Until we meet again: A letter to the ‘master of resistance’ Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah

By Roya Pour Bagher

I always regarded my mother’s homeland as a tiny speck on the map, never giving it much weight, geographically speaking. However, that changed on February 23, 2025.

It was the day I felt that all of existence – not just 1.4 million – had flocked to Beirut, Lebanon. Is it not because you spent your entire life striving in the path of truth and justice?

My beloved Sayyed, even your sworn enemies and adversaries came to Beirut on that day. They arrived with their fighter jets, hovering above the heads of your heartbroken mourners.

The other day, I was reading the verse, “And wherever you are, turn your faces towards the Holy Mosque.” I thought of your funeral, which struck me as strange.

I never had any picture in my mind when I came across that verse before. I simply took it as, “God is saying to turn towards the Qibla (prayer direction).”

But after witnessing the encounter between your admirers and the enemy during your historic funeral, I understood another meaning of that verse.

Your “most honorable people” did not even look at the enemy, except to shout, “Death to Israel.” Their eyes were fixed on your coffin as it was moving through the sea of people inside the jam-packed stadium. So, “wherever they are, their face is towards Allah’s path.”

The old, the young, the newborn, the wheelchair-bound… Lebanese from every corner of the country, from every walk of life, traveled to Beirut to bid you tearful farewell.

Some who came by car from the north and east had to abandon their vehicles due to heavy snow, continuing their journey on foot. In other words, they walked a distance that would take hours by car. All of it for you. All of it for their unbreakable pledge of allegiance to your cause.

I never thought you would be the reason I would witness Arbaeen so early this year.

Speaking of Arbaeen, Imam Hussain (AS) sent his lovers from Iraq to pay tribute. In a proud and worthy display at your martyrdom site, they pounded their chests and mourned your loss.

Each person at the funeral came as a representative of their country and the people who wished to pay their respects in person but couldn’t for many reasons.

As the crowd gathered, their voices rose, echoing sentiments that pierced the heart:

“Why should I live after you?”
“Sayyed is in my heart.”
“You broke our backs, Sayyed.”
“It’s cold, but we’re not shivering… is it the warmth of your presence?”

These words, raw and unfiltered, captured the depth of their grief and devotion. But, Sayyed, do you know who I worried about the most that day?

The ones who carried you on your final walk. And what a weight they bore – the heaviest for the Lebanese who adored you, admired you, looked up to you.

Some cried, some wailed… but one man, in particular, stood out to me. He seemed to have lost even the ability to express his emotions – your loyal bodyguard, Abu Ali.

Watching him, I couldn’t help but feel pain on his behalf – the pain of not having died protecting you. He could have chosen to stay hidden, to grieve in private, away from the eyes of the world.

Yet, he didn’t. He stood there, catching the objects people threw toward your coffin to be blessed by it. He came and carried out his duty. He did not step back to mourn, even though he had every right to.

I saw a unique and unwavering loyalty in Abu Ali, and I know you have not forgotten him.

The unveiling of your coffin felt like the unveiling of a mountain – monumental, overwhelming, and surreal. It was as though I were watching a scene from a film, detached from reality. Even then, we could not see your face.

For most of our lives, we never saw you in person. Our connection was mediated by screens, and on that day, the coffin became yet another barrier separating us from you.

Sayyed, we never had the chance to meet you face to face. Yet, there is a strange beauty in that absence. You taught us to believe in what we cannot see. Is that not the essence of faith? Did you not deepen our trust in our savior, our final hope, Imam Mahdi, may God hasten his reappearance?

You were our father, our well-wisher, our guardian, yet we never knew your presence. Now, your grave is the closest we will ever come to touching the tangible reality of you.

I am not ungrateful. This is a connection I will hold sacred for the rest of my life. But, Sayyed, in my eyes, you are an ‘anonymous martyr’ in your own right. I never saw your face, never came across you in person. You remain eternally unseen, yet profoundly felt.

Our ‘anonymous martyrs’ lived among the people, praying that their graves would not become objects of veneration. Yet, you spent much of your life in concealment, only to be discovered after your martyrdom.

It is a paradox I cannot fully unravel, a mystery that lingers, as enigmatic as it is profound.

Your existence was one of the greatest divine lessons, yet another in the long list of Wilayah (guardianship) lessons given by Allah that many still overlook. But your people did not.

"We remain true to our pledge," is the greatest proof of that. The covenant remains there.

You taught us to obey the true leaders of justice and truth. Indeed, love is not enough. Our slogan is that of loyalty, not just love. To remain steadfast in the cause you championed demands both discipline and action, a truth your people have embodied with remarkable beauty.

They came to renew their pledge to you, not out of obligation, but out of profound devotion. And when the time came to accept the one who followed you, they did so without hesitation, without question. It is a testament to the strength of your legacy and the depth of their belief.

Your enemies never missed an opportunity to accuse you of sectarianism, yet each time, you dismissed and debunked those accusations without even trying.

Even on the day of your funeral, the irony was undeniable. You, the “sectarian man,” had attracted people from all religious, racial, ethnic, and tribal backgrounds. The atheist, Sunni Muslim, Shia Muslim, Zaidi Muslim, Christian, and even the Jews participated.

They came with honor and left with a prominent piece of your character – fearlessness.

The same voices that rose in solidarity with Palestine during the horrors of Israeli genocide were present at your funeral, speaking of your life and legacy. They knew you as the leader who died for Palestine, for al-Quds, for the cause we all hold dear.

But to define you solely as the man who died for Palestine feels too narrow, too incomplete. I cannot confine your legacy to a single struggle. To me, you were more than that.

I know you as the man who died for Haqq (truth) to reach God. You fought for truth in Palestine, in Syria, and in Lebanon. Everything you did, you did because it was the right thing to do.

Sayyed, you were martyred on the path of truth, and one day, by the will of God, you will pray in the path of truth at Al-Aqsa Mosque.

You said it was your personal belief. Now, I carry that belief for you here in this dunya – this world – as legions of your lovers and admirers do.

If I once wanted Palestine liberated for the sake of justice, I now want it liberated so that the man who gave his everything for justice can pray at Al-Aqsa Mosque.

Roya Pour Bagher is a Tehran-based writer.

(The views expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect those of Press TV.)

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