Ashura isn’t over
There are dates in history that remain fixed on calendars, but not in time. They echo. They disturb. They whisper when the world goes quiet. Ashura, the 10th of Muharram, is one of those days.
Not because it is marked with rituals. But because it is marked by a rupture. The kind that makes humanity stop and ask: How far would I go for what I believe is right?
We live in a world overrun by noise. Causes come and go like social media trends. Outrage peaks by afternoon, fades by dinner. What Ashura demands is not noise, it is depth. It is not about who wears what, says what or fasts how. It is about one haunting question: What do we do when the cost of truth is everything? Ashura does not ask for applause. It demands reflection that most of us don’t make time for anymore.
There is something strangely modern about Ashura, though it happened centuries ago. A small group stands surrounded by power. They are cut off, outnumbered, and yet, unshaken. They don’t scream. They don’t post. They don’t run. They simply stand. And then, fall. Not because they were weak, but because they refused to bend.
This day is not about mourning only. It is about decent stillness in a collapsing world. About what it means to hold a line, even when everything- safety, logic, survival- tells you to let go.
You don’t have to understand theology to understand isolation, betrayal, honesty or the weight of a final decision. Stand in any hospital corridor, court, classroom, newsroom or family row and you will find versions of Karbala repeating.
The journalist who chooses silence over twisting truth for headlines. The doctor who says no to overprescribing because a life is not a business. The bureaucrat who denies a favour because the file was not clean. The artist who declines a dazzling offer because it demands silence on injustice. The teacher who refuses to clear a student just to please someone in power. The volunteer who shows up where cameras never do. The friend who speaks up in a room full of banter when someone is mocked. The son who stays with his father in illness while others choose inheritance over presence.
Ashura is not a page in history. It is a mirror. And it asks: When your Karbala comes, will you recognize it? Ashura is the pain that writes itself. What makes Ashura eternal is not just who fell, but how they fell. With dignity. With clarity. Without bitterness. Without malice. In a world obsessed with victory, they redefined the very meaning of it.
We are taught to win. Ashura teaches us when to lose with grace. We are taught to survive. Ashura teaches us when to sacrifice consciously. We are taught to move on. Ashura teaches us what must never be forgotten.
The psychology of this day lies in its refusal to move on. That’s what makes it powerful. In a society desperate to “get over it,” Ashura proclaims that some griefs are sacred and some silences are stronger than screams.
Ashura is not asking us to die. It is asking us to live more truly. To choose harder right things over easy wrong ones. To show up when it is inconvenient or unsafe. That’s not martyrdom. That’s maturity.
It still matters because injustice did not die with swords. It now travels through mics, screens, hashtags, reels and tactful silence; cloaked in PR, softened by strategy and disguised as diplomacy. For the reason that the world still punishes those who stand up. Maybe not with spears. But with seclusion, with deprivation, with quiet erasure.
And because, still, there are people who choose what is right over what is safe. Ashura is for them. And for us. Not as a ritual. But as a reminder that there are still things worth losing everything for.
