The Last Stand of the father of Excellence

The Standard Bearer of Karbala: A Tale of Loyalty and Sacrifice

The sun blazed fiercely over the arid land of Karbala, its unforgiving heat beating down like molten iron upon the earth. The dust rose with each footstep, swirling around the weary and the wounded. From the tents of Imam Hussain (a.s.) came the soft, fragile cries of children—parched, weak, and desperate for a drop of water. Their thirst was more than physical; it was the ache of innocence crushed beneath cruelty.

Amidst this anguish stood Abbas ibn Ali—a towering figure of strength and nobility. He was not merely a warrior; he was a guardian, a brother, and the embodiment of loyalty. The children looked up to him with trust in their eyes. To them, he was the one who would never let them suffer. Especially Sakina—Imam Hussain’s young daughter—who clutched the empty mashk (water skin), her dry lips trembling with hope.

That morning, Abbas approached Imam Hussain. His face was calm, yet a silent storm churned within. He bowed his head and said,

“I have come to bid farewell.”

Imam Hussain looked at his brother with heavy eyes.

“My brother, come and embrace me.”

They held each other, the moment heavy with unspoken sorrow. Then, Hussain made one final request:

“Abbas, give me your sword.”

Without hesitation or question, Abbas handed it over. Now, armed only with a spear and the standard of the Prophet’s family—the Alam—he mounted his horse. The mission was clear: fetch water for the children.

As Abbas rode toward the river Euphrates, the enemy—four thousand strong—trembled. The mere sight of him stirred fear in their ranks.

“Abbas is coming!” they cried, and many hid behind one another.

Those foolish or brave enough to face him were cut down, one by one, by the ferocity of his spear or the sheer power of his presence.

Finally, he reached the river. The cool, glistening water flowed before him, a sight of both relief and torment. He led his horse into the water, filled the mashk, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he lowered his hands into the water and cupped it to his cracked lips.

But he stopped.

He thought of Sakina. He saw her eyes, full of pain, trusting him. How could he drink when she remained thirsty? When Ali Asghar, just an infant, writhed in hunger and thirst?

He threw the water back.

“Not before they drink,” he whispered to himself.

Even his horse seemed to hesitate, as if to say, How can I drink when the children are thirsty? Abbas patted its neck gently.

“Let us go.”

As he turned back toward the camp, holding the Alam high and the mashk tightly, the enemy closed in around him. Umar ibn Saad, commander of Yazid’s forces, had ordered that no water must reach Hussain’s camp.

They attacked from all sides.

Arrows rained upon Abbas like a hailstorm. One after another struck him. Yet he pressed on. Then came a sword from behind—striking his shoulder and severing his arm. The spear fell. Still, he clutched the mashk with his teeth and the Alam in his other hand.

Another blow, another sword. His other arm was cut away. The Alam fell. But Abbas did not stop. Bleeding, broken, yet unbending, he gripped the mashk between his teeth. He had to reach the children. That was all that mattered.

But fate had taken a cruel turn for the worst.

An arrow pierced the water skin. The precious water—the hope of the children—spilled into the sands of Karbala. Abbas faltered. Still, he would not fall. Another arrow struck his eye, blinding him. He could no longer see the camp, but he could feel the desperation of those waiting for him.

He collapsed by the riverbank.

Back in the camp, Sakina’s heart sensed something had gone wrong. Her wide, innocent eyes turned to her father.

“Baba,” she whispered, “why hasn’t uncle Abbas come back?”

Imam Hussain could not answer. His silence was heavier than words.

Sakina, trembling, raised her hands to the sky and prayed,

“Oh Allah, don’t let them kill my uncle Abbas! I promise I will never ask for water again!”

She ran inside the tent, her sobs echoing through the desert.

Imam Hussain rushed to his brother. What he saw broke even his iron heart. Abbas lay in the dust, both arms severed, his forehead bleeding, and an arrow embedded in his eye. Yet when he heard Hussain’s steps, Abbas tried to rise.

“Maula,” he gasped, “why did you come? Please... go back. Look after Sakina.”

Imam fell to his knees beside him.

“My brother, you served me and my children all your life. Is there anything I can do for you now?”

“Please,” Abbas whispered, “wipe the blood from my eyes... so I can see you one last time.”

With trembling hands, Hussain cleared the blood. Abbas looked at him—his last vision in this world.

“Do not take my body to the camp,” he murmured. “I do not wish Sakina to see me like this.”

Imam Hussain cradled his brother’s head in his lap. He kissed his forehead—the very place where Abbas had fallen—and whispered farewell.

And in that moment, Karbala lost its moon.

Let Hazrat Abbas be the light in our darkness, the strength in our trials, and the example of how devotion and sacrifice can become eternal. He understood the true meaning of love and compassion, and showed us all that greater love bath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.