 This is a story of sacrifice and not just any sacrifice. Great sacrifices have been mentioned all throughout history. Ancient or modern civilizations, some are myths, some are tales, some are stories. Others are real-life events told a million times over. The famous Prophet Jesus, for example, told his day, we find a fig tree implanted on the chest of a passerby in every corner of the world. But what makes a sacrifice great is the result that follows. And for many, this is a tale that resonates like an annual tide, with tears and emotions surfacing at the shore. A yearly guest that when the days come, he knocks on the door. And we welcome him in. But who is this visitor? And what kind of sacrifice did he make that the earth and all his stays cannot forget him? This man once stood upon the burning sands of time, upon his eyes stitched a tale for eternity. He traveled the distance with a handful of friends and a handful of family, brothers, sisters, sons and mothers, and even newborn additions. And he held them out like a pauper with his last remaining currency. He stood and stood and they took and took until he had nothing more to give in life than life itself. Yet life demanded more until he had more fingers to count the loved ones, not spared like Abraham from the fires with the hail storm of arrows, not spared like the throat of Ishmael, no sheep to replace this young one. There was no river to float a baby across like baby Moses in the Nile. No, this time the river was the villain of the story, not spared like the people of Israel. When the sea was split open and the people fled to safety, no, this time an army of thousands swallowed them. And those who remained were paraded to the point that 40 years in the wilderness would have been sweeter. And neither was there an ark to save them like the ark of Noah, two by two. No, this man was left alone drowning in his sacrifice. There was no hero to save this story, no David against Goliath, no King Arthur, no Hercules, no miracle to become or to be, so no healing words could save nor love between teardrop slaves, the value of his sacrifice. How much his sacrifice was worth? How much was his sacrifice worth? Cannot be quantified, but he gave it all not for a throne or wealth or gold or power or anything that could be sold. He gave it all for something that most men would not comprehend where philosophers would fail to follow the trail of thought to its end. And equations cannot simplify nor solved by algorithms. He gave it all for something that most men would not comprehend and that cannot be measured in this earth, nor beyond the layered sky. He gave it all for the pleasure of the most high. And in return, he's become immortalized. And that, my friends, is the story of Hussain, but there's a whole different story when he looked into the details. So then now that you know the story of Hussain, let me tell you the story of the hands of Hussain. Let me tell you the story of the hands of Hussain. Let's go back to the battlefield. Hussain was thinking. It was as if it was yesterday when his hands were tightly held by his grandfather. They were tiny, soft, and knew nothing of pain. While his grandfathers were big, bold, and as comforting as rain, but the times have changed and these hands felt no comfort, just blood between the crevices. Lost were the ones that once held them and he wondered how many more pulses he would feel stopped beating. Or how many eyes he'd forced to close because they reminded him of the miracles that were once breathing. How many more young heads he would comfort because he was all they had left. He would look at his hands. How much more could they take? His hands were worn and his mind was torn. He could not choose which body was more painful to touch, nor which soul ached more to lose. Whether the embraces of the living band more or the coldness of the body has gone so soon. But all he knew for sure was that his back was still heaving. From that recent meeting where he had to lift two hands kneeling near a man he left by the river like a lunar silhouette. Where he had to lift two hands kneeling near a man he left by the river like a shivering lunar silhouette. His palms were still warm and his fingers were still wet. He dropped to his knees and held his brother like the day they first met a moon enshrined in a cloak. His tiny eyes as a baby too shy to meet his own. Too shy to meet his eye was it? An arrow had always been the reason why. Little did he know that he would eventually match his shrine but that mattered little right now. He'd say I need you to hold me up brother. I need you to be my spy. Was that his most painful? Was that his most painful? Or was it peeling the one who most resembled his grandfather from a spear like an angel? An angel who had fallen on splinted wings holding each piece of what used to be a man raised forever settle his heartbeat. Now wrapped in cloth and sheet when not longer go he held him young. A father's lap designed to be his son's seat. And now the same lap soaks his blood deep and the same knees that once rocked him now take him to sleep. Don't close your eyes son. Don't leave me be. You're the final fragment of my grandfather. Don't leave me be. Was that his most painful? Or was it the baby's sacrifice like a feathered dove caught between his two nervous hands? If hearts were made of strings that three-pronged arrow no doubt offered that final sting slicing through that last remaining string that held his beautiful heart together. And now his heart was nothing more than an organ bleeding crushed by the memories like a woman he once knew was crushed behind the door. To hold or how he needed her right now to hold him like he was holding his martyred son. Mohsen bled in the womb and here is Hussain holding another. But he still stood tall despite being broken into uncountable fragments. He still stood tall because Zaynab needed one last look at her mountain. He held her tightly and from afar it looked like a dark cloud hugging a mountain eroding. He held her tightly as if he could give her all the strength he had left for the remainder of the journey and he looked on in anguish for what he saw and what he could foresee. His hands still bleeding from the shards left by 72 broken ornaments blown away by death like autumn leaves in the breeze remembering and hoping that at that very moment his grandfather would once again hold his hand because it was if it was yesterday when his hands were tightly held by his grandfather they were tiny soft and knew nothing of pain while his grandfathers were big bolders and as comforting as rain.