There’s another reason I refuse to run. I lost everything worldly, so that I could gain everything holy. I see that now, as clearly as you see your hand. My poverty doesn’t make me ashamed anymore. I used to cringe when thugs laughed at me in the street. My sandals were torn; I barely had a coin to pay a washerwoman to soap the dirt off my robe. When I walk to the Kaaba to pray to Allah, I smile at the wicked. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve secured my place in heaven; no man can strip that from me.
So, you sons of Ishmael, heed the Prophet’s warning:
He will not enter hell who has faith equal to a mustard seed,
and yet he will not enter heaven who has pride equal to a mustard seed.
I wish I had your courage, to stand at the mouth of hell and not care. You defile the Prophet’s name and spit on the ground. That puts him in good company. I’ve seen men spitting on God in the shadow of the Kaaba. You prideful Quraysh know no shame. You have poisoned Muhammad’s camels and spread vicious slanders about his daughters. Your plotting has worked. Didn’t Zaynab, his oldest girl, marry a man who refuses to believe? She loves her father, but she fears her husband more.
I’ve held the hand of a small boy beaten half to death because of a rumor that one of his cousins worships Allah. As his bloody head was being bandaged, I comforted him with Muhammad’s promise: “Whoever has seen me, that same man has seen the truth.”
So defile me too, that’s what I say. It will get me to my reward more quickly.
The faithful tell me that I have the purest blood of anyone who follows the Prophet. My mother was walking past the Kaaba when suddenly she went into labor. To guard her modesty she rushed inside, and so I was born in that holy place. This means nothing to you who pretend that the Kaaba is sacred, but peddle whores within shouting distance of its walls. My mother stayed there for three days until she was well enough to leave. When I opened my eyes, the first face I saw was Muhammad’s. He had come to protect my mother the moment he got word of her plight. I was as small and red as a wrinkled crabapple, but he foresaw my destiny. “Name him the exalted one,” he said, which is where “Ali” came from.
My father is a sheikh, the same Abu Talib you mock so freely. He was bewildered that I was born in the Kaaba, but he took it as a powerful omen. It wasn’t a good omen at first. I nursed at misfortune’s breast. I remember being five when the famine struck. Drought wiped out my father’s flocks and destroyed the crops in every direction from Mecca. My father couldn’t afford to feed me, so one day he sat me on the floor.
“I face shame no matter what happens to you,” he said, hardly able to keep from weeping. “The shame of losing you is better than the shame of having you starve under my roof. Seek a better father if you can find one.”
I begged to be taken in by my cousin Muhammad. I had known his house since I was old enough to walk. No questions were asked if I grabbed a fistful of dates from the jar and gobbled them down in the corner. When I appeared at his door, Muhammad embraced me and kissed me on the cheek. I became a son to him at that moment, without a word between us. It was like freezing in winter and then suddenly feeling the warm sun on your back.
Let me tell you how the Prophet opened the door of my soul, so that he may open yours. I was eleven when the angel appeared to him. When Muhammad ran down the mountain and hid himself in his room, I was frightened, and what made me most afraid was Khadijah’s face the first time she came out of his room.
She took me aside and said gravely, “You must believe. I am not saying this to anyone else. I know you’re only a boy, but you must believe anyway.”
I asked her why. Khadijah hesitated. “Your cousin Muhammad is now your father. A son’s faith begins with his father.”
“My father? Abu Talib couldn’t even feed me.”
Khadijah shook her head. “Abu Talib didn’t know it, but he was working the will of God. You were cut adrift to put you under divine protection. Thieves hanging out in the alleys might have stabbed you for a laugh. Instead, you were sent to be the Prophet’s son.”
She never used the word “prophet” to anyone but me, not in those first days. Muhammad confided to me—this was years later—that he had his own doubts about who he was. He was cowering under the sheets when Khadijah pulled them off and said, “God wouldn’t punish a man as righteous as you. I hope with all my heart that you are the prophet promised for so long.”
She saw no reason to distrust the angel. So a woman was the first to believe, not me or any other man.
What does a boy of eleven know, anyway? I ran through the streets with my new brother Zayd throwing rocks at stray dogs, peering through cracks in a fence when the camels mated, and wondering why the sight made my body grow hot. By night I asked questions.
“Father, what did the angel look like?”
“At first I imagined that he looked like a man bathed in light. But soon he was transparent and filled the whole sky.”
“If I haven’t seen an angel, how will I know God?”
“When you know your own self, you will know God.”
“But you say Allah is everywhere. If I traveled the whole world, I still wouldn’t see Him.”
“The Lord has told me, ‘My earth and my heaven cannot contain me. The heart of my faithful servant can.’”
And so I believed without question, the way one believes in the sun. Once you set eyes on the sun, how can you doubt it? To sit at Muhammad’s feet is like listening to the fountains of Paradise. When new converts present themselves, he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Here is my first follower. His face is pure, because it never touched the ground bowing to an idol.”
I used to blush to hear that. Behind his back, others argue that I wasn’t the first convert, because I worshiped no one before Allah. Therefore, what did I convert from? Nothing. But all of this was secret for the first three years. Muhammad spoke of his revelations only to us few. Then a message came that the entire Hashim clan should be invited to accept the one and only God. I was not yet fifteen, but Muhammad directed me to prepare a sumptuous feast. Forty servings were prepared, enough for every man in the clan.
When the invitation went out, messengers scattered all over Mecca. Muhammad was precise in his instructions. “Don’t give the invitation to a servant. Wait at the gate until you get inside or the master of the house comes to you. Bow with respect, and make sure that you use these words: ‘Muhammad has spared no expense.’”
The last part was canny. Many people had grown suspicious of Muhammad. They all knew the word “Islam,” “acceptance,” which he preached. But the Prophet’s enemies reminded everyone that the same word meant “submission.” “You see? He wants to be chief over the whole city. His God is just a front for his own naked ambition,” they sneered. However even the wariest of the Hashim wouldn’t miss a great banquet for the world.
The evening arrived; the guests pressed their way though the gate. Muhammad was as good as his word. There was so much food and drink that eighty men could have gorged themselves. The servants were run off their feet; every girl woke up the next morning with bruises from being pinched. I looked around, knowing that every reveler was a doubter. I resented stuffing them with spiced lamb and honey bread, when tomorrow they would only complain about Muhammad louder than ever.
Muhammad was unruffled and reminded me of an old joke to settle my nerves. “A constant complainer died and was sent to hell. When he arrived, he looked around and frowned. ‘Is damp wood the best you can burn down here?’ he said.”
When the company was sated, every man lolling back on his cushion with satisfied groans, Muhammad got to his feet. “Sons of Al-Muttalib, in the name of Allah I know of no other Arab who could have provided a feast like this. I have brought you the best of the hereafter as well as the best of this world. Allah has commanded me to invite you to enter heaven.”
Uneasy glances darted around the banquet room. If they hadn’t gorged themselves, someone would have grumbled to hear Muhammad invoke Allah’s name.
A law had been passed forbidding it.
Paying no attention, he raised his voice. “Who will help me in my mission? The one who steps forward will be my brother, my successor, and the leader of the faith after I die.”
His call was so passionate that my heart began to race. I gazed around, but the Hashim were looking down at the floor or whispering among themselves. Muhammad asked again for anyone to step forward, and then a third time. I couldn’t help myself. I jumped to my feet and said, “I will help you.”
Silence.
Muhammad’s eyes swept the room, catching a glimpse of every uncle and cousin. None of them moved; a few snickered.
“By the will of Allah,” he said soberly, “I declare that Ali is my brother, my successor, and the ruler of the faith after my death. You owe him respect, and you must obey him.”
Now the snickering turned to open laughter. One of Muhammad’s uncles, Abu Lahab, turned to my father. “See what submission means? From now on, Abu Talib must bow to his son.” There was harsher laughter at this, and I could read their angry faces. Every uncle in the room would have to bow to his nephew Muhammad, if they accepted him as God’s messenger.
That feast was four years ago, and as events turned out, Abu Lahab became our fiercest enemy. He organized attacks against the believers. He once saw Muhammad praying near the Kaaba and grew so enraged that he grabbed the entrails of a sacrificed goat and threw them all over the Prophet.
Do you really believe he acted out of righteousness? Abu Lahab had already come to Muhammad in secret and asked, “If I accept your faith, what will it profit me?”
“You will be blessed by Allah, as all believers are,” replied the Prophet.
Abu Lahab grew impatient. The Hashim had been granted a tithe for the water of Zamzam that the pilgrims drank; everyone accepted this. He asked again what special privilege would come to him if he converted. This time he was twice as haughty.
“To submit is to become humble for God’s sake. Your reward will be exaltation in His eyes. What more could you want?” said Muhammad.
Naturally, Abu Lahab wanted much more. He left in a fury and redoubled his denunciations. He wasn’t the only rich merchant and trader who feared the call of Islam. To a man they were terrified when their slaves began to follow the Prophet, who went among the poor in secret. In dim houses filled with smoke and the stench of utter want, he raised his hands and said, “Even as the fingers of my hands are equal, so are men equal. None has preference over another.” A black slave named Bilal became an eager convert. When his master heard this, he had Bilal dragged by Qurayshi thugs out into the desert, where they beat him and stretched him out in metal armor under the merciless sun.
All the while he murmured, “God is One, God is One.” When this was reported to his master, he ordered that Bilal be crushed under the weight of heavy stones. The torture had just begun when Abu Bakr happened to pass by. He ran to the master’s house and threw money on the table to buy Bilal. The master hesitated—no doubt to keep teaching his slave a lesson—before he relented. Abu Bakr set Bilal free and began the practice of buying other slaves who had converted.
Panic rose among the Quraysh. After the first three years, the Prophet began to preach in public. The number of believers was still less than forty. But the elders were no fools. They knew the danger of the message and feared a war among brothers. A God who brings all things to those who accept Him is hard to resist for long. Their only recourse was to run to Abu Talib, who as head of the clan extended his protection over Muhammad. Furious as the Quraysh were, they could not break the tribal code. Protection was absolute and had to be honored. If not, there would be endless warfare and blood in the streets.
Abu Talib refused to act. Time and again, his reply to the Qurayshi elders was, “Keep your silence and your dignity. Let us deal with Muhammad the way we must. Our sacred ways are not to be crushed.” Abu Talib wouldn’t break his promise to take care of his orphaned nephew as his own son.
The Qurayshi elders didn’t give up. They found a strapping young man in the slave market and brought him before Abu Talib. “Take this one as your son and renounce the other. The trade can only benefit you,” they argued. Abu Talib turned them out of his house with scorn.
I’ll tell you what worries the Quraysh the most. It’s the mystery of the word. How can this Koran, a stream of words delivered to an ordinary man, be stronger than their swords? Even surrounded by threats and ridicule, people converted, because they heard the voice of God in Muhammad’s voice.
If you believe the rumors people spread, Muhammad’s followers perform demonic rituals when gathered behind closed doors. If they only knew the truth. Muhammad preaches peace. He says, “The strongest wrestler has no strength compared to the man who can control his anger.” Sometimes one of us Muslims—so we call ourselves, to denote that we have surrendered—fights back after being sorely provoked. When brought before the Prophet, he rebukes him gently. “The creation is like God’s family. Everything that sustains it comes from Him. Therefore, He loves most whoever shows kindness to His family.”
I would never say so in front of the Prophet, but Abu Lahab is the son of the Devil. He watches from behind the scenes like a snake waiting for its prey to come too near. He arranged for the Prophet’s house to be vandalized by night. For a time it was necessary to post an armed guard at the gate. Until one day a message came that told Muhammad to send the guard away. God would protect him. Perhaps this sura, one small verse, inspired the Prophet to adopt a new tactic.
He said, “Our father Abraham smashed the idols of his people when they were gone. He mocked these petty gods as lumps of clay that were blind and deaf to the prayers of the idolaters.”
After that Muhammad began to ridicule the idols planted all over the Kaaba, inside and out. At dawn he went to greet the new pilgrims who came to Mecca during the holy months, and he challenged idol worship to their faces.
“If your idols, who have no eyes and ears, can protect you from my blasphemy, let them do their worst,” he declared. “They won’t avail you. In reality they are only the servants of God themselves. Why trust in the slave when you can accept the Master? He alone answers prayers and provides protection.”
When the pilgrims saw that none of their gods could harm Muhammad, a few became convinced and were converted. Abu Lahab could not tolerate this, so whenever word came that Muhammad was making his way to the Kaaba, he sent his own men to shout, “Close your ears! A madman is about to harangue you.” Their clamor drowned out the Prophet’s sermons. After that, he abandoned public preaching and held meetings at night, underground.
Nothing was lost on Abu Lahab, who now had the backing of the entire Quraysh tribe. Instead of crushing the faithful all at once, which even he did not dare, he decided to use a flyswatter. For every new convert to Islam, an old convert would be killed or driven out of Mecca by terror. Muhammad couldn’t be touched, not with Abu Talib’s protection. But almost everyone else was in danger, especially the servants and slaves who dared to believe differently from their masters.
One day I knocked on the door of an old hanif who had come over to our side. The door swung open with a creak. Inside there was no one. I went from room to room, calling out. The old man had vanished overnight, taking his family with him. A demonic symbol had been written in animal blood on the wall.
I ran to Muhammad and cried that the campaign by his enemies was intolerable. “Let me fight back. What else can be done with men who hate you?”
“Do you want to show how much you love your Creator?” he asked quietly.
“With all my heart,” I exclaimed.
“Then love your fellow beings first,” he said.
After many months neither side could break the stalemate. One man of God with forty followers against every powerful family in the city. Muhammad had no choice but to ask God to bring him a solution.
THREE
WARRIOR OF GOD
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A JEWISH SCRIBE
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What strange creatures we are. If you beat a dog, he cringes. If you beat a horse, he runs away. But if you beat a man, he sometimes starts to dream. Such dreams may take him to places you cannot imagine. Being a Jew, I dream all the time.
In my favorite dream, I’m running after bird-catchers. I used to do that for real, long ago. Every spring I’d lie in bed before dawn in my father’s house, listening. The bird-catchers never missed a spring. You could hear their captives—finches, larks, and sparrows—singing in wicker cages. Other traders hung bells on their mules, so you would know they were coming from afar. The bird-catchers had no need.
“Did they sell nightingales?” Muhammad asked me one day. It was hot, a few months after he arrived in Yathrib. I was his everyday scribe, and yet there was nothing for me to write down. Nobody was rushing to his house with a divorce for him to judge or a missing bag of wheat that a neighbor had “found” in the street.
“Maybe they sold nightingales,” I said. “But they dipped the birds in dye to make them pretty, so you couldn’t really tell what they were.” A boy couldn’t tell, at least.
“Desert birds are gray, but in Paradise they will be brilliant red and green,” Muhammad mused. “And their songs will have no longing in them. There is no longing when you are close to God.”
“Do birds long for God?” I asked.
“All creatures long for God,” Muhammad replied.
He’s a dreamer, you see, like me. But his dream holds people’s lives together. These Muslims are new to us. They trekked to this faraway city, Yathrib, across the desert two hundred miles from Mecca. Sent by God, they say, as the Jews were sent out of Egypt. The newcomers call it their hijra, or “migration.” I have no opinion. Maybe their God sent them. Maybe the constant opposition and hatred wore them down.
Muhammad: A Story of the Last Prophet Page 14