Sayyid Marʿashī Najafī and the Forgotten Martyr of Karbala

A Story of ʿĀshūrāʾ from the Life of a Grand Scholar

Sayyid Shihāb al-Dīn Marʿashī Najafī—renowned bibliophile, jurist, and Marjaʿ—was one of the most revered Shiʿi scholars of the 20th century. He spent more than sixty years in the sacred city of Qom, dedicating his life to the pursuit and preservation of Islamic knowledge. Through tireless effort, he founded one of the largest Islamic libraries in the modern world, gathering rare manuscripts and texts from across the globe. But behind this immense academic achievement was a heart deeply tethered to the love of the Ahl al-Bayt (ʿa), particularly the Master of Martyrs, Imām Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī (ʿa).

As a young man travelling through the outskirts of Kūfa, Sayyid Marʿashī came across an old, crumbling grave—half-sunken in the earth and weathered by the elements. The stone was barely legible, smoothed by years of wind and sand. Kneeling down, he brushed away the dust and managed to decipher the faint words: “Here lies one who was martyred with Ḥusayn ibn ʿAlī (ʿa).” Overcome with emotion, he sat by the grave and recited Sūrat al-Fātiḥa, tears silently streaming down his cheeks.

Later, he would describe the moment as a spiritual turning point. “I felt ashamed before Allāh,” he said, “that one who stood with Ḥusayn (ʿa) on that day of truth, who gave his life in loyalty and love, would be left forgotten, with no sign, no lament, no remembrance.” It shook him deeply.

Returning to Najaf, Sayyid Marʿashī sought the counsel of his teacher, the esteemed Sayyid Muḥammad-Kāẓim Yazdī. With his teacher’s blessing, he returned to the site and erected a modest marker over the grave. A small shelter was built to protect it from further erosion—an act of devotion that he never publicized.

Years passed. After relocating to Qom, Sayyid Marʿashī made it a tradition to hold a majlis every ʿĀshūrāʾ in honor of that unnamed martyr. Not once did he mention his role in preserving the grave. To him, even the remembrance of a single forgotten companion of Karbalāʾ was a sacred duty—and a means of spiritual rescue for the one who remembers.

In his final will, he requested to be buried at the threshold of his library—not out of vanity, but so that every student entering the sanctuary of knowledge would unknowingly walk over his grave. “Let me earn reward through their footsteps,” he wrote, “in the name of Ḥusayn (ʿa).”

His life reminds us: true scholarship lies not only in books and learning, but in love, humility, and remembrance of sacrifice.