A Mother’s Story: My Son, My Martyr
The Light That Never Fades: A Mother’s Tribute, A True Story
When my son was a child, we used to hold Muharram gatherings in our home. People would recite elegies about the tragedies of Imam Husain (AS), weeping for his suffering. But even as a boy, my son would ask, “Why do we only speak of his sorrows? His life was so much greater.”
He wanted to understand the meaning behind Ashura—why Imam Husain (AS) stood firm, why he sacrificed everything. He read books, sought scholars, and asked questions, searching for the truth behind the martyrdom.
One day, he came to me and said, “The mosque is old and broken. The walls are cracked, the paint is faded—how can the House of God look like this?” He decided to fix it himself.
He calculated the cost, then went to work in an orchard for days, picking fruit under the hot sun until he earned enough to buy paint. He was just a boy, but his determination was stronger than grown men’s.
The Heart He Had
From childhood, three things defined him:
He Could Not Bear Injustice – If he saw someone oppressed, he had to stand for them. It was in his blood.
He Gave Before He Took – If there was food, a gift, or even a kind word to share, he made sure others had their fill first. Only then would he take his portion.
He Carried the World’s Pain – While other boys played, he spoke of Palestine, of our people’s struggles. “We have a duty,” he’d say.
Yet, he was no stern ascetic—he laughed, loved life, and filled our home with joy.
The Turning Point
When the great scholar he admired was martyred, something changed in him. He grieved deeply, then his sorrow turned to resolve. “Silence is complicity,” he said. He began standing against tyranny, wherever he saw it.
Then came the Revolution in the East—the one that shook the world. Though he had never met its leader, he studied his words, believing in his call for justice. “This revolution isn’t just for them,” he told me. “It’s a light for all of us.”
When he finally met the Imam, it was only for minutes. But those words—“You are my child too”—stayed with him forever.
Later, he helped build the resistance, choosing a name that reflected their faith: “We are the ones who stand with truth. We are the ones God trusts.”
The Son I Remember
They took him from me too soon. But when I think of him, I don’t see a martyr—I see the boy who painted the mosque with his own hands. The young man who laughed with his brothers, who carried the weak on his back, who believed, with every breath, that justice would prevail.
They call him a martyr now. But to me, he was always a light.
And lights never truly fade.