Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (52 page)

I
t was my husband’s distinct tragedy that soon after each victory he was given in his mission, God always exacted a terrible price from among his loved ones. Shortly after we returned to Medina and the city was alive with rejoicing at the final victory of Islam, the Messenger’s infant son, Ibrahim, fell ill and began to waste away.

Despite the desperate prayers of the community and the efforts of those who were skilled in medicine, the poor boy deteriorated rapidly, his tiny form ravaged by the camp fever that few grown men could survive.

I watched through eyes reddened by tears as Muhammad stroked his dying son’s curly hair in farewell. A steady flow of tears ran down his face, causing one of the men present, a Companion named Abdal Rahman ibn Awf, to raise his eyebrows in surprise.

“O Messenger of God, even you? Is it not forbidden?”

The Prophet spoke with some difficulty, his eyes never leaving the face of Ibrahim as the flow of life seeped out from the child.

“Tears are not forbidden,” the Messenger said softly. “They are the promptings of tenderness and mercy, and he who does not show mercy will have none shown to him.”

And then my husband leaned close to the little boy, who was looking up at him with dreamy eyes as his soul began to detach from this valley of sorrow.

“O Ibrahim, if it were not that the promise of reunion is assured, and that this is a path which all must tread, and that the last of us will overtake the first, truly we would grieve for you with even greater sorrow. But we are stricken indeed with sadness for you, Ibrahim. The eye weeps and the heart grieves, but we say nothing that would offend the Lord.”

I felt my heart quiver in grief as Ibrahim smiled up at his father, his tiny hand wrapped around the Messenger’s finger. I saw the little boy squeeze one last time and then his eyes closed, and Muhammad’s son passed away into eternity.

W
HEN WE HAD WEPT
all the tears we could, the Messenger covered Ibrahim’s face with a sheet and stepped outside to address the agitated crowd. I looked up in the heavens and saw that the sky was dark, and realized that the sun was in eclipse and the stars were shining in the middle of the day.

The Muslims were gazing up in wonder at the thin crescent where the sun had been only moments before, and I heard a man cry out.

“Behold! Even the heavens weep for the Prophet’s son!”

I did not doubt that this was a sign from God for the poor, innocent child who would never have a chance to experience the joys of life and love in this world.

But even at this moment, when grief had overpowered us all, the Messenger remained true to his faith.

“No,” he said loudly, his voice echoing through the streets of Medina. “The sun and the moon are signs of God. They are eclipsed for no man.”

And with that Muhammad reminded us that he was no more than a man himself and that his own son was no more special than the hundreds of children who died every day in the cruelty of the desert, whose families were forced to grieve alone, without the loving support of an entire nation.

My husband turned away, his face looking very tired and old. I reached over and took his hand, and he held mine tightly, his eyes brimming with gratitude. And then we walked back inside and began the preparations for the funeral.

T
he next several months were a flurry of diplomatic activity as the Messenger dispatched envoys throughout Arabia. With the fall of Mecca, the ancient pagan cult had breathed its last, and it was time to bring the remaining tribes under the governance of Medina. A nation had finally been forged, and the Prophet was busy making plans for its survival. I did not understand the urgency in his daily letters to the varying provinces of the peninsula that now swore allegiance to him, perhaps because I did not want to face the truth. My husband was over sixty years old and had lived a hundred lifetimes in one. But he was not immortal, and as the weight of his age grew upon him, he was making plans for the survival of the
Ummah
once he was no longer there to guide it.

With the death of Ibrahim, talk had begun among the people of Arabia about the successor to the Prophet now that he had lost his direct heir. Many names were whispered, most prominently that of my father, Abu Bakr, who was an elder statesman and held the respect of the entire community. My father always angrily dismissed such speculation and yet it persisted. A few voices suggested that young Ali, who was now just over thirty years old, would be a natural choice, as the closest living male relative to the Prophet and the father of his grandsons. But there was a natural dislike among the independent-minded Arabs for monarchy, and the idea that the leadership of the community should be based on the right of bloodlines left a sour taste in the mouths of the tribes.

It was significant that of the few Companions who spoke in favor of Ali, the most prominent was Salman, the Persian hero who had devised the strategy of the trench that had saved Medina from invasion. The Persians were an ancient people who were proud of their long lineage of philosopher-kings and looked upon the Arab custom of choosing tribal leaders by an assembly known as a
shura
as a crass system that could be manipulated by the powerful to oppress the weak. For the Persians, the qualities of leadership, the instincts for justice and honor, were sacred traits that were passed along by blood and upbringing and should not be bartered away for the mercurial passions of the mob. It was a passionate and proud stance, but one that was utterly alien to the freethinking Arabs, who were only now becoming accustomed to being ruled by a single man.

My husband was certainly aware of the talk, but he made no effort to end it or to clarify his own preferences in the matter of succession. In the years that followed, I have often looked back and wondered why he was so circumspect. In all other areas of life, he was a clear and commanding guide, one whose words were carefully chosen to limit the possibility of misinterpretation or confusion. Yet when it came to the matter of succession to the leadership of the
Ummah,
he was stubbornly silent, and much of the chaos that was to emerge would arise from our best efforts to understand his ambiguous pronouncements on this subject.

It is my belief that my husband did not announce his intentions clearly because his heart was torn, even as the
Ummah
itself would one day be torn apart. The death of Ibrahim had taken away his last hope for a son to carry his lineage, which would now pass through his daughter Fatima and her sons, Hasan and Husayn. Ali was indeed the closest of his living male relatives and had been in many ways both a brother and a son to him. The Messenger spent a great deal of time talking in private with him, and none except Fatima would be permitted to join them in those moments. What was said between them was always a mystery, and there were rumors that my husband was passing along divine secrets that were too weighty for the common Muslims, even for pious men like my father or Umar, to hear.

This speculation added to Ali’s reputation for otherworldliness, and many of the Muslims became increasingly uncomfortable around the strange young man. No one would deny that he was a mighty warrior and an eloquent speaker, but it was this peculiar sense that he was not like the rest of us that estranged him from the hearts of many. And it is for that reason that I have difficulty imagining that my husband expected the Muslims to follow Ali unquestioningly, as his supporters would claim with increasing vehemence in later years. Muhammad was a statesman above all, one who understood the nature and character of the people he had been destined to lead. It was his diplomatic wisdom that had caused him to agree to a truce with Mecca, even though the Muslims were in open revolt at the idea. My husband had seen further than the rest of us and had known that Islam would grow rapidly in peacetime and that Mecca would one day fall without bloodshed. And it was that same visionary thinking that had caused him to pardon his worst enemies and offer the leaders of Quraysh prominent roles in the new state. Even though many Muslims resented the lords of Mecca, the chieftains retained the broad respect of the Arab tribes and their support would bring unity to the nation

My husband, who saw so much, must have seen that his beloved Ali was a polarizing figure, one who brought about intense reactions of both love and hate. My own antipathy to him was visceral, and I knew I was not alone. Muhammad must have known that Ali would never be able to unify the Arabs, and it was the unity of the
Ummah
that was his primary concern in all the years that I knew him. Others, like my father and Umar, had the respect of the entire nation and could easily hold the community together when Muhammad was gone. And yet my husband did not openly proclaim in their favor either.

As I look back in my own twilight years, dear Abdallah, I believe that my husband’s heart and his mind were divided on the matter. In his heart, perhaps he would have preferred Ali and his grandsons to be the leaders of the community. And yet his intellect saw that the Muslims would probably not support his family’s claim to power, and everything that the Messenger had worked for would shatter upon his death. That truth, the vast chasm between his preferences and those of his own people, was so painful that I believe he intentionally left the matter unresolved in those final days of his life. Perhaps he was hoping that God would give him a Revelation that would clarify the issue of succession, which would absolve him of having to make a choice that could lead to discord and civil war. But when the day of the last Revelation came, the matter remained unsettled.

Those final verses came down upon him during his participation in what would later be called the Farewell Pilgrimage. My husband led tens of thousands of believers to Mecca to perform the rites of Abraham, during which he established forever the rituals according to the laws of Islam. Gone were the old superstitions of the desert, including the pagan custom of circumambulating the Holy Kaaba naked. In their place were the simple acts of piety that reminded us of our connection to our father Abraham.

Along with the ritual encircling of the temple, the Muslims retained the practice of running seven times between the hills of Safa and Marwa. This rite, whose meaning had long been forgotten by the Arabs, commemorated our mother Hagar and her desperate search for water. She had sought to save her dying son Ishmael, and at her moment of despair in the arid valley, God had caused the well of Zamzam to miraculously appear at Ishmael’s foot. As my husband explained the meaning of the ritual to the masses of pilgrims, many of whom were recent converts, I remembered how I had told Abu Sufyan the same story when I was a little girl almost fifteen years before. Abu Sufyan, who had then been the proud king of the idol worshipers, the same man who now stood humbly dressed in a pilgrim’s loincloth near the Prophet, a follower instead of an enemy.

The next day, the Prophet had led his followers through another ancient rite, the stoning of three old pillars in the desert that had stood since time immemorial. The ritual was meant to commemorate the three times that Abraham was tempted by Satan and how he had driven away the devil by stoning him in the desert.

And then, finally, the Messenger led the throngs out into the vast desert plain of Arafat toward the mountain from which he would deliver what would prove to be his final sermon to mankind. I gazed down at the thousands who had come to hear him speak, the crowd stretching from horizon to horizon, and I had a persistent thought that what I was seeing was a small precursor of the awe of the Day of Judgment, when mankind will rise from their graves and stand side by side before the Throne of God.

As I looked upon the sea of white-garbed pilgrims, all dressed in equal humility regardless of wealth or status, with fair-skinned and dark-skinned believers praying side by side to the same God, I was struck by my husband’s remarkable triumph. He had taken a group of fiercely divided tribes, at war with one another for centuries, and had forged them into a single nation. A community that valued moral character over material success, an
Ummah
in which the rich eagerly sought to alleviate the suffering of the poor. Such a feat could not have been accomplished by a thousand great leaders over a thousand generations. And yet my love had done it single-handedly over the course of one lifetime.

As the Messenger stood atop the ancient mountain of Arafat, I heard his voice echo to the thousands who eagerly stood under the punishing sun to hear his words.

“O people, hear me well as I speak to you, for we may not meet again in this place after this year. O people! Your lives and your property are as sanctified to each other as the sanctity of this day, and this sacred month. Have I given the message? O God, be my witness.”

At his words, the Pilgrims cried out in unison, “Yes!”

The Prophet raised his hand and continued.

“So let whoever has been given something for safekeeping give it back to him who gave him it. Truly, the usury of the Era of Ignorance has been laid aside forever. And truly, the blood vengeance of the Era of Ignorance has been laid aside forever. Truly, the hereditary distinctions that were the pretense of the Era of Ignorance have been laid aside forever.”

He paused and then laid out his final commandments for the people, even as Moses had done at Sinai.

“O people: truly you owe your women their rights, and they owe you yours. They may not lie with other men in your beds, let anyone into your houses you do not want without your permission, or commit indecency. You in turn must provide for them and clothe them fittingly. So fear God in respect to women, and concern yourselves with their welfare. Have I given the message? O God, be my witness.”

The crowds cried in assent again, their voices thundering through the valley with such power that I could feel the earth beneath me tremble.

“O people, believers are but brothers. Your Lord is One, and your father is one. All of you are from Adam, and Adam was from the mud of the earth. The noblest of you in God’s sight is the best in conduct. An Arab has no merit over a non-Arab, nor a white man over a black man, other than in his moral conduct. Have I given the message? O God, be my witness!”

As the crowd shouted again its agreement, I saw a strange light surrounding the Messenger, like a circle of fire. I told myself it was just the punishing desert sun playing tricks on me. And yet the light persisted and grew gradually brighter.

“Today I received these words from God, which the angel Gabriel has told me will be the final Revelation from the Lord of the Worlds.”

There was stunned silence and everyone listened carefully as the Prophet recited in his beautiful flowing voice the Word of God.

Today the disbelievers have lost all hope that you will give up your faith.

Do not fear them, but fear Me.

Today I have perfected your religion for you

Completed my blessing upon you

And chosen for your religion Islam—the Surrender.

We all stood there in awe as God’s final words to mankind sank into our hearts. And then the Prophet raised his voice and asked the question one last time.

“Have I given the message? O God, be my witness!”

And as the cries of affirmation echoed all around us, I saw tears flowing down my husband’s face. For in that moment, I realized that he had finally completed his life’s work. There was nothing more left to be done.

“Then let whoever is present tell whoever is absent. And peace be upon all of you, and the mercy of Allah.”

Even as he spoke these words, the strange light around him appeared to intensify and for a moment it seemed as if my husband were made of light itself, shining brighter than the sun. I looked down, unable to bear the blinding rays emanating from about his noble figure.

And then I gasped, for my eyes fell on the earth around where he stood. And I could see no sign of a shadow. My father and Umar were right beside him, and their shadowy outlines fell away from them as the sun slid toward the horizon. And yet Muhammad alone among all those who stood at the peak cast no shade.

And then the mysterious light around my husband vanished, and his shadow reappeared against the craggy rocks as if it had always been there. And without another word, the Messenger of God climbed down from the mountain peak and immersed himself in the adoring masses.

A
S WE RETURNED TO
Medina at the end of the Pilgrimage, two events occurred that would change the course of Muslim history. First was the birth of my half brother Muhammad. My father had taken a second wife in his old age, a war widow named Asma bint Umais, who had become pregnant with his last child. Even though she was late in her term when the season of Pilgrimage had come, my stepmother had insisted upon accompanying my father to Mecca. She had performed all the rituals admirably and without complaint, but soon after we left the precincts of the holy city, her water broke and my baby brother was born.

I fell in love with little Muhammad the moment I saw him, for he had my fiery red hair and adorable dimples on his cheeks whenever he smiled, which was often. In the years to come, Muhammad ibn Abu Bakr would become like a son to me, even as you have been, Abdallah, and it is my greatest regret that I was not able to restrain him or guide him away from the terrible destiny that awaited him.