Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (16 page)

As Abu Bakr pushed forward, Abu Jahl suddenly appeared and blocked his way, his handsome face lit with a triumphant smile.

“What do you think of your Prophet now?” he said with unfettered glee. “He claims he went to Jerusalem last night and came back before the sun rose!”

My father paled at this strange news. The Messenger’s words always had the clear ring of truth, appealing to reason rather than superstition, and this was too fantastic a story to have come from his lips.

“You lie!” Abu Bakr said, refusing to let Abu Jahl spread obviously malicious stories against the Messenger.

“Don’t blame his madness on me,” he said with a smirk. “But what did you expect from a soothsayer whose craft is to befuddle simple minds? Yet in this, Muhammad has gone too far and his tall tales have been revealed for what they are. Even a child knows it takes a month for a caravan to travel to Syria and a month to return!”

And then Abu Jahl glanced down at me to further his point. I saw him pause and take a lascivious look at my small body. I realized that the softness on my chest was already becoming noticeable to the eyes of men. My courses had not begun, but I was clearly becoming a woman, and I felt my cheeks flame at his evident lust.

Something about his disgusting stare lit a fire of defiance in me, and I spoke words that I had promised to forget.

“It’s true, Father!” I said before I could stop myself. “I saw it with my own eyes last night. A star arose from the Kaaba and flew north! That must have been the Messenger!”

Unfortunately, my passionate defense of Muhammad’s audacious claim only increased the amusement of the crowd, and I heard cruel laughter now directed at me, as well as vulgar comments about my maturing body.

My father grabbed me by the shoulder.

“Quiet! Let me handle this.”

And then he took the small white scarf that I wore around my shoulders and put it over my head, wrapping the cloth modestly around the budding nubs of my breasts.

My father led me through the crowd until we saw the Messenger standing just outside the golden doors of the Temple. I caught my breath at sight of his smiling face, which looked as fresh and untroubled as a newborn’s. Gone was the sad and lonely man who had become increasingly quiet in the days since Khadija’s death. The vibrant, masculine man who exuded power and dignity had been resurrected.

Abu Bakr leaned close to him and whispered.

“Is what they say true? Did you go to Jerusalem and return in one night?”

The Prophet nodded. He lowered his voice until only Abu Bakr and I could hear him.

“Yes. And there is more. But they are not ready for it.” He paused and looked deep into Abu Bakr’s eyes. “Are you?”

My father looked into those bottomless black pools. And then without any hesitation, he turned and faced the jeering crowd.

“If he says he went to Jerusalem in one night, then it is true,” Abu Bakr said loudly, his voice echoing across the ancient stones of the Sanctuary.

The laughter of the crowd died instantly and was replaced by surprise and confusion at my father’s unashamed embrace of this ludicrous claim.

Abu Bakr strode forward, looking men in the eye as he passed them, his arms sprung wide.

“And why do you wonder?” he asked defiantly. “Muhammad tells me that he receives tidings from heaven every day, and I know that he is speaking the truth. And that is a miracle beyond anything you marvel at!”

There was an uncomfortable buzz, like the confused hiss of a bee that can no longer find the security of its hive. I saw men looking at Abu Bakr as if he were insane. But when he met their glare with utter confidence, they began to look at one another, as if wondering whether perhaps they were the ones who were insane.

The Messenger moved forward and grasped my father’s right hand and held it aloft.

“I hereby proclaim Abu Bakr by a title borne by no other man.
As-Siddiq
—the Great Witness to the Truth!”

It was a powerful honorific, and one that my father carried with dignity for the rest of his life. In the years that would come, certain vile men would question his loyalty to the Prophet, accuse him falsely of acting in his own interests rather than in accordance with the will of God and His Messenger. Yet standing there, I saw the look of deep love and trust in the Messenger’s eyes as he gazed at my father, and my heart overflowed with emotions that have no name.

If it be true that Abu Bakr was the calculating politician that his detractors have claimed, then I know not what truth there is to anything I witnessed in all my years at Muhammad’s side. For those who claimed in the days to come that Abu Bakr became an enemy to the Messenger, claimed that the Prophet himself was deluded and trusted in a false front. If the Messenger of God could call a man by the great title of
As-Siddiq
and that man proved to be a liar and a thief, then there is nothing to our religion but foolishness and cruel mockery.

They say that I am biased because I am Abu Bakr’s daughter. They warn that I am destined for hell for the crimes I have committed in the heat of passion. And for that I have no clear response. I accept their condemnation for my sins, and it may indeed be that I will go to hell for the blood that is on my hands.

But I will not see my father there.

W
hen word spread of the miraculous night journey, the tribe of believers gathered excitedly in the Messenger’s home. It was the largest such congregation since Abu Talib’s death, as it was now considered unsafe for the Muslims to meet in large groups and potentially be accused of plotting insurrection. The main hall was overflowing, and I saw men and women of all ages cramming together to hear the full story. I marveled for a moment at how much we had grown. Despite the Quraysh’s best efforts to crush our movement, there were now several hundred committed believers, most still from the poorer classes but a surprisingly large number from the ruling elite.

One of the most improbable converts was a tall and proud woman named Ramla, the eldest daughter of Abu Sufyan. Her conversion had been a shock to the lords of Mecca, and the Messenger had arranged for her to travel across the sea and take refuge with the Negus in case her father sought to force her back into the fold. Though the Muslims could no longer count on his protection as a group, the Christian king had invited Ramla to come as a “princess of Quraysh” and be housed in a palace reserved for foreign dignitaries.

Ramla sat near the Prophet and I could see her resemblance to her father. With her steely eyes that shone with dignity and authority, she had the aura of a queen, even though she was dressed in modest white robes, her light brown hair covered in a blue scarf. I saw the coquettish way she looked at the Messenger, who was now a widower, and I felt my cheeks burn hot with jealousy. I was not sure why I felt so possessive about the Prophet, but Khadija’s last words to me kept echoing in my heart. She had asked me to take care of her husband, and I did not feel that letting him fall into Ramla’s seductive web was what she had in mind.

Of course, my nephew, you know the bad blood that existed between us in later years, and even now I have difficulty writing her name without my hand shaking in fury. What she did to me, in my moment of terrible grief, may be forgiven by Almighty God, but my human heart cannot extend to her that clemency.

In those early days, I did not know the depth of her cruelty, and yet I still had a visceral dislike for Ramla the moment I laid eyes on her. There was something about her that struck me as dangerous, far more so than open enemies like her father or her conniving stepmother, Hind. In one glance, she sized up others as if weighing them and calculating their worth, and I never knew for what purpose. And yet Ramla was charming and I saw how she could make the Messenger laugh with her worldly stories from her travels to the courts of Yemen and Persia as part of Abu Sufyan’s trading ventures. And I hated her.

In truth, I hated her because she was beautiful and young, and her breasts were well shaped and firm, unlike my own, nothing more than tiny buds that barely rose from my chest. Yes, I had childish fantasies that I would grow up and marry the Messenger someday, as did every other young girl among the believers, and seeing Ramla sitting near the Prophet and her cousin Uthman, I felt the cold, harsh flash of reality. I was a child and she was a woman.

When dreams shatter, Abdallah, they can leave mighty scars that are always raw to the touch.

That night we sat and listened as the Messenger told us more about his wondrous journey to Jerusalem. Of how the angel Gabriel had come to the Messenger while he had slept near the Kaaba, leading a wing horse named Buraq. Together they had flown to Jerusalem, where they landed at the ruins of the Jewish shrine the Temple of Solomon, which was called in the holy Qur’an
Al-Masjid Al-Aqsa
—the Farthest Place of Worship. There, amid the fallen stones of God’s other House, sister to the Kaaba, the Prophet had prayed with the spirits of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus.

And then he revealed a secret that we were sworn to keep from the unbelievers, who were unworthy of the highest Truth. From a rock that stood at the site of Solomon’s Temple, the Messenger had ascended into heaven and traveled through the many realms of Paradise until he stood before the Throne of God. The Prophet had never before claimed to have spoken directly with Allah, who had communicated with him for the past ten years through angels as intermediaries. But this night, he had crossed the farthest reaches of Creation, past the Lote Tree of the Utmost Boundary beyond which even Gabriel could not ascend. And there, outside time and space, where there was neither light nor darkness, Muhammad communed with his Lord.

We listened with rapt attention, and many wept, as he described the glories of Paradise, the rivers of milk and honey, and wine that did not befuddle the senses. Of perfect trees that provided eternal shade and fruits whose scent was enough to quell the hunger of mankind for eternity. And there were youths like sparkling pearls that served the residents of Paradise with any food or drink that they desired, and
houris,
beautiful virgins whose touch made men forget all the earthly pleasure they had ever known.

At the mention of these delightful creatures, I saw many of the women’s faces fall. The thought of their men traipsing about in the afterlife with such perfect beauties did not seem like much of a paradise for them. But the Messenger kindly told us that all believing women who entered Paradise would become
houris
themselves and that there would be no jealousy or loneliness in eternity. Men and women would enjoy one another’s company and the ecstasies of one another’s bodies in a way that would make the coupling of this world seem like brief and fleeting pleasure, like a tickle from a feather.

The Night Journey had given the Prophet renewed hope and faith. Now that he had seen the wonders of the spiritual realm, the daily struggle of life on Earth held little fear. But most important for the community, God had sent the Messenger back from heaven with a new set of rules for our daily lives.

First and foremost, the ritual prayers and prostrations that we had performed haphazardly over the past ten years were now to be organized and made a daily practice. Five times a day—before sunrise, in the early and late afternoon, after sunset, and in the darkness of night—the Muslims would be required to bow before God in formal worship. And perhaps most startling, God had commanded us to face the holy city of Jerusalem when we prayed. We were accustomed to facing the Kaaba, even though the Messenger had never specifically commanded it, but now we were being told to turn to the north, to a city most of us had never seen and knew of only through myth and legend. But the Messenger was clear. Jerusalem was the home of the Prophets, and he was the last in their line. So we grudgingly obeyed.

He listed for us further commandments that he had been given in heaven. We would be required to fast for thirty days during Ramadan, which was the sacred month in which the Revelation had begun ten years before. That meant no food, water, or sexual relations from first light until sunset. I saw the look of general dismay at word that even intercourse would be banned during the fast, and the Prophet smiled gently, reminding us that sexual relations were a blessing from God, just like food and water, and restraining our lust would purify our souls and allow us to couple with deeper meaning and intensity when the fast was over.

And finally, we would be required to pay
zakat,
or alms, to the poor. Before this day, we had been encouraged but not commanded to share our wealth with the less fortunate. But now one-fortieth of every believer’s wealth officially belonged to God and the community and must be given freely to feed and clothe the needy. I stole a glance at Ramla to see how this proud woman, reared in the wealthiest home in Mecca, would react to being forced to give up a portion of her riches every year, but she was all pleasant smiles and graciousness, which only angered me more.

These were the Pillars of Islam, the Messenger announced, commanded by God from His Throne. Along with the testimony of faith, that there is no god but God and Muhammad is His Messenger, they would serve as the formal tests of a Muslim’s basic commitment to his or her faith.

The Messenger paused and then added that there was one final Pillar, which was obligatory only for those who had the necessary wealth to undergo the journey and were healthy enough to perform its requirements: the Pillar of Pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca, which every Muslim who was capable should perform once in his or her life.

We all looked at one another, confused.

Finally, Umar spoke up.

“But, Messenger of God, we all live in Mecca,” he said with his usual bluntness. “The Holy Kaaba is down the street. Why would we need to travel to perform the Pilgrimage when we do so every year with ease?”

I saw a strange look of sadness cross the Messenger’s face.

“It may not be so easy in the years to come, my friend.” And with that he rose, and we knew that the audience was over.

As the excited crowd cleared the hall, I saw the Messenger smile at Ramla and speak to her in low tones. A gesture of intimacy. My stomach twisted painfully.

And then, to my surprise the Prophet looked at me across the room and his eyes sparkled. And then he waved to my father to come to his side.

Abu Bakr nodded to my sister, Asma, and me.

“Go home. I will join you soon,
insha-Allah
.”

I did as I was told and stepped outside, before I realized that Asma was no longer at my side. I looked up to see her standing beside the gate to the Messenger’s house, speaking with his cousin Zubayr. The handsome young man leaned in and whispered something in her ear and she laughed, her cheeks flushing.

I smiled to see them together and walked home alone.