Ashura, Grief, and the Gentle Spirit of Sana

Yesterday marked the 10th of Muharram —Ashura, a solenn day of mourning for the brutal killing of Imam Hussain (a.s.) and his family in the desert battlefield of Karbala. Like many others who were raised with this history etched into our hearts, I grew up feeling the sorrow of that sacrifice. And as a parent, I passed down that legacy to my children. From the time they were little, I would take them to the masjid for Muharram programs. Beforehand, I’d sit them down and gently explain the story of Karbala — of courage, of faith, and of immense loss. They loved going, mostly because it meant being with their cousins. There was always a mix of reverence and excitement in those early years. Sana, especially loved those nights — she’d dress up, feel part of something meaningful, and enjoy the community and company. But as she grew older, things changed. Sana began to resist going to the mosque. Maybe the weight of the narrative became too heavy. Maybe she was grappling with her own questions, her own pain. And though she stepped back from tradition, she never stepped away from the essence of faith, she lived with compassion, with kindness, with a quiet sense of spirituality that wasn’t performative but deeply felt. She had what every religion holds sacred: empathy. This year, Ashura hit differently. I’ve listened to these sermons for decades — I know every detail of the battle, every name, every tragedy. But this time, sitting there, I couldn’t bear it. Hearing the stories of children and families slain, hearing the cries of the women in Hussain’s camp — it all pierced a much more personal wound. Losing Sana has made every tale of loss feel sharper, more intimate.I found myself unable to hold back the tears, not just for Karbala, but for my own Karbala — the one I live with every day. Yet in my grief, I wanted to honor her. I wanted to remember her in a way she would have appreciated. **Sana was always moved by small acts of kindness.So Maahir, Idris, and I bought meals from McDonald’s and quietly distributed them to those in need. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t meant to be. But it was *her*. It was what she would have done — quietly, without fanfare, with a soft heart and a warm smile. This Ashura, I mourned two losses. One ancient, shared across centuries and continents. And one that is mine alone. But in remembering both, I find a strange sort of peace — the kind that comes not from forgetting, but from honoring. .