Today is the 3rd of Jamadi al‑thani-The Death of Fatima |alqaem.org

Today is Monday, the 3rd of Jamadi al‑thani, the 11th year of the migration, the year of the death of her father. She kisses each ...

Today is Monday, the 3rd of Jamadi al‑thani, the 11th year of the migration, the year of the death of her father. She kisses each one of the children. Hassan is 7, Husayn is 6, Zaynab, 5, and Umm Khulthum, 3.

And now is the moment to bid farewell to Ali. How difficult it is! And Ali must remain alone in the world for thirty more years. She sends for Umm Rafe'a to come. She had arranged the Prophet's funeral.

She says, 'Oh slave of God. Pour water on me so that I may wash myself. With patience and peace, she performs the ablution. Then she puts on the clothes which she had not worn since the death of her father and had put away. It is as if she had put aside the memory of her mourning and now is going to see a dear friend.

She says to Umm Rafe'a, 'Put my bed in the middle of the room.' Softly and quietly she steps into the bed. She faces the Kaaba and she waits. A moment passes, moments...

Suddenly cries are heard within the house. She closes her lids and opens her eyes upon her beloved who was awaiting her.

A candle of fire and sorrow is extinguished in Ali's house.

And Ali remains alone, with his children.

She had asked Ali to bury her at night so that no one would recognize her grave and so that those two elders would not follow her corpse to the grave.

Ali did as she had asked. But no one knows how. And they still do not know where. In her home? Or in Baqiah'? It is not clear. And where in Baqiah? It is not clear. That which is clear is the pain of Ali, tonight, next to the grave of Fatima.

Medina is silent in the night. All Moslems are asleep. The night is only broken by the quiet whisperings of Ali. Ali is very much alone both in the city and in his home without the Prophet and without Fatima. Like a mountain of pain, he is sitting upon the earth of the grave of Fatima. Hours pass. Night, quiet and silent, listens to the pain of his whisperings. Baqiah is peaceful, fortunate. Medina is without loyalty and impoverished. All remains in silence. The awakened graves and sleeping city listens!

The wind of the night takes the words which flows with difficulty from the spirit of Ali at the side of Fatima's grave towards the house of the Prophet. 'To you from me and from your daughter, who fell down beside you and who in such haste joined you; Greetings, oh Prophet of God.'

'My patience and my ability have weakened from the fate of your dearest, oh Prophet of God. But how can I seek patience with such terrible misfortune and missing you?

'I placed you in the grave but you still exist in my heart. We are all from God and unto God we shall return. But my sorrow is eternal and my nights, sleepless until God takes me to the same home in which you are now.

'Right now, your daughter will tell you how your tribe joined each other against her and took away her rights. Insist that she tell you everything that happened. All these things happened even though not much time has passed since your death and people have not forgotten you.

`Greetings to both of you, greetings from a man who has neither anger nor sorrow.'

He remains silent for a moment. He suddenly senses the exhaustion of a whole lifetime. It is as if with every word which is pulled from the depths of his being, he gives up a part of his existence.
He is alone. He does not know what to do. Stay? Return home? How can he leave Fatima here alone? How can he return alone to his home? The city looks like a devil in the darkness of the night. Schemes, treacheries and shamelessness awaits him.

How can he stay? His children, the people, Truth, responsibilities and a heavy mission await him. His pain is so heavy that it destroys his strong spirit. He cannot decide. Hesitation grips his soul. Go? Stay? He senses that he is unable to do either. He does not know what he will do. He explains to Fatima.

'If I leave you it is not that I do not want to stay near you and if I stay here have I not been unfair to the fate that God promises for those who bear patiently?'

Then he arose; stood, faced the Prophet's house, with a state which would overflow if poured into the word, feelings, he wants to tell him that he is returning that which had been entrusted to him. `Listen to what she says. Ask her to tell you everything precisely. Have her count all the things that she saw after you, one by one!'

I do not know what to say about her. How to say it? I wanted to imitate the French writer who was speaking one day in a conference about the Virgin Mary. He said, 'For 1700 years all of the speakers have spoken of Mary. For 1700 years, ail philosophers and thinkers of various nations of the East and West have spoken of the values of Mary. For 1700 years, the poets of the world have expressed all of their creative efforts and power in their praise of Mary. For 1700 years, all of the painters and artists have created wonderful works of art showing the visage and states of Mary. But the totality of all that has been said, thought and the efforts of all the artist throughout all of these many centuries were not able to sufficiently describe the greatness of Mary as these words, 'Mary was the mother of Jesus Christ'.'

And I wanted to begin in this manner with Fatima. I got stuck. I wished to say, 'Fatima is the daughter of the great Khadijah.' I sensed it is not Fatima. I wished to say, 'Fatima is the daughter of Muhammad (‘s).' I sensed it is not Fatima. I wished to say, 'Fatima is the wife of Ali (‘a).' I sensed it is not Fatima. I wished to say, 'Fatima is the mother of Hasan and Husayn.' I sensed it is not Fatima. I wished to say, 'Fatima is the mother of Zaynab.' I still sensed it is not Fatima.

No, these are all true and none of them are Fatima.

Fatima is Fatima

By Dr. Ali Shariati