, in the name of your Lord!” the Angel Gabriel says to the Prophet.² How does he appear? Some say the Prophet is squeezed, compressed. Others say he sees the beautiful, otherworldly face of Gabriel. But here, now, the Qur’an, the word of God, has been revealed—something has shifted in the cosmos, in the relationship between the heavens and the earth, to bring this final iteration of the Prophetic message down upon this mountain, to this man.³ 

     Who could have foreseen that Mecca, of all places, would be chosen for this honor? Flanking off the eastern coast of the Red Sea, Mecca was relatively anonymous, a stopping place, but not the final destination. Trade caravans from Yemen and other parts of Arabia would often stop in Mecca on their way north—or for the Arabs of the Hijaz, the lefthand side (shimal) or the Levant where the sun would rise, with Yemen (yaman) on the right.

      Muhammad now comes back home, where his wife, Khadija awaits. There he tells her of what happened. She listens with a clear heart and mind. She has known Muhammad for many years, since before this instance of revelation, before he was even her husband, when he was just an honest man to whom she, a wealthy merchant, entrusted her goods. Now, in the quiet of the night, reports say she covers him with a cloak. She listens to him narrate the event, then without hesitation affirms that there is one God, and that this man, her husband, is his Prophet. 

     Ali b. Abi Talib is the first man to attest to the message. When the Prophet Muhammad was orphaned as a child, Ali’s father, his uncle, Abu Talib, took him under his wing. Under the care of Abu Talib, Muhammad was brought up, then helped to bring up Ali, something of a son to him, or at the very least, a beloved brother. Now, they were intimate friends. Ali would often stay in the Cave of Hira with the Prophet; he would follow him closely.⁴ The Prophet is accepted without pause by his closest friend and his wife, the two people in the world who knew him best. On the first night of revelation, three submit to God, to this iteration of prophethood.

     The new Prophet would not be met with the same receptiveness by most of the inhabitants of Mecca. For the first three years of Muhammad’s prophethood, he would be mocked and shunned, even, and especially, by some members of his larger tribe. ‘Amr b. Hisham al-Makhzumi, later dubbed in Muslim historiography as “Abu Jahl” or “the father of ignorance,” waged a campaign against all who entered into this new religion. The famous first martyr of the religion, Sumayya bint Khayyat, was tortured and killed by Abu Jahl, in addition to her husband, Yasir, and son, Abdullah b. Yasir. She was survived by another son, Ammar b. Yasir, who would go on to become a close companion of the Prophet Muhammad, and of Ali after the Prophet’s death. Eventually, he would be killed fighting alongside Ali.

      Khadijah supported the new Prophet in his pursuit to spread the message he had received, both emotionally and financially. She would spend  the entirety of her wealth to this end. When she and the Prophet’s Uncle, Abu Talib, passed away ten years following his first revelation, the Prophet was deeply saddened. In Muslim historiography this year is remembered as “am al-huzn” the year of sorrow. Three years later, after continued conflict with the Meccans, the time would come for the hijrah, the journey, to Medina.

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I. Imam Hussain and the Prophet Muhammad

Immigration to Yathrib (Medina)

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In a congregation of seated men, one paces back and forth, stroking his beard. His face is weather-worn and suntanned like leather. Anger is permanently etched onto his face in the creases at his eyebrows, the valleys on either side of his mouth, rendering him in a permanent grimace. Another man in the congregation speaks.

      “There’s nothing left for us. All of his followers have left for Yathrib. He’s certainly next, and when he is there, what will stop him then?” A murmur sounds among the crowd.

      “We must end this.”

      If an outside observer were in the room, he might notice a man seated among them, inconspicuously, with nothing of his appearance or dress to distinguish him from his peers. An outside observer, however, might notice the tension in his shoulders, the nervous twitch about his chin, the nervous flitting of his eyes. To his fellow men, these features go unnoticed. He is but a man of a wispy mustache, of hooded eyes.

      The angry man stops pacing. His name is Abu Sufyan. He raises his chin haughtily.

      “Fellow noblemen of Quraysh. We must kill him before he flees and joins his followers. Muhammad must die. Nothing remains but to decide how and when. Who is in agreement?”

      All the men voice their approval, voices rising in a crescendo. 

      “Abu Sufyan, you speak the truth. But I fear he is not yet alone in Mecca. How can we be certain that he has not secured men stationed to protect him?”

      “Or that he does not have spies in our midst?”

      Unobserved, the man with the wispy mustache swallows.

      Another voice sounds: “We will station men outside the perimeter of Mecca, prepared to intercept him.”

      “No. Time is limited. It must happen now!”

      Commotion rises as alternate plans are put forth and discarded. If it weren’t for the sound and the investment of each man in the room in the discussion at hand, someone might have noticed that same one man, eyes steady on the ground, listening intently but saying nothing. 

      “Tonight, tonight! It must happen tonight.”

      “When he is sleeping, unarmed and unguarded.”

      “Before word can reach him or anyone else.”

      The men finally fall silent. The time had come to vote. Abu Sufyan speaks.

      “Tonight, we will send the agreed upon young men to Muhammad’s home, to finish him while he sleeps. All in favor, stand.”

      One by one, every man in the congregation stands, everyone: a perfect consensus for the blood of Muhammad. The Quraysh, the descendants of the Prophet Abraham, thirst for the blood of Muhammad, the Prophet tasked with revelation in the Abrahamic line. The meeting is adjourned, and the man with the wispy mustache waits until men begin to leave before he himself takes to the road, turning left rather than right, down, right again, then left, as nonsensical a path as possible until he is certain, certain that no one has followed him. He pauses against a wall, feigning rest, waiting, once again affirming, then picks up his pace and makes his way to the home where that night, young men would gather with swords. 

      He announces his presence at the door. One second, two, and he is greeted by a man of medium height and build, an open, welcoming countenance, a smile weary but at peace. The Prophet Muhammad.

      “Peace, Messenger of God.”

      “Peace to you.”

      When, later that night, just before the break of dawn, the men from the gathering come to the home of the Prophet, when they steal into his quarters and surround his bed, the figure that turns his face and squints up at them is not Muhammad. A young man peers up at them from his place, his composure steely. It is Ali.

      They grab the young man and shake him, question him. His composure is steely. One of them speaks. “Leave him! We have no time to waste. We must follow Muhammad.” Ali is released, and the men slip out into the darkness of the night.

      Meanwhile, Muhammad is miles away, having begun on his journey to Yathrib, what would soon be known as Madinat al-Nabi, the city of the Prophet, and eventually, just Madinah. Ali would soon join him, and in that year, the first year after hijrah, they would erect a mosque, established the adhan, the call to prayer, and Bilal, formerly enslaved and among the first Muslims, would become the first mu’adhin. They established the Charter of Madinah, giving equal rights to Muslims and Jews in the city, and giving authority to Muhammad. They would pair every muhajir, migrant, with one of the ansar, helpers of the cause, as a brother. Muhammad would take Ali and announce him as his own brother.

      In the year to follow, Ali would approach the Prophet with an intimate request. He approaches him now, eyes uncharacteristically downcast. When he makes his request the Prophet smiles, according to some sources, he jests. Later, he approaches his daughter, Fatima.

      “Will you consent to be married to Ali?” According to some historical sources, he adds, “as I have been instructed by God?”

      And thus, the strife and sadness of Muhammad’s early Prophethood gives way to some years of joy, ascension. Ali and Fatima are married in the second year after the migration. One year later, they bring into the world their son, Hasan. The following year, Hussain is born.

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I. Imam Hussain and the Prophet Muhammad

The Grandchildren of Muhammad

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As a general rule, grandparents love their grandchildren, and the love the Prophet harbored for his grandchildren followed this imperative religiously. The Prophet Muhammad loved Hasan and Hussain, he loved to sit with them, to hold them, to speak about them. 

     On one afternoon, as the sun beats hot and steadily on the dusty maze of Medina the Prophet makes his way down a road with a congregation of men, their conversation cheerful but muted. He had invited the men to join him for a meal at his home, which they are nearing now, they had just but to turn the corner— and there, Hussain is playing in the alleyway, absorbed in his game of one. The Prophet suddenly breaks into a run, his arms outstretched. Hussain, sensing a looming figure, turns and screeches, quickening his pace to outrun his new competitor. He twists and turns and skips and lurches, his squeals crescendo into laughter, until he is gathered into the arms of this man, his grandfather, who places one hand on his head and the other under his chin, and with a grin, addresses him: “Noor Ayni, the light of my eyes, Hussain.”

      The Prophet Muhammad turns to his group of companions, and gestures to the boy. “Hussain is of me, and I am of Hussain. God loves whomsoever loves Hasan and Hussain; they hold a special place among my progeny.”

      In another famed instance, the Prophet leads prayer. He rises. “Allahu Akbar, God is great.” Then he sinks into prostration, the congregation behind him following suit. A rustle sounds as a small figure moves somewhere near the front. A minute passes, then another. Bodies begin to shift in discomfort. A man lifts his face— could it be that the prayer had ended without him hearing? But there is the Prophet, at the front of the congregation, still prostrating, with a small child perched firmly on his back. The man returns his face to the ground. A few more moments, and at last: “Allahu Akbar.” The congregation rises again. They complete the prayer. Voices sound as soon as it ends:

      “Oh, Messenger of God, what happened?”

      “Did something befall you?”

      “Did you receive revelation?”

      The Prophet smiles and strokes the back of his grandson, Hussain.

      “None of that happened. My grandson was playing on my back and I didn’t want to disturb him before he was finished.”

      And so the years passed, battles fought and won, in the early years of establishing this new community. Ali fought alongside his brother, the Prophet, dutifully. Hasan and Hussain, and later, their sisters, Zainab and Umm Kulthum, were raised in the home of parents who were known to be patrons of the poor, caretakers of orphans. In the nights, a young Hussain would wake to the sound of his mother praying fervently for this community held together by belief. In the days, he and his brother would skip to the mosque, perform their ablutions, and stand beside the men in prayer.

      One day, Fatima comes to her father’s house with a dish of food she had prepared for him. She greets his wife, Umm Salama, and enters to find her father wrapped in a cloak.

      “Peace to you, father.”

      “Peace.”

      She approaches him and he lifts the cloak, inviting her to sit beside him. In comes Hasan, who is received by his grandfather in the cloak, then Hussain, and finally, Ali. They sit wrapped together like that, reveling in the closeness, the warmth of being a family. The Prophet closes his eyes, then raises his hands in prayer.

      “Oh God, these are my family. So repel all impurity from them, and purify them.”

      According to the many reports of this event, the angel Gabriel descends upon the family and reveals a verse of the Qur’an: “Indeed, God wishes to repel all impurities from you, household of the Prophet, and to purify you thoroughly.”

      Soon, they would go out to meet the Christian delegation, enfolded together in that cloak. One year later, he would pass on into eternity.

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Chapter Endnotes:

1. Qur’an, 3:61.
2. Qur’an, Surah al-‘Alaq (96).
3. There are differing reports in the historical sources regarding the details of this night and what the first verses of the Qur’an revealed to the Prophet Muhammad were.
4. Nahj al-Balagha, Khutba Qas’ia.

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