My Friend, Heir to Hussain
The dawn transcended distance and before its hope could tend the bigger universe, gloom descended in the frosty air of our courtyard with the cauterized smell. As soon as we were wide awake, the first-morning breeze turned into toxic fumes sucking up all our breath and shattering the little universe of ours with the pangs of separation! Along the line of time, the rhythm of life quivered, billows of death surged in full brawling roar; ribs pressed down on our hearts with woe, mute protest within our own bones trapped us in our own bodies. Insurmountable grief came crashing down before volition could set free the bruised souls. Despair morphed into claws and teeth’s cutting us from deep inside. The grief found its host, same oppressed host; the host is an address, not a name, where hope dwells. The traitorous eye, chiming shamelessly, again conspired against us. The perfidious enemy laughed with malice after its bullets whetted their insatiable appetite by murdering the soldier of resistance. It was history’s public assault on collective memory and shared identity.
In his prudence, voice from the hills eventually gave in to his fate and happily obliged to the call of providence; closing his eyes gently for eternity and evading the sleep to get into them anymore. Enhancing his dignity with elicit exclamations, people stretched their enslaved arms towards heaven to pay obeisance to the knight in the shining armor; Commander of the faithful. People extoll his unmitigated sacrifice for the noble cause with hands cupped in prayer; the cause laden with countless sacrifices in which, even, the babies in the bellies have been slain. The incessant falling tears and raging eyes of red fire described the fatal wound which has bruised million invisible hearts in the valley where the occupation has laid down a severe siege on freedom and is on the brinks of the potential apocalypse. Transfixed, the gardeners hope crumbled in lamentation; for his best flower in the garden was plucked. Amidst loud cries and beating chests, humming amplified and the departing guest was embraced. He was given the solemnity that even courage couldn’t extend. Desperate yowling tried to pierce the last visible realm to seek divine intervention in peoples favor. With hope and despair wrestling outside the green shroud and the vile enemy gazing at his defeat, earth welcomed the radiantly bright saving grace; the intrepid hero was laid to eternal rest, releasing the soul of its captivity.
The earth took back the existence, not the essence which permeates the universe and in the revolution, dead man’s essence is seldom slated for oblivion, it slithers through metempsychosis and lives in the form of thought and hope. A thought is not slain, it outlives the mind, unlike the physical body. A thought never disappears, it’s shadow spreads far and wide, unless it liberates the wretched of the earth, restoring freedom of mind and of the body. A thought outlasts memory and time even history. A thought is not a secret concealed by the darkness, hiding somewhere in the corners of privacy. A thought sees the oppressor right in the face despite intrigues and barbarity. A thought remains unimpaired; it weighs the ruler and the ruled, oppressor and the oppressed, courtesan and centurion, rich and poor, landlord and the peasant, black and white, noble and while, elite and mass, blessed and wretched on an equal scale with justice as the only yardstick.
He was back to the woods, where he was born. He risked staying there when doing so meant certain death; as if he lied within the eyelid of doom while it slept. The woods and the hills knew him well just like the battle and the men knew him. In his absence, his everlasting redeeming words represent him and continue to petrify the enemy. His words are a prequel to the dawn of ascending glory that is bound to come after the darkness of occupation. Abiding loyalty is a sacred trust for those who honor a pledge; he represented that rare caravan of brave-few. His words were a sword of justice aimed at restoring the dignity of the oppressed sheath. He once jadedly said, “when you see a lion bearing his canines, never fancy him to be smiling”. He was not a mere body but a sun of faith and truth, driven by the pinnacle of thoughts.
His thought meant to enfranchise the disenfranchised, empower the dispossessed and atone for the injustices. Even if the red plush of the earth outstretches the blue sky, it cannot extinguish the flames of his thought. Who was he? He was the heir to Hussein! Acme of courage! A scholar’s mind with a rebel’s spirit who meticulously scribbled the verses of resistance. He was brought up on the food cooked in the backyard of resistance; a resisting culture where annihilation of human existence and of history by the oppressor is the rule, not an exception. In the face of perpetual genocides, he was a fearless, an unapologetic language of his people, unafraid of declaring the mounting-mighty tyrant naked. He spoke as he saw it, a truth-teller yet deeply faithful. He lived the truth modestly and minutely with unflinching allegiance and sheer steadfastness to illuminate its landscape. He was the beckoning mountain who sacrificed all his colors of existence for the ancestral dream of a free-nation unsullied by the parasite of occupation and oppression. His was the only crime; the crime of awareness in an age of ignorance.
A sacrifice leaves its trails and cannot endure remaining silent, it makes hope more determined. Yes. Hope! Hope is what the prophets preached, and the demons ruin. Hope is not a hypothesis. Hope is not a hysteria. Hope is a covenant by conviction; it’s ‘the principle’ above all principles. Hope is the preface to decolonize horizons and overcome our shattered features; a political parable in the lunatic times. Hope is the ministry of truth with an unconscionable thirst for justice, its loyalty rests with the truth. Hope is a rebellion against dehumanization, erasure of memory, distortion of history, truth and reality controlling narratives by the powers that be. Hope is fearless, it defies siege, detention and the elegiac letters RIP. Hope is the oppressors greatest fear for it declares him naked. Hope is stoically disobedient, the ghost of unwarned. Hope is not blind, it’s a periscope that’s a witness to all massacres, imperialism and colonial perversity. Hope is what an enemy cannot conquer despite considering it a thought crime and initiating lawsuits against it. Hope is the vanguard of evolution in the face of lunatic credulity. Hope is borderless, it abides by justice not by law. Hope is the panacea to the revolutionary crisis; it’s life when death stares back naked. Hope is the refuge, escape route to sorrows; in it resides a sense of purpose. Hope animates the existence and curates the identity. Hope is nurtured in the hearts and minds of men of substance, in their courage and commitment, and of course, in actions. Hope does not honor a wolf’s house which lies not in its gracious and friendly appearance but in its stomach. Hope destroys that every castle which contains the oppressor even if its walls are built with the strongest stones. Hope lays bare the flag of subjugation which covers the sun of liberation. Hope is not floored, it will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available. It takes thought to become hope, any place that has people with an immune-boosting thought, has hope. We volunteer for it consciously and unreservedly; we are the madmen with Hope.
P.S: The spinning wheel of justice will spin and relieve the loyal mortals who have endured beyond measure. The aggrieved will avenge when the storms breaking our heads change into benign clouds; till then, as the rebel scholar who wrote an all-encompassing, everlasting prologue of resistance, used to say, with raging mad tempest, damn them to hell!
The author is a doctoral candidate at Jamia Millia Islamia University, New Delhi. He can be reached at email@example.com.
Disclaimer: Views expressed are exclusively personal and do not necessarily reflect the position or editorial policy of Oracle Opinions.