Yasir Abbas

I want to share a story I first heard when I was in Qom. It was not something I found in books, nor did I see it documented in formal biographies or academic papers that I could cross-check. It lived instead in the whispers of seminaries, in the lessons of teachers who spoke with fire in their voices, and in the memories of those shaped by its events.

It is a story told often in oral histories and gatherings of revolutionary students, a story about a man whose presence seemed to bend history toward hope. A man who walked into a society sinking in poverty, fragmentation, and despair and breathed into it a new spirit. He was a man who looked at a people forgotten by their own country, marginalized by power, and stripped of dignity, and he gave them back their voice.

This is the story of Sayyid Musa Sadr, a tall, enigmatic figure whose smile carried warmth and whose words carried weight. He was not just a cleric, not just a reformer, but a leader who believed that faith must live not only in the mosque but in the streets, the schools, and the hearts of ordinary people.

This is a story of the beginnings, the heartbeat, and the spark that would one day become the origins of Hezbollah.

When Musa Sadr announced that he would hold classes for the youth at the Imam Ali Mosque in Tyre, he imagined an eager audience ready to discuss religion, society, and justice. But on the appointed day, not a single young man came to his class. His voice would have echoed if he spoke. Curious and concerned, Sadr asked where they were. “They are playing football, Sayyid,” someone replied, almost apologetically, pointing toward a field beyond the mosque walls.

Many would have been disheartened by their priorities. But Sadr saw an opportunity. Instead of demanding that they come to the mosque, he walked to the football field, his black turban gleaming against the golden light of the late afternoon sun. The robe he wore fluttered lightly as he stepped onto the dusty ground. The boys noticed him immediately. The sound reached him first, the thud of a ball, the laughter of boys, the slap of bare feet on dry earth. The sight of the tall, turbaned cleric at the edge of the pitch felt out of place. The game lost its rhythm. The boys grew shy.

He stood still, watching them for a moment, and then he smiled gently and raised his hand in greeting. The young players hesitated to approach him, so he left without a word.

That night, he thought deeply. If he wanted to reach them, he would have to go where they were, not just physically, but in spirit.

The next afternoon, the boys returned to the field as always. The game was in full swing when they noticed him again. This time, he was different. He had shed the robe and turban. He stood there in simple trousers and a shirt, smiling, holding out his hands as if asking for the ball.

The boys looked at one another, surprised. One finally kicked the ball toward him. He trapped it with his foot, passed it back, and joined the game. His steps were awkward at first. His clothes quickly stained with dust, but his laughter was real. Soon, no one was standing on the sidelines.

When the match ended, they were all covered in sweat, breathing hard, grinning. Sadr sat with them on the ground, dust clinging to his clothes. In that moment, he was no longer the distant cleric in the mosque but one of them. He invited them to his home for tea. They came, curious to see the man who had played football with them. They sat cross-legged on the floor, feeling oddly comfortable.

As the kettle whistled in the kitchen, the room fell quiet. Sadr glanced at the clock and said gently, “It is Maghrib. The tea will take a little time. If you wish, we can pray together while we wait.”

The boys exchanged glances. Some frowned, thinking this was what he had wanted all along, to trick them into praying. Others found the suggestion natural. After all, they had time to spare. A few were simply curious to see how Sadr prayed.

They stood with him. The air was cool and still. When he began the call to prayer, his voice filled the room with a calm that silenced even their doubts. Many joined him. For them, this was the first time prayer felt like this, not an obligation, but a pause, a deep breath in the middle of the day.

When the tea arrived, they drank slowly, their faces thoughtful. The game, the prayer, the tea, it all seemed connected now, woven into something larger than themselves.

Those visits became a habit. Week after week, they played, prayed, and talked. They began to see the world through his eyes, a world where dignity was worth fighting for, where justice was not a dream but a duty.

Years later, those same boys had become men. Many stood on the frontlines of Lebanon’s struggles, carrying the vision of the man who had once played football with them. Some of them died for that vision. The earth that had once been their football field now held their blood. Their laughter was gone, but their sacrifice gave birth to movements like AMAL and Hezbollah that outlived them.

Musa Sadr taught them without a sermon, without force, that faith could be as natural as play, as comforting as tea, as beautiful as a prayer at sunset. Through him, the children learned that religion was not an interruption to life, but its truest rhythm.

And from that rhythm, a generation of resistance arose.