The Aisha Prophecy

by Maxim, John R.

Mansur answered the smile with one of his own. He said to Sadik, “No one wants to say he dreamt it. Most religions, even Islam, began with a dream. But never mind; let’s not go there, as they say.”

  He said to Sadik, “We know that the Berber is referring to Aisha. The Lady of the Camel and all that.”

  The “all that” was spoken rather dismissively. Sadik was not offended. These were Shiites; he was Sunni, two distinct points of view on some matters. But it was more than “all that” to Sunni Muslims.

  Mohammed’s favorite wife, Aisha, was only eighteen at his death. He had left no male heir. A strong successor was needed. Fulfilling that position, that of Caliph, was messy. Mohammed named Aisha’s father to succeed him as caliph, but her father only lived two more years. His death might have been natural or he might have been poisoned. The latter, if true, would have come as no surprise because the next three caliphs had been murdered as well. All three murders were related to struggles for power. Religion had little to do with them.

  Those murdered included the 3rd Caliph, Uthman, with whom Aisha had worked to assemble the Koran some ten years after Mohammed’s death. She was recognized then – and now by most scholars – as the foremost authority on his teachings. Mohammed had experienced many of his visions while resting his head on her knee. He would relate them to her from a trance-like state and would sometimes not remember them so clearly when he wakened. He depended on Aisha to recite his words back to him. This was why she had great influence in selecting those verses that later became the definitive Koran. She knew which were from his visions – that is to say, direct from God – and which were his personal musings.

  Most believed her to be scrupulous in reciting his revelations. Sadik had no reason to doubt that. But, by all accounts, she had a good mind and it was, after all, a woman’s mind. She might very well have embellished a few as, perhaps, did the wife of the Berber. Or at least that she put more of a woman-friendly slant on some that he had related to her. Either way, Aisha’s versions became part of the Koran.

  The 4th Caliph, Ali, son-in-law of Mohammed, might well have had a hand in Uthman’s murder. Or so Aisha believed as did many others. Ali was also the first of the break-away Shiites. The Shiites wanted a powerful leader who would also be their foremost religious authority. The majority of Muslims remained Sunni. The Sunnis saw Islam as a personal faith. This was then. Before the Wahhabis. While the Sunnis had no problem with a single strong leader, they said they didn’t need caliphs or mullahs or mystics to tell them what God really meant. Or to drag them off to war, not for the faith but for more booty. Ali’s Shiites were also chipping away at the newly-won rights of Muslim women. They had long since attempted to discredit Aisha through gossip concerning her virtue.

  Aisha’d had enough. Uthman’s murder was too much. She raised an army against Ali and his followers. She led that army from the back of a camel in what came to be called the Battle of the Camel. She, of course, was the Lady of the Camel. Her revolt was unsuccessful, her army was defeated, but Ali didn’t dare have her killed. She was allowed to live out her days in Medina as long as she kept her ideas to herself. But there were other rebellions. There was no lasting peace. The struggle for power went on unabated. Ali was stabbed to death four years later.

  The senior mullah, Mansur, waved the Farsi translation. “The prophecy says she’s grown up dressed in white. Your Aisha of the camel wore white, did she not?”

  “My Aisha?” Sadik bristled.

  “Forgive me. Force of habit. It would seem that she’s now our Aisha as well.”

  Sadik answered, “Yes, she almost always dressed in white.”

  Mansur said, “Hmmph. Not much white around here. She would certainly stand out if she should turn up in Iran. And if she’s going to show up, a flame-haired angel at her side, we shouldn’t have much trouble spotting her.”

  Sadik realized that his old friend was being facetious. All the same, it gave him an opening to ask, “Then why bother arresting all these innocent women?

  “The authorities felt the need to make a statement.”

  The second cleric added, “Nor are they so innocent. Every one of them has broken God’s law.”

  “Broke it how?” asked Sadik. “By having thoughts of their own? Sharing those thoughts with other women who think? Or are some of them charged with the crime of having fun? I don’t recall either being high on God’s list of offenses worth imprisonment or worse.”

  The “fun” remark was gratuitous. He shouldn’t have said it. The reference was to an unfortunate statement made by the late Ayatollah. During an interview, he’d said, “There is no fun in Islam.” It was not what most Iranians wanted to hear, especially that half of Iran’s population that was now under twenty years of age.

  Mansur said, dryly, “One offense at a time.” As he spoke, he touched his finger to the prophecy’s text. “It does seem to make reference to the Internet, no? It says she’ll speak to all nations with words writ on wind. They will ride the lightning. They will be as shooting stars. It seems this Berber prophet must have foreseen the web. So it wasn’t Al Gore after all.”

  Levity, thought Sadik. Perhaps a good sign. He said, “And as you see, it says ‘to all nations.’ It doesn’t say only to downtown Tehran. Those young women you’re holding are a drop in the bucket. Be merciful, I pray you. Let them go.”

  “Lest Qaila pass among us?”

  “No, because it is right.”

  Abbas Mansur nodded. “They won’t be held much longer. For the present, their predicament is a lesson to others. Keep spreading this thing and risk sitting in a jail cell. They might also be better off where they are lest some of them fall into the hands of the Hasheem. But there will be no more lashings; that I can promise. Those authorities I mentioned took that upon themselves. They got the prison’s oldest mullah to judge her and sentence her. I’d have stopped it, but I wasn’t informed.”

  “Would you like to stay informed? Log onto Amnesty International. It’s there. I checked. I checked before I got here. And when they hear a woman’s sentenced to eight hundred lashes, you can’t expect very high marks.”

  “I dare say,” said Mansur, glancing at the second cleric. The glance seemed to be one of reproach. The second cleric, thought Sadik, must have known about the sentence and had chosen not to mention it to Mansur.

  “Speaking of punishments,” Mansur said to Sadik, “I’m told that you didn’t react very well to the news that two hangings were scheduled after lunch.”

  Sadik chewed his lip. “Were they women?”

  “No, Rajib, they were men. One a multiple rapist. The police had been hunting him for two years. The other murdered his father to get money for drugs. Now and then, we do punish the guilty.”

  Sadik lowered his eyes. “My apologies.”

  “Getting back to these women, what exactly is your interest?”

  “Same as yours. It’s in tracking down the source.”

  “And that’s all there is to it?”

  Sadik shrugged.

  “What made you think that these two sisters were involved?”

  “That, too, can be found on Amnesty International. It gives the reason for the sentence. She would not betray her friends. Where they got their information, I can only guess, but it names this man’s two daughters as her friends. Their names are Shahla, aged nineteen and Nikram, aged fourteen. The site gave their reason for wanting to escape him. It says that he was pimping for both of them.”

  “Lies,” cried the father.

  “Be still,” said Mansur.

  “I gave Shahla in marriage. It was my right.”

  “Twice,” said Mansur. “Each a temporary marriage?”

  “And each lawful,” said the father. “Was this not lawful?”

  He had addressed this question to the second cleric. The cleric answered. “It is lawful. Men may take short term wives. This saves them from the sin of adultery.”

  Mansur snorted. He said, “He didn’t give her. He re
nted her. He took money or favors from two different men who divorced her after only three days.”

  “They… found her unresponsive,” said the father.

  “If we were to question her, would we be told that she willingly entered these unions? Or would we be told that she was less than affectionate because she’d been tied to a bed?”

  “She would lie,” said the father. “She was always such a liar.”

  “If we find her I’ll ask her, but I think Sadik is right. You were profiting from the bodies of your unwilling daughters. Pimping isn’t a strong enough term for it.”

  “Not true,” said the father. “Only Shahla was given.” Having spoken, he cupped his hand over his mouth. He had not meant to say, “Only Shahla.”

  “Forgive me,” said the cleric. “Nikram’s time hadn’t come yet. I suppose that means you’re only half of a pig. Do not say another word in these proceedings.”

  The father shrank back. He made a soft mewing sound. Sadik saw that his face was turning purple.

  Mansur said to Sadik, “Let’s keep our focus on the prophecy. What else did Amnesty say?”

  “Their site, like the others, gives the full text. It said that Farah was condemned for not betraying this man’s daughters who were thought to have been spreading the prophecy. It said that you’ve issued a fatwa against them. It said that you’ve demanded their deaths.”

  “Not true,” said Mansur. “What is a fatwa? A fatwa is not like some Mafia contract. It is simply a religious opinion.”

  “With teeth.”

  The senior mullah rapped his knuckles. “Okay, let’s be clear. In this case, it pronounced that the prophecy is heresy. It called for the punishment of anyone spreading it. It did not call for anyone’s death.”

  “Farah’s dead.”

  “Overzealousness,” said Mansur. “I was not aware of it. How many times must I say that?”

  Sadik said again, “My apologies.”

  “And mine to her. Also mine to her family. They will be compensated. It won’t be enough. It might help just a little when they are told that the money will come from Darvi’s pocket.”

  Sadik heard a sigh from where the father was sitting. He said to the cleric, “Yes, it might.”

  “Farah, this young women, died believing in the prophecy. We know that people die for all sorts of false beliefs. I wish it were not so, but it is.”

  The second mullah leaned close to Mansur. He was arguing with him in whispers. No doubt, he was disputing Mansur’s last remark, reminding him of martyrdom’s glories. Mansur said to him, “Please. Another time.”

  He said to Sadik, “Yes, all kinds of beliefs. But my colleague has a point; let’s stick with ours. What effect has it had among your people?”

  “Palestinians? Not so much. We have more on our minds. As do the women of Iraq. Saudi Arabia is a whole different story. Women demanding to be let into mosques and to attend graduations and such. Right now they’re not allowed to do either.”

  “And to drive cars?”

  “That’s the least of it,” said Sadik.

  “To vote?”

  “To be heard. It all starts with being heard.”

  “Saudi men aren’t heard. They have no real vote either. Don’t expect them to join their wives in their protests. Not if they want to stay out of jail.”

  “The Saudis are horses’ asses,” said the cleric taking notes. He asked Sadik, “What about elsewhere in your region?”

  “Same thing all over. Women, mostly young, asserting themselves. Some more aggressively than others. Algeria, Libya, Yemen, parts of Egypt. Even in the fun-loving Emirates, or at least among their imported workers. Further to the east, demonstrations in Pakistan at the risk of having acid thrown in their faces. And hunger strikes in places like Bangladesh where one would think that they’re already hungry.”

  “You say all over,” said Mansur. “In America as well?”

  Sadik shook his head. “Not so much in the West.”

  “More than six million Muslims in America,” said Mansur. “Half of them women. Are they all so content?”

  “If American Muslim women feel the need of a savior, they’ll find plenty in the phone book under Lawyers. It’s much the same thing throughout all of Europe. There are now many shelters for abused Muslim women. More abusers are getting arrested.”

  The second cleric said, “Such arrests are not lawful.”

  “Actually, they are. Here as well,” Mansur told him. To Sadik, he said, “Let’s stay with this part of the world. What other effects have you seen?”

  “On the whole? It’s still mostly a passive resistance, but growing less passive by the day. Women less willing to be told what their role is. Insisting that their bodies and their minds are their own, as distinct from the family’s livestock. And more women disappearing, some escaping to the West, many being locked away lest they try to.”

  Mansur said, “And, I gather, there’s a financial cost.”

  Sadik nodded an acknowledgment. “Donations have suffered. Especially donations from American Muslims, no doubt influenced by their wives and their daughters who want to see some changes made first.”

  “I meant donations from the Saudis,” said Mansur.

  “There as well,” said Sadik. “Monies have been withheld. The Saudis, more than any, have been under Western pressure to withdraw their support of Hamas.”

  “From what I hear, that’s not all they’re having trouble withdrawing. We do have an intelligence service, Rajib. I mention this so that you won’t be tempted to dissemble any more than your interests require.”

  Sadik groaned within himself. Does he know about the disk? He said, “The fact remains, we need money.”

  The second mullah scoffed. He said, “I thought bombs were cheap. Even cheaper than the lives of your suicide bombers.”

  Sadik glared at the man. “I don’t do that.”

  “Hamas doesn’t make bombs? You didn’t shoot off all those rockets? It’s all Zionist propaganda; is that it?”

  Again, the first mullah touched the arm of the second. He said to Sadik, “He knows better. He’s baiting you.” To the others, he said, “My friend here is not with the militant wing. He doesn’t build bombs; he builds clinics. This is why the Israelis haven’t marked him for death. Like the Aisha we heard from on that Syrian site, he does not approve of suicide bombings.”

  “Or the slaughter of innocent civilians,” said Sadik. “Or the lashing of beautiful young women to death. Or hunting down and killing those who’ve fled to the West.”

  The second cleric persisted. “These are not lawful clinics.”

  Mansur asked, “Oh? How are they not lawful?”

  “They teach Muslim women how not to have babies. Worse, they do operations that turn whores into virgins.”

  Sadik bristled. “Whores? These are frightened young girls.”

  Mansur nodded. “Ah, yes. The restoration of hymens.” He turned to the second mullah. “Very well. Let’s discuss it. Would you rather brides be murdered for failing to bleed? Or for bleeding insufficiently? It happens all the time. Yet you wonder why young women want to leave.”

  “Only the guilty. They flee from their sins.”

  “Really?” Mansur asked him. “What was Shahla Darvi’s sin? Never mind. You can educate me later. On the subject of the good doctor’s clinics, they treat those in need, men and women alike, and have improved a great many lives. They are built by Sadik because no one else builds them. Why not? Why didn’t the PLO build them? It’s because they’re free clinics and because they treat the poor. Corrupt bureaucrats find no profit in the poor. You want sin? There it is. What could be more unIslamic? I, for one, salute him. Let’s proceed.”

  He glanced through his papers, tapped a finger on one of them. He raised his eyes to Sadik. “While we’re on the subject of women who flee, we hear that your Saudis are missing a few. We hear that one in particular has escaped a betrothal to a powerful and feared Wahhabi cleric. We hear
that you’d been asked to find her. As with me, you refused. So what happened? They turned off the tap?”

  Sadik answered, “It was something like that.”

  “The daughter of a prince. One of thousands, but a prince. She grew up in comfort, perhaps more or less content, until she was promised to this cancer-scarred fleabag while still a budding flower of fifteen. I can’t say that I blame her for running.”

  Mansur gestured toward the man who’d grown too fat for his suit. “And we hear that she, like this man’s two daughters, is quite skilled in the use of computers. We further hear that she’s believed to be in the same place where this man’s two daughters have gone underground. It’s a safe house, run by the Nasreens.”

  “They have many safe houses,” said Sadik.

  “This spurned Saudi fleabag heads the Hasheem. Did you know that they’re hunting this princess?”

  Sadik shrugged. This should not be unexpected.

  Mansur turned to the colonel. “And some Hasheem hunters have been sent to America?”

  “We’re sure of one,” Jalil answered. “Sent a few days ago. We know that he was routed to Savannah, state of Georgia. Why there, we don’t know. We’ve lost track of him since.”

  Mansur asked Sadik, “Might you know why?”

  Savannah, thought Sadik. He felt sure that he did. But he only spread his hands in response.

  Mansur moved a finger back and forth slowly as if he were attempting to make a connection. The finger slowed. It now tilted toward Darvi.

  “This man’s daughters, by defecting, have humiliated him. A man who can’t control his women is no man at all in the eyes of his neighbors and business associates. Yet this one now takes the attitude; ‘Let them go and good riddance.’ One suspects that they must have some hold over him that prevents him from doing his duty. Does this Saudi girl have such a hold?”

  “Most do.”

  “Well?” Mansur asked. “Do you know what it is?”

  “I know the girl’s father. He works for Saudi Charities. The money doesn’t always go where it’s intended. The daughter seems to know more than she should.”

  “Is her father so important?”