Unfinished Mission

The wounded fighter adopted the name of the martyr Assi Zeineddine, a native of Beirut’s Burj al-Barajneh who was martyred in 1983 alongside two of his comrades from the “Covenant of the Ten” — a group led by Fuad Shukr whose members swore an oath in the al-Nasser Mosque in Ouzai to fight Israel even if it meant they would all to be martyred.

He grew up surrounded by love for the resistance. “In the living room, my family hung a large photograph of Imam Khomeini sitting on the grass in Paris. That image is still vivid in my mind.”

His father was influential in shaping his political awareness, but Assi leaves that story for another time. That story is for “a future archive that will be published after my martyrdom, God willing,” he says.

“I came to know Palestine in the camp and grew passionate about the resistance through the annual military parades marking Quds Day and Sayyed Nasrallah’s speeches,” Assi recalls. The first cassette tapes he remembers listening to were by the Wilayah band. His favorite was titled, “The People Have Awakened, O Abbas.” “The cover was gray with pink and yellow lines,” he says. 

Assi studied media, focusing on print journalism, and developed a passion for photography. He explains that his interest in oral history and documenting the lives of martyrs is not driven by “nostalgia for a beautiful past.” Rather, it is “an attempt to draw lessons from that past to build the future of the resistance — following the example of the Prophet, who told the faithful the stories of those who came before to steady their hearts.”

“I noticed frequent and suspicious drone activity over the capital and the South. I sensed that the enemy was about to carry out a major strike,” Assi says. He was preoccupied with a mission when he heard a loud, unfamiliar sound coming from the device on his right hip.

“I had inspected the device upon receiving it and reviewed its six tones. This sound wasn’t one of them,” Assi recalls thinking. He grabbed the pager with his left hand, and it exploded before he could press the “OK” button.

He fell back onto the chair — screaming “Ya Zahra’!” As he took in what had happened, he became convinced that the drones had signaled the devices to detonate. “I smelled the burns and looked at my hand. It was drenched in blood. I started looking for my severed fingers; a few were still attached to pieces of my skin.”

He did not yet grasp the extent of the injuries to his face and eyes. He called out to his comrades at the outpost, but no one answered. “I felt heat on my chest. I lifted my shirt and was astonished by what I saw. I thought it was over for me, that mere minutes separated me from martyrdom. So I faced the qibla and waited to meet God.”

A short while later, he tried to stand and look for his brothers in the rooms nearby but collapsed. One of them spotted him and was overcome with dread. “They first carried me to a table, then to the first available car. One of them touched my mangled abdomen and recoiled in terror. I told him it would all be over in minutes and asked him to trust in God.”

He was calm as it happened and again as he recounted it months later. “I was arrogant and thought I was the only target in this massacre,” he says sarcastically. The first two hospitals he reached were at capacity from the flood of emergency cases. Gradually, the picture got clearer. At first, Assi believed that only section of the organization had been targeted.

“I asked my friend who was driving me to the third hospital: ‘Has the ground invasion begun?’ That was my primary concern. ‘No, no, don’t worry…’ he replied, visibly tense. So I began reciting verses from the Qur’an to calm his fear and remind him that martyrdom is the ultimate end.” 

As his breathing grew heavy, his friend left him in the hospital corridor and rushed back to rescue the others — all the wounded he could reach. “I tilted left and right to take in the scene and saw young men butchered like sacrifices.”

He was moved by the eagerness of those helping the wounded, despite knowing that doing so might make them targets. He was just as moved by the wounded themselves, for “they give to others even when they themselves are in dire need.” As he began to lose consciousness, he recited the shahada. “I felt myself transiting from my first life to the next. In those moments, I saw God with an eye that had been forced from its socket.” His serenity, he says, came from his belief in a dual promise of good: either victory or martyrdom.

“I hesitated between Surat al-Fajr and Surat al-Mu’minun. Should I pray, ‘O tranquil soul! Return to your Lord, well-pleased and pleasing to Him,’ or ‘O Lord, let me go back, so I may do good’?” For Assi, martyrdom is a decision.

“On October 7, I could see the crossing into the Galilee. I didn’t just imagine it. From Gaza, I learned the meaning of Tawhid (God’s Oneness). In Gaza, I saw steadfastness and patience revealed.”

When he awoke from his coma, he whispered, “Did I die a martyr?” His family, waiting in his hospital room, told him he had not. “I nearly lost my mind. I asked to return to work immediately. I thanked God without objecting to His decree. And I know that if my soul had been taken that day, I would have left this world with far less understanding.” He fears being tempted by worldly life and growing attached to it. He recalls Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah expressing feeling envious of the martyrs who are in a “world without fighting, without war, without hunger, and without Shimon Peres or Clinton.”

The commander of the Quds Force received the wounded upon their arrival in Iran for treatment, Assi was among them. He was gifted a ring from the Supreme Leader on the occasion of Lady Zainab’s birthday, a gesture that touched him deeply. 

When he returned to Lebanon, he asked his brother to take him back to the site of the blast. “I wanted to test how I felt about the place. The smell of gunpowder filled the air after it was bombed during the war. I stood over the rubble and asked for a commemorative photo as I raised the victory sign.”

Our photographer asks him what it means to him to return to Dahieh without Sayyed Nasrallah. Assi replies, “Sayyed Nasrallah is the system; Dahieh has not lost him.” He then turns to his friend, and together they hum: “What does it matter if we die in the roar of war, so long as others wield these arms after us, and carry the struggle on?”

From the southern suburbs, the conversation turned to Jabal Amel. “The bond between the people of Jabal Amel and the Galilee has been rooted for centuries in economic and social ties — trade, intermarriage, and more,” Assi says. “Southerners were the first to grasp the danger of the Zionist extermination project and the displacement of 1948 — and to support and engage alongside the resistance groups that followed. Despite the many setbacks over the years, the Palestinian cause has remained central to the Shi’a collective consciousness.”

He concludes by talking about al-Aqsa Flood and the genocidal war on Gaza. “On October 7, I could see the crossing into the Galilee. I didn’t just imagine it. I learned the meaning of tawhid (God’s Oneness) from Gaza. In Gaza, I saw steadfastness and patience manifest.” That day, he pressed his comrades and commanders: “The Palestinians have crossed — what about us? When will we?” 

When asked what comes after liberation, Assi laughs.

“It will be an ordinary workday,” he says. “The end of the occupation is only one stop on the long journey for justice in our lands.”