365 Scars on My Heart: A Year Since the Martyrdom of Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah

By Fatima Haydar

It’s not blame I carry in these words — how could we, the people of this earth, ever blame those who belong to the heavens?

But still — loss has a way of cutting deeper than we expect. Just when we think we’ve found a little light again, grief returns, smothering it and pressing hard against the heart, until all that’s left is ash… and scars. So many scars.

It’s been a year since we lost Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah.

One full year.

365 days.

365 scars.

People talk about time like it’s a healer. Maybe in some cases, that’s true. But not this time. Not with this loss. This past year has felt like living with half a soul — like walking through the world with a missing piece you can never replace.

I don’t know how I made it through.

I honestly don’t.

Because, can a person truly live with half a soul? With half a heart?

There were days when it felt like my body was just going through the motions while my spirit stayed frozen in the moment we heard the news. Maybe it was faith — or maybe it was something greater than me — that kept me going. But I can’t pretend it was easy.

Because, how does someone live without the person who gave meaning to their strength?

How does a people carry on without the voice that anchored them in every storm?

They say time heals. I don’t know who they are — but I can say, with certainty, that time does NOT heal all wounds. Some wounds aren’t meant to heal. Some become part of your soul.

Sayyed Hassan wasn’t just a leader — he was a presence, a guide, a comfort. In him, we saw dignity. We heard truth. And we felt safe. His martyrdom wasn’t just a personal loss — it was a national wound. One we all still feel.

He was a father. A sanctuary. A safe place.

And in his martyrdom, he gave us more than just memories — he left us with a mission. A duty to keep going on, to keep the flame alive. And even though that purpose gives us strength, the pain is still there. It’s not a pain of despair— it’s the ache love. The kind of love that doesn’t fade, even when someone’s gone.

One year later, the pain is still here — but so is the purpose.

365 scars.

Not of weakness, but of love.

Not of defeat, but of deep, unwavering devotion.

365 reminders.

We carry him with us — not just in memory, but in every step we take toward justice, dignity and freedom. He was never truly ours to keep. But now, he belongs to the heavens.

And still — somehow — he’s never felt closer.

Until we meet again, Sayyed.

For you, Sayyed — we miss you deeply, but we carry you with us, always.