by Kamran Pasha
Said nodded. He was a simple man and he easily accepted that there were things that were beyond his comprehension. The fact that God was actually speaking to them right now, in their very city, through the mouth of Muhammad, was itself more than his mind could comprehend, and he had no desire to burden himself with deeper mysteries.
“Read it again,” he said, and she nodded.
She began to recite again, letting the rhythm of the words flow through her. It was when believers read the holy Qur’an out loud that they were closest to God. The very words that the Lord of the Worlds had spoken vibrated through her being and lifted her soul.
But when she said the words “He knows what you keep secret,” the stillness of her home was shattered and her heart jumped into her throat.
“Fatima! Fatima! Come out here!”
Umar’s voice boomed from just beyond the door. Panic gripped her. Had her brother heard her recitation? She looked down at Said and saw that his rosy cheeks had drained of color as the same thought crossed his mind.
And then, without any further prompting, she realized that the end was at hand.
“He knows” was all she could say, her throat closing in on her in terror. Umar began to bang on the door and she knew she had no time to place the leather hide with the holy verses in its proper place, a silver jewelry box that she kept on the top shelf of their kitchen cupboard.
Even though she hated treating the Words of God without proper decorum, she had no choice but to slip the parchment inside her dark woolen tunic, close to her breast.
She squeezed Said’s hand and took a deep breath, and then opened the door.
Umar stormed inside without any greeting, his face livid. She saw that he was carrying his sword in his hand and her stomach sank. Umar slammed the door behind him and then pushed up uncomfortably close to his sister, his weapon held in a steel grip.
“What was that gibberish I heard you reciting?” There was a dangerous rumble to his voice that Fatima recognized. It was the tremor before the earthquake was unleashed.
“We were just talking,” she said with a small laugh that immediately sounded false to her.
Umar grabbed her by the arm with crushing strength.
“Don’t lie to me!”
Said stepped forward. Although he was as terrified of Umar as his wife, he knew that his brother-in-law was violating every rule of Arab etiquette and he hoped that a stern call to honor would calm the brute.
“Who are you to come into our home and proclaim us liars?” he said with as much bravado as he could muster.
Umar looked at him incredulously, as if noticing him for the first time in his life. And then he raised his sword threateningly, the razor-sharp edge glistening in the morning light that poured in from the windows.
“I am a Guardian of the Kaaba who has sworn to kill any who follow Muhammad!”
In later years, Said would say that he had no idea where he had found the courage to stand up to Umar. But seeing the look of fear in the eyes of the woman he loved, she whose strength he always admired, set his blood on fire, and he took his hand and pushed the sword out of his way.
“You have lost your mind! Get out of my house!”
Umar was shocked at Said’s sudden defiance, as men always are when those they assume are weak finally reveal a backbone.
“Tell me the truth!” he said, and Fatima could almost hear a desperate plea in his voice. And then when Said did not answer, Umar grabbed him by the neck and threw him across the room. Said fell against a table made of carved olive wood, which splintered with the force of his fall. Said dropped hard amid the jagged wreckage and lay there unmoving.
“No!” Fatima could hear herself scream, but it sounded strangely distant, as if echoing across a canyon in the barren wastes of the Najd to the east. Forgetting about her brother’s sword, which could at any moment sever her head in the madness of fanaticism, she threw herself on Umar and slapped him ferociously.
Umar pushed her off him and she felt as if she had been grabbed by a dust devil and flung across the sky. And then her flight was cut short by a cold, cruel stone wall. She struck her head on the whitewashed rock and fell to her knees as lightning seared through her skull.
Fatima’s eyes blurred and she felt as if warm water were flowing down her face. And then she realized it was blood. She touched her forehead and saw that her palm was stained in crimson.
Umar was looking at her, breathing hard, as if he had climbed high into the mountains. His eyes were fixed on the blood that flowed steadily from the cut just above her right eye.
Fatima saw that his sword was raised and she realized that the demon that had possessed him would soon kill her. She touched her breast and felt the comfort of the leather strip on which the verses of the holy Qur’an were written. If she was going to die, at least the she would meet her Maker with His Words embedded next to her heart.
“You want the truth? Then, yes! We are Muslims and we believe God and His Messenger! Go ahead! Kill me! Kill your sister like you did your own daughter!”
She did not know what madness possessed her to say the last, but Umar staggered as if he had just been struck by a spear in the gut. He dropped his sword, which fell to the ground with a clang that echoed relentlessly.
Umar sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands for a long moment. And then, when he finally looked up, there was confusion on his face, like a child awakening from a bad dream.
“What is this spell he has cast on you?” he asked, and she knew he referred to the Prophet.
She managed to get to her feet and stumbled over to check on Said. He was regaining consciousness and she helped him sit up slowly. After checking to make sure that no bones were broken, she finally turned to her brother.
“It is not a spell but a Revelation,” she said softly as she found a clean rag and wiped the blood from her face. The blood had stopped flowing and had begun to clot. “God himself speaks through Muhammad, and His words can change men’s hearts.”
Umar looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke, there was weariness in his voice.
“Show me these words and let me judge for myself.”
She looked into his eyes and saw no sign of the demon. Fatima hesitated, then reached into her blouse and removed the leather strip.
Umar held out his hand for the parchment, but she shook her head.
“Only the clean may touch the Word of God.”
Umar saw that she was serious. He rose and took a jug of water from the kitchen. First he poured it over her wound and helped her wash away the rest of the blood that stained her cheek.
And he followed her instructions as she taught him wudu, the sacred ritual of ablution that Muslims performed before praying or reading the holy Qur’an. He washed his hands, face, and feet as she instructed.
Fatima finally handed him the strip of cowhide, the text standing out in bright green paint. Umar looked down at the page, his brow creasing as he read the mysterious letters that opened the text.
Ta Ha…
11
We waited inside the Messenger’s house in silence, a cloud of dread hanging over the small community of believers. I saw my father looking down at his hands, unable to meet the eyes of Nuaym, who sat across from him on the cold marble floor. It was Abu Bakr who had asked Nuaym to intervene with his clansman after I returned that night, breathless from my tale of intrigue inside the Hall of Assembly. I had expected my father to be angry with me for taking such a mad risk, but he had listened gravely and then gone to the Messenger with news of the plot. My mother, however, had been furious when she heard how I had risked my life and had spanked me until my throat was sore from crying.
My rump still sore from the beating, I sat on my haunches. I had never seen the Messenger so quiet. The Prophet had been deeply distressed to hear that his life had been saved by placing Umar’s sister, Fatima, at risk. He stared out a window at a palm tree that grew just outside the wall of his wife’s home, as if
he could find some hope in its steady defiance of the desert winds that buffeted the city that morning. Perhaps I imagined it, but I did not see him blink at all for minutes. He seemed to be in a trance, but it was not like the terrifying seizures that overtook him when the Revelation came. He seemed like a man sleeping with his eyes awake, his powerful chest moving up and down steadily as he breathed.
The silence in the Prophet’s house was so strong that it was an eerie sound in itself. And then a loud steady knock resounded through the hall, like the trumpet of the angel shattering the stillness of death and summoning men to the Resurrection.
Ali rose from his place at the Messenger’s feet. He walked over slowly to the main door and peered through a tiny peephole before turning to face the gathered crowd.
“It is Umar,” he said matter-of-factly. “He comes bearing a sword.”
A murmur of fear spread among the believers. My sister, Asma, suddenly burst into tears, assuming the worst for poor Fatima. The Messenger’s uncle Hamza stood up.
“Let him in. If he has come with good intent, we will give him a mountain of good in return. And if his intent is evil, we will kill him with his own sword.”
Ali looked to the Prophet, who stood up with dignity and moved toward the door. I noticed again how his strides were not like those of any other man I had ever seen. Though the Messenger was not as tall as Hamza, he walked with a speed and determination that made those with longer legs pant to keep up with him. It was as if he were the wind itself, forever outracing the fastest of the sons of Adam.
The Prophet stopped a few feet away from the door. He was now positioned so that his followers were grouped behind him, as if he would single-handedly shield us from Umar’s vengeance. Hamza stood behind his right shoulder and Ali was to his left. The Messenger nodded to his young cousin, who threw open the door.
We all stopped breathing. I thought I could hear the steady thrum of our hearts, as if they were pounding in unison.
And then Umar stepped inside, his sword unsheathed and glistening in his hand. I looked with morbid curiosity to see if there was any blood drying on the blade. But if he had killed his sister, as we all expected, Umar had wiped the sword clean before returning to fulfill his vow.
I watched his face with fascination. He appeared different from the man I had seen only a few hours before. There was no more rage on his face, and he appeared uncertain, almost afraid, as he stood before the Messenger.
For a moment, no one moved. It was as if the slightest tremor would set into motion events that would change everything.
And indeed it did.
The Prophet stepped forward and grabbed Umar by his studded belt, suddenly pulling the giant who towered a full head over the tallest men in the room as if he were an unruly child. He dragged Umar unceremoniously to the center of the hall, where the assassin was forced to stand among a crowd of two dozen believers staring at him with fear.
“What has brought you here, O son of al-Khattab?” the Messenger said, his eyes never leaving his adversary’s bushy bearded face. “I cannot see you desisting until God sends down some calamity on you.”
Umar hesitated. I saw him move his sword arm and Hamza instantly had his bow in his hand, an arrow nocked and pointed right at Umar’s chest.
And then I saw something that made my heart leap into my throat.
Tears welled into the giant’s eyes and poured down his weathered cheeks like the well of Ishmael suddenly erupting from the bowels of the desert and bringing hope of life where there had been only death.
Umar dropped the sword at the Messenger’s feet and knelt in humility until his head was positioned beneath the Prophet’s chest. And then he said words that no one in all of Mecca would have ever expected.
“O Messenger of God, I have come to you that I may declare my faith in God and in His Messenger and in what he has brought from God.”
There was moment of stunned silence. This had to be a trick, some ruse Umar had devised to startle us and lower our guard so that he could strike unexpectedly.
But then the Prophet smiled warmly, his face glowing like the sun breaking through dark clouds.
“Allahu akbar!” the Messenger cried in a voice that thundered throughout the hall and poured out into the dusty streets of the holy city. “God is great!”
And then Muhammad, may God’s blessings and peace be upon him, embraced Umar like a brother whom he had not seen in many years.
We looked at one another in wonder. And then I started clapping, a flurry of giggles erupting from my lips. The sound of my laugh was throaty and contagious, and soon others joined in. We raised our voices in joy, marveling at the power of faith and the inexplicable depths of the human heart.
12
A few hours later, Umar strode through the streets of Mecca, walking as if in a dream. Everything had changed the moment he had read the Words of God. It was as if someone had reached inside his breast and torn out a deadly snake that had been wrapped around his heart, squeezing out any love for life or his fellow man. And then he had understood. The Spirit that he sensed around the Kaaba, the Being that he had vowed to serve at the cost of his own life, had a voice, and it had spoken to him through a book revealed to an illiterate man. All this time, he had been fighting the very force to which he had dedicated his soul.
Umar had read the words that were painted on the leather strip and had fallen back as if struck by an invisible hand. He had started shaking with violent tremors and his head had felt warm and dizzy. But he knew that he was not suffering from fever or plague. It was the same dizzying sensation that had torn through him the day he had sought solace for murdering his daughter by kneeling at the Sanctuary. But this time, instead of cruel laughter mocking him, he heard a gentle voice in his heart, filled with compassion, saying: “Go to him.”
And like a child who does not dare question his elders, Umar had gotten up without a word to his sister and walked straight to the Messenger’s house. When he had declared his newfound faith, he felt as if a stone had lifted from his shoulders and that someone who had been imprisoned inside of him had suddenly been set free. The man Umar had once been was gone, like a shadow that vanishes when light is shone upon it.
He had not cried since he was a child. His father, al-Khattab, would beat him ferociously each time he sniffled, calling him weak and threatening to cut off his male organ if he kept weeping like a girl. But today he had wept for hours, as if a dam had burst and all the pain he had bottled inside himself for years had come out. He could not control it if he wanted to. And, in truth, he did not want to.
The Messenger had accepted him and forgiven him his treachery, but Umar found he still could not stop crying. He kept seeing the image of his precious baby daughter looking up at him with a smile even as he covered her tiny body with stones. She had kept squeezing his finger until the breath had finally left her and her little hand had dropped.
He had looked at the Messenger and asked that God punish him for his sin. He had handed his sword to Muhammad and begged him to avenge the girl and cut off his head. But the Prophet had put a gentle hand on his arm, his own black eyes welling with tears of empathy.
“You have already punished yourself enough, son of al-Khattab,” he had said softly. “Islam is like a river. It cleans those who immerse themselves of their past sins.”
Umar had bowed his head, still not willing to accept the forgiveness he was offered.
“You say that all men will be resurrected one day and the girls who were slain by their fathers will confront them on the Day of Judgment,” he said, repeating the teachings that he had reviled and mocked only a few hours before. “What will I say to my little girl when I face her?”
The Prophet looked past Umar’s shoulder, as if staring at some grand vision on the horizon of his mind’s eye.
“I see her holding you by the hand, squeezing your finger, as she leads you to Paradise.”
At that moment, Umar ibn al-Khattab was freed. The man he
had been, the murderer, the drunk, the adulterer, died. And the man who now walked purposefully through the cobbled alleys of Mecca had been born.
He noticed that people in the streets were staring at him, looking confused as he passed them. And then he realized it was because he was smiling. Not the smile of a man with a deadly scheme in his heart, but one of pure and unconditional joy. As he passed by a street merchant selling coral combs, agate rings, and vials of rosewater perfume to a group of black-veiled Bedouin women, he caught a reflection of his face in the polished silver mirror the merchant had erected to promote his wares to the vanity of his customers.
He did not recognize himself. The cruel scowl that he had once believed to be a sign of power and masculinity was gone, replaced by a look of childlike wonder. Umar grinned and found that he liked the way the lines around his lips and cheeks crinkled when he did so.
And then he forced himself to adopt a serious, stoic face. For now he was on a new mission and he could not allow himself to be distracted by the unfamiliar face that stared back at him from the mirror.
Umar moved forward with steady strides, his eyes focused on a grand house of yellow stone, the walls decorated with carved flowers and wreaths of silver. He knocked harshly on the dark wooden doors made of cedar imported from Lebanon.
He heard the sound of movement and caught a glimpse of a dark eye gazing at him through a tiny peephole. And then the door swung open and Abu Jahl emerged, his face eager with expectation.
“Is it done? Is the man dead?”
Umar looked at him for a long moment. He had once secretly envied Abu Jahl’s chiseled good looks, but now he saw only a demon whose ugliness was evident in the cruel gaze of his eyes.
“One man is dead,” Umar said slowly, pronouncing each word as if it would be his last. “Another has been born.”
Abu Jahl furled his brow in confusion.
“What are you saying?”
Umar leaned close to him, a triumphant smile slowly crossing his face.