oh no! i think i'm craving permanence: a conversation about kaveh akbar's "martyr!"

when we speak of martyrs, my mind drifts first to the selfless — the grand gestures, the sacrifices made in full view of the world. they burn, they bleed, and their suffering becomes a currency for something greater. but what is the essence of a martyr? is it the act of sacrifice itself, or the enduring myth that follows? and more quietly, more personally: does one become a martyr through the act of giving, or by the story that remains in their absence? the narrative left behind shapes the perception of the martyr, transforming their choices into symbols larger than the individual. these stories often serve as tools for those who survive, casting the martyr’s life into forms that fulfill societal needs or personal grief. is this reshaping a gift or a theft? does the martyr’s legacy belong to them, or to those who remember them?

kaveh akbar in his book martyr! writes of the martyr as a figure simultaneously luminous and haunting, their existence both exalted and tragic. to be a martyr is to be remembered, yes, but also to relinquish the agency of shaping one’s own story. others do that for you, carving your life into a narrative that fits their needs. what does it mean, then, to give oneself up to this kind of narrative violence? is there freedom in letting go, in becoming a symbol, or is it the ultimate erasure?

i wonder: do i crave such significance, or would i prefer to vanish into the backdrop of existence, as untraceable as wind moving through leaves? the idea of self-sacrifice seduces, but not in the way one might expect. it is not the glory of being remembered that appeals, but, rather, the freedom in being absolved of one’s self. self-indulgence and self-sacrifice begin to blur. both are rooted in the desire to wrest meaning from the chaos of existence. self-indulgence, in its preoccupation with personal gratification, mirrors the martyr's yearning for transcendence through giving. each act — whether selfish or selfless — becomes a way of asserting significance, a means to leave a mark or make a statement, even if only for oneself. after all, is there anything more indulgent than imagining the profound void left in one’s wake, the rippling effect of one’s absence?

the martyr’s dilemma lies here, tangled in this duality. to sacrifice oneself might seem the height of selflessness, but is it not also an act of supreme self-centeredness, a way of ensuring one’s presence lingers in absence? i think of saints and revolutionaries, their faces emblazoned on murals, their names chanted in the streets. they are immortal, but only as ideas. their humanity, their contradictions, are burned away in the fire of remembrance, leaving behind only a polished fragment of who they were. this simplification is both a loss and a transformation. what is sacrificed is the texture of their lives — the flaws, the uncertainties, the moments of doubt that made them human. in their place, an ideal emerges, one that inspires and endures, but also erases. their legacy becomes a reflection of others’ needs, a symbol stripped of its complexity. does this make the memory more potent, or does it hollow out its meaning? the martyr is both idolized and dehumanized; they are made into a tool, an example, a warning.

we must remember the other martyrs too, quieter ones, whose sacrifices are made in private, unseen by the world. the parent who bends time, giving themselves away to hours of labor for a child they may never see grow in the way they dream. the friend who dissolves their own grief into silence, creating a hollow space for another’s pain to echo and be heard. the lover who untangles their heart from a bond they long to keep, offering freedom even as it fractures their soul. the daughter who wears a mask of joy, hiding her storms to grant her parents the illusion of peace, her own weight growing heavier in the shadows. these sacrifices linger like whispers, unnoticed yet reshaping the lives they touch. these quiet acts of sacrifice ripple outward, unseen yet profound, shaping the lives they touch in ways the world may never notice. these acts are no less profound, yet they leave no murals, no chants. their echo is smaller, softer, but no less significant. perhaps there is something purer in these hidden sacrifices, untouched by the hands of others, unshaped by the stories they’d tell. 

there is beauty in the other kind of martyrdom too. to give oneself fully to a cause, to pour every drop of being into something larger, speaks to a yearning for transcendence. but does it not also betray a fear of being ordinary, of living a quiet life that might fade from memory? i find myself caught between these two poles. there are days when i long to be monumental, to matter so much that my existence shapes the world around me. and then there are days when i dream of disappearing, of becoming so small and inconsequential that i leave no trace behind.

there is a certain allure in people whose lives straddle this line, driven by a desire to transcend the mundane but tethered to the weight of their own humanity. their sacrifices are not clean, not noble. they are messy, selfish, and profoundly human. their yearning, their tangled motives, make their struggles all the more poignant, their actions both luminous and tragic. their lives are a testament to the complexity of being human, to the ways we navigate our desires for both greatness and connection, for both permanence and release.

what does it mean to be a martyr, then, if not to be remembered for something? and if the memory distorts the truth of who you were, does it matter? perhaps it does not. perhaps the point of a martyr is not who they were, but what they leave behind. to be a martyr is to become a mirror, reflecting the hopes and fears of those who survive you. it is to be hollowed out and filled with meaning not your own.

but this thought unsettles me. it makes me wonder if i could bear to be so empty, so open to interpretation. i think of akbar’s prose again, of the unbearable tenderness and brutality in the act of martyrdom. perhaps i am not meant to be a martyr. perhaps the question is not whether i want my existence to matter, but what it means for it to matter. and perhaps it is enough simply to exist, to breathe and speak and love without the burden of legacy. self-indulgence and self-sacrifice are not so different, after all; both are ways of grappling with the same fundamental question: how do i make peace with my own transience?

i imagine a world where neither is necessary, where the pressure to matter, to leave a mark, is lifted. a world where existence itself is the only proof required. no murals, no monuments, no chants. just the quiet persistence of life, like the steady rhythm of waves against the shore. in such a world, the question of martyrdom fades into the background, replaced by the simpler, sharper question: how do we live fully, knowing we will one day be gone?

in the end, i am left with no answers, only the constant pirouetting of these thoughts, circling endlessly. to matter, to disappear, to give, to take. these actions interweave, shaping the human experience like threads in a fragile tapestry. to matter is to crave permanence, to fear the fleeting nature of life. to disappear is to seek solace in letting go, in surrendering the weight of significance. to give is to etch oneself into the lives of others, leaving marks both tender and profound. to take is to assert one’s presence, to claim a piece of the world as one’s own. together, they form the rhythm of existence, pulling us between legacy and impermanence, connection and solitude. i am human, caught in the middle, clinging to my small life even as i dream of letting it go. and perhaps that is the truest sacrifice of all: to live, to love, to ache, and to do so knowing that nothing lasts. the martyr’s flame burns bright, but perhaps it is the slow, steady glow of ordinary life that illuminates the most.