Muhammad: A Story of the Last Prophet

by Deepak Chopra

  We had been married only a year. The whole time I hid my face from the raids and never asked if Ali was part of them. Then he brought me the news. A message had come to Father from Allah: “It is permitted to fight.” The message was longer than that. It spoke of those who had unjustly been persecuted for worshiping one God and driven from their birthplace. God was favorable to Abdullah’s raid. A lesser crime by a Muslim was forgiven when the weak were oppressed, because that is a greater crime before God. But all I heard was the phrase that changed our lives. It is permitted to fight. Ali’s excitement matched my fear.

  “Faith, purity, blessings,” he said. “They aren’t enough to defeat evil. Sometimes it takes blood.”

  He squeezed my hand in reassurance, but it wasn’t his words that frightened me. It was the look in his eyes. I couldn’t bear to look back. A battle. Whenever it came, he would rush to fight on the front line. A defender of the faith could do no less. I’ve never seen a battle, but you don’t have to see one to know who dies first. I took my hand away, so he couldn’t feel my fear.

  “Aren’t we here to bring peace?” I asked.

  “If we are wiped out, there will never be peace. This isn’t an evil choice, because it’s no choice at all. The enemy has decided to come for us.”

  When I was a girl, a runner pounded on the gate demanding to see Father. His face was bloody, and he was filthy from running all the way to Mecca from the hills. A small party of the faithful had sought a remote place to worship in peace, but the Quraysh had them followed. In the middle of their prayers they were set upon by attackers with knives and clubs. My father blanched and listened gravely to the runner’s account. The faithful were strong young men; they drew as much blood as they lost. It wasn’t enough for the Quraysh to forbid trade with anyone who dared to follow the Prophet. They resorted to torture, especially if one of the faithful was a slave. An adopted son of my mother’s was stabbed in the Kaaba itself.

  Ali’s eyes reminded me of all this. I prayed for God to give me words. “At least you won’t have to buy your shield back,” I said.

  His face flushed scarlet. It was cruel to bring back bad memories. I felt ashamed. But how much crueler for warriors to butcher each other.

  Here is how Ali lost his shield. When we came to Medina last year, Father had begun to unite the people. He brought peace between the Jewish tribes and the Arab tribes, who had been fighting for three generations. For the Jews it was an eye for an eye; for the Arabs it was blood feud. Both sides could never forgive any harm done to their clans. But a hundred years of violence had exhausted them. They turned to Father, who brought his reputation for fairness with him to our new home. A peace pact was drawn up, and both sides placed their hands on one another, swearing to keep the city safe and to protect the poor.

  When everyone was gone Father shook his head. “Oaths aren’t enough. Pacts and treaties aren’t enough.” There had to be other ways to bond the tribes of Medina, because he knew that the Quraysh would come one day. He chose a partner for each Muslim man among the Arabs of the city, forming a brotherhood. Yet he knew the strongest bond was blood, and blood means marriage. I was innocent of all this. A seventeen-year-old thinks of a husband, I know, but Father was in grief over losing Mother. I sat at his feet every day, and even though he would marry again, he would never love anyone as he had loved her. Between us it was understood.

  How amazing one day when I entered his room and Abu Bakr smiled at me. He always smiled to see me, but a woman knows the difference. He wasn’t smiling like an uncle. There were only a few men who lingered at our house, men trusted by Father to tell him the truth at all times. Umar, who is very wise, also began to smile at me, and Ali, the cousin who had been part of our household as long as I can remember.

  “A smile was all I had,” Ali would recall with a grimace.

  It was true that he was poor. When they heard that Father needed a son-in-law to strengthen the faith, Abu Bakr and Umar offered themselves in open proposals. Father held up his hand. Everyone waited. Time went by, and still no decision. Ali could hardly stand it. I wasn’t a child anymore asking him to look for my doll, and he had sat in council with men for eight years. Without money he couldn’t even make a bridal gift. One day he came into Father’s presence and sighed.

  “What is it?” Father asked.

  Ali was startled. “I said nothing, sir.”

  “Ah, I thought you were asking for Fatimah.”

  Father loved Ali dearly, and he gently suggested that Ali owned one thing of value, a shield chased with silver edges. He could sell that to get money for the bridal gift. Ali took heart and obeyed. Then Father came to me and announced that it was God’s will for me to marry Ali. Would I consent?

  Something tied my tongue. Fear of leaving my beloved Father? Ignorance of what passes between a husband and wife? Ali had hidden his desire so completely, out of respect for Father, that he hadn’t even made sheep’s eyes at me. Before I could find anything to say, Father smiled. “God has made you silent. I know in your heart that you agree.” I realized he was right.

  We were married here in Medina a year after Hijra. The Muslims, surrounded by strangers, were grateful for something to celebrate. My sister Ruqayah gathered all the women to cook the feast. The carpeted floor was crowded with dates, figs, lamb, and wine jars. It was like being home again. As many tears were shed for that reason as for joy. The whole company laughed when the richest guest, Uthman, who had married Ruqayah, rose to present a gift to the groom. With a flourish he brought forth Ali’s shield. Uthman had paid for it, but refused to keep it. Father’s eyes twinkled. There are ways to sell things and still not lose them.

  It displeased my husband to be reminded by me now that he couldn’t buy his shield back himself. I sighed. The same shield would protect him when the battle arrived. What strange paths Allah takes to work His will.

  “I can’t stop you,” I said. “If you are a ghazi, God be with you.”

  “What is a ghazi to you?” Ali asked. How could I find the words to reply without offending him? Already I felt the heat from his burning cheeks.

  “A ghazi is someone who strives for the sake of God,” I said.

  “And is there a limit to striving?”

  I cast my eyes down. “No, dear husband.”

  “Well, then. Peace be upon you.”

  “And you.”

  Ali seemed satisfied. A stranger would be baffled by this conversation, I know, and all that it meant for the future. Perhaps our whole destiny depended on a shifty word. Ghazi means striver, but it’s also what we call the raiders. It was an innocent term before Abdullah’s arrow drenched it in blood. Now no one strives for Allah in peace. The ghazi provoke fights with the Quraysh. They declare that Allah ordains them, and suddenly their raids are holy. The logic of men is hard to unravel from the logic of God. He must see a purpose to all this violence.

  Troubled, I ran to Father when he was alone. He sits in the dark brooding when he isn’t in council. Medina has made him turn gray—but fierce too. His manner is so stern that some of the faithful fear him as much as they fear Allah.

  “Why does God want blood?” I blurted out.

  “A bold question from such a timid child,” he muttered. It was the closest to a rebuke I had ever heard from his lips. But I’d rather be loved for truth than meekness. I asked him again.

  “God doesn’t want blood,” he said. “He wants warriors when the unjust persecute the just. The faithful are made strong by defending their faith. Otherwise they will scatter like leaves when the next storm comes.”

  “But the ghazi provoke the enemy.”

  “They strike before being struck. God forgives them. He knows that the enemy has done violence to us for fourteen years already. He wants the balance redressed.”

  These were hard words to hear from Father. It was as if he were speaking in the mosque. But when I gazed into his eyes, they weren’t fierce; they were pleading. He went to the window and closed the last op
en shutter, making it night in the room.

  “Don’t try to read my mind, child. It isn’t mine anymore. God commands everything, even my thoughts. I must obey.”

  I ran away to console myself. How easy for his enemies to say that Father is hiding behind God. How convenient that these raids that infuriate the Quraysh have a divine blessing. I had to know the truth. It was shameful for a daughter not to believe her father. I do still believe him. Yet in my mind’s eye I saw Ali’s corpse being dragged across the battlefield, leaving a track of blood in the sand. I had to know.

  I broke into Abu Bakr’s room in distress. He was doing something he didn’t want me to see and barely had time to hide it.

  “A sword?”

  He sheepishly brought it out from behind his back. “This old arm can barely swing one. I practice every day.”

  Abu Bakr is a second father to me. He read my heart. “The Prophet isn’t here to bring messages. He is here to bring justice. Look around you. The tribes of the city keep the peace. We have laws and safe places to worship. God protects the sons of Abraham as long as they obey him and bring his words to pass.”

  I felt a spark of hope. “Then He won’t allow any Muslims to be killed?”

  Abu Bakr gave me a wry smile. “Certainly not a man as strong and brave as Ali.”

  I blushed. “I wasn’t asking just for myself.”

  “Then hear me. If we fight for justice, it isn’t violence. It’s a righteous act. When righteousness remains passive, the unjust show no mercy. The nature of evil is to spread, like a contagion.”

  This was a long speech for him, but not a practiced one. I know Abu Bakr. He risked everything in Mecca to stand beside Father. He broke blood ties and walked among assassins with his head held high. If anyone knows what a righteous act is, he does.

  Abu Bakr hesitated. “I don’t think you realize. The Prophet led one of the first raids. He became a ghazi when God commanded him.”

  I was shocked, and yet I wanted the truth. Abu Bakr assured me that none of the early raids drew blood, or were meant to. Father had ridden out, because one of the greatest enemies of the faith owned the caravan. Like the others, this raid came to nothing, because the scouts couldn’t locate the camel train in the vast reaches of the desert.

  If that made me grateful, it was only for a moment. Allah began to weave a mystery around us, and like men stumbling in the dark the Muslims wandered into a scene whose outcome was known only to Him. It began when news came that the richest caravan of the year was heading home to Mecca. Its leader, Abu Sufyan, hated the Prophet. He accused him of wanting to destroy the tribal order, but we all knew Abu Sufyan’s secret grievance. When a small group of frightened Muslims had fled across the sea to seek refuge in Abyssinia, his own daughter was among them. The Quraysh sent an ambassador to convince the Negus, king of Abyssinia, to send the refugees back to Mecca. Lavish bribes were laid at his feet, and evil might have won the day. That is, if not for a leader of the refugees who read verses of the Koran to the Negus, who as it turned out was a Christian. Hearing the word of God and knowing how dearly we Muslims held the prophet Jesus, the king sent the ambassador home in scorn.

  Abu Sufyan never forgot his loss, for which he held Father to blame. His persecution was ruthless. “But now he’s coming within our grasp,” Ali said. He pressed Father to attack the caravan. At one stroke he would have revenge on his enemy Abu Sufyan and seize wealth for the suffering Muslims. On its long trek, the caravan had to stop at the Well of Badr for water. It was a perfect place to lie in wait.

  Suddenly the streets were full of noise, as if the men were preparing for a festival. I hid inside, praying that Father wouldn’t concede to this bloody adventure. It wasn’t his decision alone. He wasn’t the military chief; he had to seek counsel from all the leading men. The air was filled with piercing calls to war. Volunteers ran to the central square. Delirious with dreams of plunder, seventy Muslims who had come from Mecca volunteered. To everyone’s astonishment, more than two hundred more from among the converts in Medina volunteered.

  Ali ran in with an exultant look. “Soldiers have sprouted like wheat sown with God’s hands.” For the first time, the faithful had more than devotion on their side. They had numbers.

  Foolish dreamers. They marched out of Medina like nomad boys pretending to be the Roman army (not that any had ever seen Romans, who could be invisible gods for all we knew). Women stood at the gates singing Bedouin war cries to make their men strong in battle. I lay in my darkened room with a pillow pressed to my face, but I heard their shrieks, which were like wild animals.

  How foolish we are here believing we act for ourselves, when God is the only mover. He began to play cat and mouse, not telling either side which one was the cat. Abu Sufyan had good spies, and one of them, seeing the march out of Medina, ran up the trail to warn him of the ambush at Badr. Abu Sufyan was crafty and intelligent. He immediately turned his caravan off the trail toward the sea, hoping to march around Badr and get his water by trade with the nomads who control the coastal roads. At the same time he sent a runner to Mecca.

  This runner caused panic when he arrived. He tore is shirt and screamed hysterically. “Merchants of Mecca, heed me! Your goods are never coming back to you. Muhammad is stealing your money and your camels. Heed me or be lost!”

  A girl must never show how much she knows about boys, or women about men. But we all knew that Meccans weren’t fighters, except in show. Battle was a dance where the negotiations for peace came before any fighting broke out. Craftiness brought more victories than a sword. Yet this naked threat to their wealth enraged the Quraysh, and one of father’s chief tormentors, Abu Jahl, blocked any talk of a treaty. He quickly assembled a thousand soldiers to march to Badr. “How many men can Muhammad have?” Abu Jahl argued. “Fifty? A hundred?” Suddenly fired with courage, the Qurayshi army left Mecca with the same festive air and passing of the wineskin as our men left Medina. God made both sides believe they were the cat.

  When Father and our men arrived at the Well of Badr, no one was there. They waited anxiously, and eventually two water carriers appeared to fill their jugs. They were captured and bound, then led before Father after a sound beating had loosened their tongues.

  “Where is the caravan you bring water to?” he demanded.

  The two water carriers were bewildered. “Caravan? We come ahead of the army of Abu Jahl, which is a few days away.”

  At this the Muslims almost lost heart. They realized that there would be no plunder, and worse, instead of overcoming thirty or forty guards who traveled with Sufyan’s caravan, a bloody-minded army was coming for them. For the first time, the wiser heads suspected that God was weaving a mystery. Or was it a trap? Abu Bakr rose and argued that God wanted a battle to settle the Qurayshi threat.

  “They threw us out of the tribe. They branded us as a band of traitors,” Abu Bakr pointed to Father, who sat silently as his chiefs held council. “Our very Prophet they ridicule and mock. God cannot abide these evils. We must stand and fight.”

  Abu Bakr’s speech rallied the seventy Muslims from Mecca. To everyone’s astonishment, the new converts pledged to fight without surrender. Only a few voted to return home to Medina, citing as their goal plunder from a caravan, not war.

  Father thanked his men and retreated into his tent. Up to that moment, God had never asked him to lead an army. He felt the dreadful guilt of someone responsible for the lives of many. At the same time, he trusted that God would lead his steps and guide his hand.

  When Abu Jahl came over the last dune to confront the oasis at Badr, he couldn’t see the Muslim forces. They had camped out of sight, and many of the Quraysh were relieved. They had gotten news that their goods were safe; the caravan was out of Muhammad’s grasp. As true devotees of money, they saw no reason to fight once their god was safe. A band turned back to Mecca, including some of the Hashim and others who were anxious at the prospect of fighting their own relatives and friends. A new faith doesn’t tu
rn a cousin into a stranger.

  God’s game went deeper than blood ties. Abu Jahl had wild ambitions. He was already powerful, but by saving the caravan of his rival, Abu Sufyan, he had pulled off a coup. Soon word would be spread by every wandering poet in Arabia that Sufyan was the protector of the Quraysh, beloved by the gods. The only move that would surpass this was for Abu Jahl to defeat the Muslims and bring the Prophet to his knees. He argued for war, and with reluctant muttering the clan chiefs agreed to stay.

  They drank wine in their tents to calm their nerves while a scout named Umayr climbed the dune that looked down on the Muslim camp. Umayr returned with a pale face and wild look in his eyes. Instead of seventy or a hundred men, Muhammad had gathered three times that many. The Meccans started muttering anxiously. Abu Jahl remained stubborn, however, pointing out that the Qurayshi army was more than twice that size, almost three times, even after the recent defections.

  “I’ve seen the faces of these Muslims,” Umayr replied. “They are set for death. You will not kill one of them before they have killed one of you.”

  Abu Jahl publicly scorned this prediction. In his heart of hearts he realized that the old Bedouin game of ritual fighting and bickering was over. This new enemy would fight and never negotiate. There was another thing that only he and his chiefs understood. My father had taken the valley and surrounded the wells. Without water, the Quraysh had no choice but to fight, even though they were forced to climb uphill facing the sun to get in place. How could the gods have done this to them?

  They had one hope to avoid massive bloodshed. All Arab battles began with single combat. Three men from each side, chosen from the cream of the armies, came out to fight hand to hand before the main forces charged. Often this was enough to end the strife, and if not, Abu Jahl trusted that his three champions would slay the other three and fill the enemy with fear.

  I know you wonder how a woman can speak of these matters, so I must tell you that my worst fear came true. Ali was among the three chosen to fight hand to hand. He strode out into the morning sun with his sword and the very shield that had brought his love to my bed. As soon as the call to fight sounded, he rushed forward and within seconds had stuck his blade through the body of Walid ibn Utba.