Ali Zayn al-Abidin, Hussein’s adolescent son, never
took part in the ɹghting. He could not rise from his
bedding in the women’s tent. Struck by severe fever, he
had tossed and turned helplessly as his friends, his kin,
and ɹnally his father went out to meet their deaths. So
when Shimr and his men came bursting into the
women’s tent and caught sight of him, the sick boy was
an easy and obvious target, and he too would certainly
have been killed were it not for his aunt, Hussein’s sister
Zaynab.
“Do not let Satan take away your courage,” Hussein
had told her on that ɹnal night, and now she displayed
that courage. She hurled herself over her nephew and
deɹed Shimr to run her through with his sword. “If you
kill him, then you kill me with him,” she declared.
Not even Shimr, it seemed, could kill the
granddaughter of the Prophet in cold blood. Instead, he
gave the order to take the boy captive along with the
women. But Zaynab would do more than keep alive
Hussein’s one remaining son; she would keep alive the
memory of Karbala itself. Her words of grief as she was
being led away in chains, her clothing torn and head
bare, would haunt Islam through the centuries.
“Oh Muhammad, Muhammad, may the angels of
heaven bless you!” she wailed. “Here is Hussein in the
open, stained with blood and his limbs torn oʃ. Oh
Muhammad! Your daughters are prisoners, your progeny