From a yearning son to Sayyed Hassan: When absence becomes Yusuf
5 Min Read
Mohammad Ali Nasrallah pens a heart-wrenching tribute to his father, Sayyed Hassan, tracing the sorrow of absence, the weight of loss, and the enduring memory of a love rooted in faith and sacrifice.
-
An undated image of martyr Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah and his son Mohammad Ali Nasrallah
From Mohammad Ali Nasrallah to my father, Sayyed Hassan:
When absence becomes Yusuf [prophet Yusuf] and the heart turns into a well...
History is but another name for tales, and we are the children of the tale we continue to write down. You, my father, never sought a dream for me to interpret, nor did the sun and moon bow at your feet. Yet you were like Yusuf, choosing absence not out of escape, but with the quiet conviction of duty. You withdrew into the sanctuary of duty, far away from his [father, Prophet] Yaquob.
In this prophetic parable, we assumed their roles: you became its Yusuf, assured in the unfolding of your fate, while I became your Yaquob, my sight dimmed by yearning, my heart worn thin by waiting. Yet absence could not eclipse the light of your presence, nor could the dust of distance dull your grace. Noble in essence, beautiful in face, send me, from distant lands, a breeze to console me, still carrying the scent of Yusuf.
You dwelled in the heart of a nation worn thin by drought. Yet from your steadfast spirit, God caused the stalks of dignity to rise, filling its empty granaries with the grain of sacrifice. You taught us to be a sword in its sheath, drawn only in the service of truth. And you showed us that a man of honor does not wield the kingdom for himself but lays it gently in the hands of his people, even at the cost of his own soul.
O finest of parables, no darkness of any well could ever veil you from my heart. For thirty-four long years, my soul became a wandering cavalcade, collecting fragments of your virtues like scattered pearls. I carried along a flask filled with the scent of your counsel, its wisdom lighting my path whenever the world blurred my way, taking me back to you.
O master of grace, how can someone who drank from your fountain ever thirst again? How can a hand that once held yours ever lose its way?
O master of gentleness, you were reflected on the faces of the faithful as you passed by, just like a breeze, bantering with the fighters and embracing them with unforgettable kindness.
You were a secret we guarded, not from shyness, but from the fierce instinct to protect. We concealed the joy of your nearness, lest a watchful eye catch your scent, lest a seeker discern the hour when the moon would rise among us.
You were both the dream and its interpretation, and I, grieving, was the one who longed for sleep, only to see you in its fleeting mercy. You were like Ibrahim [Prophet Ibrahim] in courage, embodying the essence of devotion, a soul ablaze with faith. Among your people, you rose as a guardian of truth and dignity, entrusted with the sustenance of the hungry and the shelter of the oppressed.
The chilled cup of worldly comfort never swayed you. Instead, you walked beside the fighters, bearing the searing weight of struggle, fearing for them more than for your own life.
O moon-like face who chose September as his final resting date, tell me, has your full moon now risen to light up the sky of your loved ones to navigate by your glow when their paths grow dark?
These letters carry the weight of farewell, yet here I find you, between the lines, inside the hidden folds of every word. I meet a father made of light, a shelter I return to whenever the heat of longing burns too fiercely.
Each time I retell this story, another line of sorrow etches itself into the fabric of my years, a wound no balm can soothe but reunion. If only the well had been my heart, O father; if only the shirt that returned sight to me had become my reality.
But loss is a wolf from which no soul escapes. And Yaqoub must wait, steadfast, eyes fixed on the horizon of the promise, until the Quranic verse is realized: "Among the believers are men who were true to their covenant with Allah; some of them have fulfilled their vow (by martyrdom), and some are still awaiting, and they have not changed in the least."
A son’s farewell read through the story of Prophet Yusuf
The story of Prophet Yusuf begins with a well, a place of darkness, abandonment, and the illusion of loss. Cast away by his own brothers, Yusuf disappears from the life of Prophet Yaqoub, his father. Yet he is never beyond God’s care. His journey through exile, injustice, and long absence becomes the very path that refines him, preparing his return in honour.
Yaqoub, blinded by grief but not by doubt, clings to the certainty that “Yusuf is not dead,” trusting in a promise no one else could see. When Yusuf’s shirt is finally brought back, its scent restores sight and reunites hearts, proving that separation is not the end of the story.
In Mohammad's letter to his martyred father, this narrative becomes a living metaphor: the father as a modern Yusuf, choosing the well of duty and disappearance for the sake of his people; the son as Yaqoub, whose eyes are dimmed by yearning yet sharpened by faith; and the memory of the father lingering as the “scent of the shirt,;" a presence strong enough to guide him even in the darkest stretch of the journey.
