hold that against the millions of Shia for whom Ashura
is what deɹnes them? Details accrue around a story of
such depth and magnitude, in the Passion of Hussein as
in the Passion of Christ.
Eventually, those who remembered would tell how
Lahik, that noblest of all Arab stallions, bowed down and
dipped his forehead in his master’s blood, then went
back to the women’s tent, tears streaming from his eyes,
and beat his head on the ground in mourning. They
would tell how two doves ɻew down and dipped their
wings in Hussein’s blood, then ɻew south, ɹrst to
Medina and then to Mecca, so that when people there
saw them, they knew what had happened, and the
wailing of grief began. They would tell how the three-
year-old Sukayna wandered out onto the battleɹeld in
search of her father, crying out for him piteously,
surrounded by blood-soaked corpses.
With time, it made no diʃerence if Abbas had really
fought on with only one arm, or if the horse really did
cry, or if the doves really did ɻy down as though from
heaven. Faith and need said they did. The stories have
become as true as the most incontrovertible fact, if not
more so, because they have such depth of meaning. As
with the death of Christ, the death of Hussein soars
beyond history into metahistory. It enters the realm of
faith and inspiration, of passion both emotional and
religious.