The Unfading Light of Karbala: A Universal Lesson in Sacrifice and Service - by Nameless Soul

Imagine a grandfather, one whose face radiated kindness, whose every word was a pearl of wisdom. Now, imagine him on his hands and knees, laughing, as his two little grandsons, Hassan and Hussain, climb onto his back, pretending he is their camel. This grandfather was not just any man; he was the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), the Messenger of God. His love for his grandsons was legendary. He would often say, "Hussain is from me, and I am from Hussain." He would stop his sermons to pick them up and carry them in his arms, calling them his "sweet basils" in this world.

This was the world Imam Hussain was born into—a world of love, compassion, and divine guidance, nurtured at the very feet of the Prophet. He learned from the best of teachers that a person's life was not measured by years, but by their devotion to truth and justice.

As years passed, the world changed. After the Prophet's time, leadership fell into the hands of those who did not uphold his teachings. A man named Yazid, known for his corruption and injustice, demanded that Imam Hussain pledge allegiance to him. This was not a simple political act. Pledging allegiance to Yazid would mean stamping approval on tyranny. It would mean telling the world that it was okay for a leader to be unjust, to ignore the poor, and to silence the voices of truth.

Imam Hussain, the beloved grandson of the Prophet, faced a choice. He could pledge his loyalty, save his life, and live in comfort and privilege. Or, he could stand up for the principles his grandfather had taught him, even if it meant paying the ultimate price.

For Imam Hussain, the choice was clear. His life, his wealth, and his position were not truly his own. They were a trust—an amanah—from God. And this trust was meant to be used to serve God's creation, to protect the weak, and to stand as a beacon of light against the darkness of oppression.

On the 10th day of the month of Muharram, a day we now call Ashura, Imam Hussain and his small band of 72 followers stood on the scorching plains of Karbala. They were vastly outnumbered, denied water, and surrounded by an army sworn to crush them. One by one, his companions and family were martyred before his eyes. Yet, he did not waver. He sacrificed his very soul not for a kingdom, but to protect the soul of his grandfather's message: that a life without justice, compassion, and integrity is not worth living.

This is the deep sorrow of Ashura. But within this sorrow lies a powerful, timeless lesson that transcends religion and speaks to all of humanity.

Our journey in this world is full of sacrifices. But the story of Imam Hussain teaches us about the greatest sacrifice. It is the sacrifice of one’s own self-interest for a greater good. It is the understanding that our positions, our influence, and our resources are not for our own glory, but are a trust to be used to make the world around us better.

This lesson should be reflected upon not only by Muslims, but by leaders and public servants everywhere. It is a direct call to every government employee, every official, every person in a position of power, regardless of their faith or background.

The great sacrifice that is asked of you today is not to die on a battlefield. The sacrifice required is found in your daily choices, in your offices, and in your communities.

It is the sacrifice of personal gain to fight corruption.
It is the sacrifice of taking the easy way out to cut through the red tape that frustrates and burdens the common person.
It is the sacrifice of illicit wealth to stand firmly against bribery and dishonest deals.
It is the sacrifice of pride to serve the public with humility, and the sacrifice of indifference to do your job well, with integrity and a commitment to excellence.

This message echoes with special importance for leaders across the Muslim world, and particularly for the leaders in Sulu, Basilan, and Tawi-Tawi, who hold the future of their people in their hands. The path to honor and God's pleasure lies not in conflict, but in the noble sacrifice of serving your people—by building schools, fostering peace, and creating opportunities.

The stand of Imam Hussain at Karbala was against a corrupt system. Today, every public servant who rejects a bribe, every official who works honestly, and every leader who puts their people first is making their own stand for justice. They are honoring the spirit of that great sacrifice.

The story of Ashura is not just a tragic memory. It is a guiding star for all humanity. It reminds us that one soul, standing firm for what is right, can illuminate the path for generations. It asks each of us, in our own lives and our own work: What are we willing to sacrifice, not for ourselves, but for the sake of a just, compassionate, and better world for all?

Every nation tells itself a story. It’s a story woven from history, from shared struggles, and from the symbols we choose to raise up. We build monuments of stone and steel, we hold grand parades, we celebrate our victories. These are the public expressions of our identity.

But the true character of a nation, like that of a person, is not found in the monuments it builds for itself. It is found in the quiet, consistent, and often unseen acts of care it extends to its most vulnerable.

In the southern Philippines, there is a beautiful and ancient Tausug tradition called the Maligay. It is a magnificent, tiered palace made of food, crafted with artistry and love for communal celebrations. It is a tower of generosity, laden with local delicacies, meant to be a centerpiece of joy and a testament to a community’s spirit. It is a stunning symbol.

But a symbol is only as powerful as the truth it represents.

What if we looked at our nation as a kind of Maligay?

We spend so much time and resources on the outer structure. We build gleaming skylines, impressive highways, and grand political halls. We host international conferences and celebrate rising economic indicators. We decorate our national Maligay for the world to see, polishing its exterior until it shines.

But what of the food inside? What of the nourishment it is meant to provide?

A nation is not its infrastructure. A nation is its people. And millions of our people are hungry. Millions are left behind, watching the grand parade from the roadside, unable to partake in the feast. When a society celebrates its wealth while its children go to sleep with empty stomachs, its grandest achievements become a monument to a deep and tragic hypocrisy.

The spirit of the true Maligay is one of radical generosity. It is built not to be hoarded, but to be dismantled and shared. Its entire purpose is to be given away, piece by piece, until nothing is left but the memory of the joy it created. It is an act of giving without expecting anything in return.

This is the culture we must build as a nation.

Imagine a society where our collective success was measured not by the number of billionaires we create, but by the number of people we lift out of poverty.

Imagine a government where the national budget was treated not as a prize to be divided among the powerful, but as a sacred trust, a national Maligay to be distributed with care and justice to nourish every corner of the archipelago.

Imagine a business community that found its greatest pride not in record profits, but in creating dignified work, paying living wages, and investing in the health and education of the communities that support them.

This is not a dream of naive socialism or a call to dismantle success. It is a call to redefine it. It is a challenge to embrace a more profound, more sustainable, and more humane form of patriotism. It is the understanding that a nation’s strength is not in the wealth it accumulates in the vaults of the few, but in the well-being it cultivates in the homes of the many.

The act of giving without expectation—of selfless service, of true Sadaqah—is the most powerful force for nation-building. It mends the tears in the social fabric caused by inequality and corruption. It builds trust where there is cynicism. It creates a sense of shared destiny, a knowledge that "my well-being is inseparable from yours."

We must stop being so obsessed with the grandeur of our palace and start worrying about whether it is empty inside. The most beautiful Maligay, if it feeds no one, is just a decorated box. A nation with a gleaming skyline and a hollowed-out soul is on the path to ruin.

Let us begin to build a different kind of monument. Let our legacy not be in the height of our towers, but in the depth of our compassion. Let us build a nation that understands this simple, sacred truth: that you are only as rich as what you are willing to give away.

That is the palace worthy of our people. That is the nation we must build.

For too long, the very name "Sulu" has evoked a singular, often chilling image: a crucible of conflict, a distant frontier perpetually scarred by the specter of kidnapping, the whisper of rebellion, and the entrenched grime of political maneuvering. It's a narrative deeply etched into the Filipino psyche, yet it is profoundly incomplete. To truly understand Sulu, we must look beyond the headlines and peer into the soul of an archipelago, a people, and a history far richer, far more complex, than the convenient caricatures of chaos.

The agonizingly slow cadence of Sulu's development isn't merely an unfortunate consequence; it's a direct, visceral legacy of this prolonged entanglement with fear. How does one cultivate prosperity when the very act of commerce is overshadowed by the threat of abduction? The "Kidnapping for Ransom" epidemic wasn't just a security issue; it was an economic strangulation, a social trauma that bled dry the province's potential. Yet, we have witnessed a profound, if fragile, turning point. The recent shift, largely attributed to the determined efforts of past administrations in drawing members of the Abu Sayyaf Group (ASG) back into the embrace of the government, represents more than just a reduction in crime statistics. It is, in essence, a reclamation of space, a cautious reopening of pathways for trust and communal healing (Philippine News Agency, 2020). This isn't merely "peace"; it's the arduous, often thankless, work of rebuilding the very foundations of human dignity.

But let us be clear: "peace" is not an end in itself; it is merely the fertile ground upon which true prosperity must be sown. The challenge now, the true test for Sulu's present leadership, is to transition from merely managing crises to proactively sculpting a future worthy of its people. This is not about incremental adjustments; it demands a bold, visionary leap. We speak of actualizing the long-whispered dreams: the establishment of carrageenan manufacturing companies for export, transforming the bounty of Sulu's seas from raw commodity to global product. We speak of copra and cassava manufacturing companies, not just farming, but processing, adding value, creating wealth, and fundamentally altering the economic landscape (Mindanao Development Authority, 2023).

Imagine, if you will, a Sulu ten years hence: a province not merely surviving, but thriving, competing not just locally, but globally, a vibrant economic hub alongside the established powerhouses of the Philippines. Is this a pipe dream? Only if we lack the courage to break free from the old paradigms. These aren't just industrial projects; they are engines of hope, concrete expressions of a commitment to a future where the Tausug, a people renowned for their seafaring prowess, their fierce independence, and their deep-seated cultural heritage, can finally harness their inherent skills and talents within their own homeland.

For too long, the narrative of Sulu has been dictated by external forces, by fear, by poverty. But the Tausug are not defined by their struggles; they are defined by their resilience, their ingenuity, and their profound connection to their land and sea. This new vision isn't just about jobs and exports; it's about restoring a sense of agency, about unleashing the immense, untapped potential of a people who have endured so much. It is about proving that Sulu's true destiny is not to be a crucible of conflict, but a beacon of prosperity, a testament to the enduring human spirit that, even in the shadow of its most arduous trials, can forge a new dawn.

References:

Mindanao Development Authority. (2023). Mindanao Agenda 2023-2028. https://www.minda.gov.ph/planning/mindanao-agenda-2023-2028 

Philippine News Agency. (2021, November 20). 53 ex-ASG members receive livelihood aid from BARMM. https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1160378

Look closely at what’s happening in the 21st century—especially in the Middle East—and a painful truth begins to unfold. What we are witnessing is not just a series of unfortunate conflicts, but a deliberate failure of global leadership. What’s happening is not accidental. It is the result of cold decisions made by powerful people who seem to have lost their humanity.

Gaza is not just a war zone. It is a symbol of how far our world has fallen. The bombings, the starvation, and the death of innocent people are not just side effects of war. These are choices. And those choices are being made by leaders who are supposed to protect human life. Instead, they allow—and even justify—this destruction.

This is not just about Gaza. From Sudan’s humanitarian crisis to growing global tensions, many of today’s leaders are playing dangerous political games with human lives. They speak about peace, but they fund violence. They talk about justice, but they ignore suffering. Their words sound good, but their actions speak of selfishness, fear, and control.

The evil we see today isn’t always loud or obvious. It hides in indifference, in silence, in the choice to do nothing when people cry out for help. It hides behind terms like “security” and “strategy.” But make no mistake—this kind of leadership is pushing the world closer to collapse.

We live in a time where humanity has the tools to build peace, but instead, many in power are choosing war. Unless we, the people, begin to speak up—unless we hold leaders accountable for their actions—the suffering will continue, and the future of humanity will remain in danger.

This is not just a political issue. It is a moral one. And it’s time to see it clearly.