He was haunted by Ali’s ɹnal bequest, spoken as the
poison rapidly spread through his veins. “Do not seek
this world even as it seeks you,” he had told his sons.
“Do not weep for anything that is taken from you.
Pursue harmony and goodness. Avoid fitna and discord.”
And ɹnally, quoting the Quran: “Do not fear the blame
of any man more than you fear God.”
As sons will do, Hasan held his father to account for
betraying the principles he had preached. Ali had
allowed himself to be dragged into civil war, and Hasan
could not forgive him for that. He had admired Othman
for his abiding faith in Islam. Had been deeply shocked
at the way the aging third Caliph had been so ruthlessly
cut down. Had criticized his father’s declaration of
amnesty for Othman’s assassins, and looked on with
horror at the escalating bloodshed ever since. More war
was the last thing Hasan wanted, and Muawiya, thanks
to his vast network of informers, knew it.
Cannily aware that the pen can indeed be as mighty as
the sword, Muawiya now sent Hasan a series of carefully
reasoned letters. In them, he recognized Hasan’s spiritual
right to the caliphate but argued that he, Muawiya, was
better suited to the task. He was the older man, he said,
the more seasoned and the more worldly-wise in an
uncertain world. He was the one capable of ensuring
secure borders, of repressing Rejectionist terrorism and
assuring the safety and integrity of the empire. Much as
he admired Hasan’s scholarship and piety, much as he