My words lessened, as did my appearances. I slowly realized that many did not want to exit the bubble of comfort. Choosing to dwell in it, because otherwise, life would change dramatically, forever.
Admittedly, I attest to the hardening of my own heart as a result of my aloneness and estrangement in my campaign, and the pain of my people’s neglect to the blood which I carried and wore so loudly on my back. It became a bit of a protectiveness over our people under siege, who were neglected, who my west refused to mind.
“What do you fear? Is it the loss of comfort? Suffering for something greater? Martyrdom?
Is martyrdom scary?”
My time eventually ran out, and the time came to carry out the promise I made to the heavens months ago.
We had reached May, and true to the oath I made to the pure blood spilled in September, and to myself, to focus my energy and attention to our people in the east, our sails blew back to Lebanon. My primary focus had become to catch what I witnessed to be the Hussaini Caravan while I still could, before the divine gates closed, as every day that passed I felt the walls close in on me more and more.
I called and called for my people to embark on this ship, or to, at least build arks of their own. But none paid any mind, none but a virtuous few.
Upon reaching the land of martyrdom, there was much to be done. Gaps to be filled, effort to be given, sacrifices to be made. I rushed to join their ranks in hopes that I could compensate for the clear role that I had played in their loss and harm.
Months passed of bombardment, martyrs, funerals — the purest of blood spilled by the camp of Yazid. I would, from time to time, look over to my people in the west. Each glance would disappoint me further, and deepen my wound. Their continued neglect was a sign of their stagnation. “After all that has happened?”, I would constantly ask myself. I would see a peaceful, tame protest here and there, maybe to bury guilt I assumed.
Soon, came the ascension of February. Salman al Muhammadi, raised to the heavens. Pharaoh, finding no one to challenge him, gathered his troops, mustered his strength, and struck.
In the east, we saw movement and fire, like that of the people of Pakistan, living martyrs storming the embassy of terror, some attaining martyrdom; or the people of Iraq, who marched with the pride of “La ilaha illa llah” and did the same; or the people of Kashmir, who — under occupation — marched and stormed the streets with the thunder of honor and dignity; or the multi-million man march of the besieged and long-suffering Yemen which cannot be forgotten, a people who had more of an excuse than anyone to avoid anti-empire activity.
But still, we have yet to see Yazid feel any bit threatened by those who are within an arms reach of him.
Two years ago, I would have been shocked and mortified to see that after this wicked aggression against the heavens and the earth, the white palace still stands, and Pharoah fears not the rising of his subjects, not even in the least.
I do not feel shock anymore. I no longer call and shout. I have accepted reality. A reality which I have had no choice but to acknowledge. I no longer glance towards my people — I no longer look for smoke in the west.
I pray to be proven wrong, and to see my people break the chains of their comfort and join hands with the free people of the world — to act before it is too late. War is being waged against all that is good and the only way to participate and make a difference is by shedding the comfort and luxury that we have allowed our souls to attach to, the same comfort which has paralyzed us.
I pray that they rise and see what potential rests in their hands. Not for their people here, who have stood strong with reliance upon God and God alone, but for their own selves. For in this rising, is the key to salvation.
When all is said and done, and victory is granted as promised, history will record on its walls only the names of those who strove sincerely and acted. Those who spared no effort or sacrifice of rest to liberate us all.
