Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam

by Kamran Pasha

  “You are bringing fitna by disobeying the Prophet!”

  I felt the tension in the room rise, and my father quickly moved between the men and tried to calm them.

  “My brothers, please, lower your voices,” Abu Bakr said, glancing at the Messenger, who was struggling to speak but was unable to form the words.

  And then Talha rose and took Ali’s side.

  “Do as the Messenger says,” he said quietly, but there was an edge I had never heard before in my gentle cousin’s voice.

  Your father, Zubayr, who was Talha’s closest friend, inserted himself into the debate, taking the opposing position.

  “Umar has a point. If the fever sways his words, the people will be misguided,” he said grimly.

  As the argument grew heated and voices rose in fury, I glanced at my husband, who was now fully awake and aware of the rapidly deteriorating situation. And I saw that his face had become hard and angry, and his black eyes blazed with a fury that frightened me.

  “Enough!” the Messenger said, his voice echoing like a blast of thunder in the small room. The men immediately fell silent, but I saw that their tempers were still smoldering. Muawiya, ever quick to gravitate toward authority, was at my husband’s side in an instant, pen and paper in hand to record whatever commands his master issued.

  There was a tense moment of silence as we waited for what we assumed would be his instructions about the succession of leadership. Would he order the Muslims to obey Ali, even though many would do so halfheartedly? Would he appoint my father or Umar to take charge and risk forever denying his own bloodline a claim to authority? Or would he devise another solution that satisfied all parties in the Muslim Ummah, an answer that only a visionary statesman like Muhammad could find amidst the chaos of competing interests?

  After a long moment spent looking at the men he had led to victory, men whom he loved like children and who had now been behaving like children, Muhammad finally shook his head and sighed wearily. Muawiya leaned closer, but my husband waved him away.

  “Leave me. All of you,” he said with a trace of bitterness. And then the Messenger of God rolled over in bed and closed his eyes, refusing to divulge his final testament to a people who had proven unworthy.

  I saw the fire of contention go out in the Companions’ eyes and they all looked ashamed. One by one, the men who held the future of the Ummah in their hands walked out with their heads bowed, leaving the wives alone with their sick husband.

  I have often wondered what the Messenger of God would have said that night and whether his words could have spared us the horror and the bloodshed that was to come. Looking back, I realize that of all the mistakes the Muslims made in the course of our history, none was graver than the pain we caused an old man that night, a man who loved his people and who wanted for them only peace.

  45 June 8, AD 632

  On the seventh day of his illness, the Messenger awoke in the middle of the morning and looked around at the Mothers in confusion.

  “Whose day is it?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible.

  Zaynab bint Jahsh took his hand in hers and smiled. Even in the midst of his raging fever, he remained concerned that each of his wives be treated equally.

  “Mine, O Messenger of God,” she said.

  The Prophet looked at her for a long moment as if trying to remember her name. And then he gazed around at us again.

  “And tomorrow?”

  Ramla stepped forward.

  “Mine, my husband.”

  The Prophet’s eyes fell on me and I saw the confusion in his face fade.

  “And the day after?”

  And then I and the other women understood. Even as his mind burned with fever, even as the Angel of Death hovered in terrifying proximity, the one thing Muhammad cared about was when he would be able to spend the day with me, the most beloved of his wives.

  I felt tears pouring down my cheeks and I could not speak. And then the elderly Sawda put a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “The next day is mine. But I give my day freely to my sister Aisha.”

  And then one by one, each of the other wives said the same thing. I looked at them in shock, and my tears now flowed in gratitude.

  My husband tried to rise to his feet, but he could not.

  “Help me…go to Aisha…” he said, his voice cracked and trembling.

  Ali and Abbas, the Prophet’s closest living kinsmen, were the only men with us that day. They stepped forward and helped the Prophet to his feet, holding him up by the shoulders as they gently guided him out of Maymuna’s house.

  There was an immediate roar from the Masjid courtyard, where hundreds of believers had held a vigil since the news of the Prophet’s illness. The faithful cried out to him like babies calling out for their mother. The Messenger smiled weakly at them but did not have even the strength to raise his hands to wave in acknowledgment. And then a terrible silence fell over the crowd as they watched the Messenger limp toward my house. It was a shocking and tragic sight, and I saw many grown men weep openly at the Prophet’s deterioration.

  The Messenger looked at his people and tried to smile encouragingly, but I could see the sadness in his eyes. This was not how he wished them to remember him, and yet he was a mortal man and no more immune to the ravages of time than the least of his followers.

  Ali and Abbas led the Prophet into my room and helped him lie down on the soft lambskin mattress where we had spent so many nights wrapped in love. The moment his back touched the soft, familiar fur lining, I saw him breathe deeper and the muscles in his face relax.

  Whatever else happened now, he was home.

  I sat down beside him and brushed his hair. He looked at me with deep love and then ran his fingers across my cheek. And then he stirred, as if finally remembering something he had long forgotten.

  “Is there any money left in the house?” he asked, and I heard a strange urgency in his voice.

  “A few gold coins. Nothing more,” I said, surprised by his question. The Prophet did not need money to purchase anything. He was the master and lord of the Arab nation, and whatever he desired his followers would have gladly given him without recompense.

  But he was, as usual, not thinking about himself.

  “Give them to the poor,” he said, and I saw in his eyes that he wished his request to be carried out immediately.

  I rose and went to a corner of my apartment. Under a loose stone I had buried a handful of coins that were the sum total of the wealth my husband, the king of Arabia, possessed.

  I took the gold and saw Ali step forward, ready to take the coins from me and fulfill the Messenger’s wishes. But I turned away from him and placed the coins in the hands of Abbas, who nodded and left to hand them out to the poor souls who still gathered at the Bench seeking alms.

  I could feel Ali’s intense green eyes on me, and then he turned and followed Abbas out without a word.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, I heard the melodious voice of Bilal echoing in the courtyard as he summoned the believers to noon prayers. At the lyrical calls of the Azan, my husband’s eyes opened and he rose from the bed. I looked at him in surprise and saw that his face was bathed in sweat and his graying hair shimmered with perspiration. And then I clapped my hands in joy and praised God.

  The fever had broken. The Messenger of God had recovered.

  I went to his side and wiped his brow with the hem of my skirt. I urged him to lie back down and rest. But he ignored me and changed into a clean white robe and reached for a stone pitcher from which he performed his ritual ablutions.

  And then my husband stepped outside, standing tall and erect like the man he had always been. The worshipers had already gathered in straight lines behind Abu Bakr, who had led the prayers at the Masjid in the Prophet’s absence. But at the surprising sight of the Prophet emerging from my room, looking refreshed and recuperated, there was a tumult of shouts as the believers broke ranks and hurried to surround the man who had become the center of thei
r whole world.

  I watched from behind my hastily donned veil as the Prophet strode through the excited crowd to Abu Bakr’s side. My father looked at him with tear-filled eyes and stepped back, gesturing for the Messenger to take his place at the head of the jamaat. But my husband shook his head.

  “Lead the prayers,” Muhammad said to my father, clasping his old friend’s shoulder.

  Abu Bakr blinked in confusion.

  “I cannot lead you in prayer. You are my master,” my father said, his voice trembling with emotion.

  “Lead the prayer,” my husband repeated.

  Abu Bakr hesitated and then returned to his place as imam of the Masjid. The worshipers quickly gathered behind him in perfectly straight lines, shoulder to shoulder, the feet of each man touching the feet of his neighbors in spiritual equality.

  And then the Messenger of God moved to sit to the right of my father and prayed beside him. It was a strange sight, for never in my life had I seen the Prophet, our leader, pray beside any man. And then I felt my stomach twist in apprehension as I realized how the community would interpret this action and what it would mean for my gentle-hearted father, who had no desire for any authority in this world.

  When the prayer was over, the Messenger rose and embraced Abu Bakr, kissing his cheeks warmly. And then he walked slowly back to my apartment, surrounded by throngs of adoring followers. As he approached the threshold of my door, I saw his face and my breath stopped. There was a white light shining on his features unlike any I had ever seen before. It was as if he were glowing like the moon, and suddenly the years fell from Muhammad’s face and he looked younger than I had ever known him. He was no longer a stately old man but a youth filled with boundless life and energy. It was as if I were seeing him in the days before the Revelation, as Khadija would have seen him in the early days of their union almost forty years before. He smiled at me, and in that moment I fell in love with him all over again.

  The Messenger stopped at my door and turned to face the excited crowd of believers. He looked at them with such joy, as if each of them were the most precious person on earth to him. He raised his hand to them as if waving farewell and then turned and joined me alone in our apartment.

  46

  The Messenger lay down with his head against my breast. He breathed slowly and deeply, as if savoring every single breath. I felt his hand searching for mine and I squeezed his palm. His fingers caressed mine steadily, and then he lifted his face for a moment to look at me.

  I looked into his black eyes, which seemed farther away than ever, and I had a strange sensation that wherever he was, I would not be able to join him. Gazing into those obsidian pupils, I saw myself reflected in their unblinking gaze. How different I looked from that little girl on her wedding night! I was nineteen years old now, tall and slender, my waist tightly curving into the muscles of my hips, my breasts full and generous, yet still untouched by an infant’s lips. It was strange seeing myself as a woman and stranger knowing that in my heart I was still a child.

  The Messenger leaned close to me and we kissed. It was long and deep, and I felt my heart pouring into him. I held him close, not wanting to ever let him go. And after an eternity that was only a moment, he broke away and leaned his head so that his face was pressed against my gently beating heart.

  I heard footsteps and I saw my elder brother, reconciled with his family and renamed Abdal Rahman, enter the room and greet the Messenger. Seeing my husband and me entwined in an embrace, he flushed in embarrassment and turned to leave.

  And then I saw my husband raise his hand and point toward something Abdal Rahman held in his grip. A miswak, a rough toothbrush carved out of olive twigs. I saw my husband looking at the small instrument with surprising intensity and I gently asked my brother to hand it to me. Abdal Rahman did so readily and kissed the Messenger’s hands before leaving us alone.

  I chewed on the miswak and moistened the rough bristles with my saliva. And then I handed the toothbrush to my husband, who began to brush his teeth with great vigor.

  When he was done, he handed this miswak back to me and leaned against my bosom, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed and became rhythmic, and I assumed he must have fallen asleep.

  I don’t know how long we lay like that together, two lovers who had been thrown together in a mad world and had somehow managed to come out of the chaos still bonded at the heart. After so many years of hardship and struggle, I finally felt at peace.

  It was a moment that I wanted to last forever. And yet, like everything in this fleeting world, it came to an end.

  I felt my husband stir and he opened his eyes. But instead of turning to me, his gaze fell upon an empty corner of the room. And then I had a strange sensation that we were not alone. There was a Presence in the apartment, and I felt the hairs on my neck stand up.

  And then the Messenger spoke, his voice loud and clear and strong.

  “No,” he said, as if responding to a question. “I choose the supreme communion in Paradise…with those upon whom God has showered His favors…the prophets and the saints and the martyrs and the righteous…most excellent for communion are they…”

  And then I remembered what he had said to me years before. That prophets were given the choice at the moment of death whether to remain in the mortal realm or return to their Maker.

  My heart began to pound wildly as I understood that the angel had given him the choice at last. And he had chosen eternity.

  I wanted to scream, but no sound came out of my throat. I was frozen to the spot, unable to move as the shock of what was happening hit me in the stomach.

  Muhammad, the Messenger of God, the man I loved more than any other in the world, was dying in my arms.

  “O God…” I heard him say, his voice now faint and distant. “With the supreme communion…“

  And then Muhammad’s eyes closed and I felt the last breath emerge from his breast and fly away to heaven, like a caged dove set free, soaring back to the openness that was its joyous home.

  His head grew heavy against my heart and he was gone.

  I held the lifeless body of Muhammad in my arms. Tears streamed down my cheeks in rivulets, and I rocked back and forth, like a mother singing a lullaby to her baby.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. But something in my broken heart finally moved me to let him go, to let my love lie in peace. I pulled away from him and set his corpse down on the lambskin mat that had been the sanctuary of our love. His face looked up at me, more beautiful in death than it had been even in life, the lips curled slightly in a serene smile.

  And then the dam of grief burst and I screamed, my cries echoing through the streets of Medina and telling the whole world the tragic news.

  Muhammad ibn Abdallah, the last Prophet of God to mankind, was dead.

  47

  Abu Bakr pushed his way through the crowd that had flowed out from the Masjid into the streets of the oasis. He managed to jostle his way into the courtyard, where he found Uthman sitting on the ground, sobbing like a little boy.

  “What has happened?” Abu Bakr’s heart filled with dread at the answer he feared was coming, but Uthman remained silent, wiping his eyes and looking around like a lost child seeking its mother.

  Realizing that Uthman was in no state to talk, Abu Bakr turned and saw Ali standing nearby, oddly looking away from the crowd and staring across the horizon. The old man moved to Ali’s side, pushing aside a youth who was laughing like a madman even as thick tears flowed from his eyes.

  Ali stared straight ahead, as if gazing into eternity with his otherworldly vision. He did not seem to notice Abu Bakr come up to him, and the elderly minister finally laid a hand on Ali’s shoulder and shook him as if awakening him from a reverie.

  “Tell me,” Abu Bakr said simply.

  Ali blinked several times, but his green eyes still flickered with confusion. And when he spoke, his voice sounded odd and distant.

  “They say the Messenger—may God’s blessin
gs and peace be upon him—has passed away,” Ali said, confirming Abu Bakr’s worst fears. And then he returned his gaze to the horizon. “But that is strange…because I can still see him…”

  Abu Bakr felt a chill go down his spine. And then a loud shout caused him to turn his head and he saw that Umar was standing on the minbar, the small platform from where the Messenger had given his sermons. He brandished a terrifying sword above his head and called for the attention of the believers, who soon massed around the towering figure.

  “It is a lie!” Umar bellowed, his eyes bulging with madness. “The Messenger lives! He has only gone to commune with his Lord! Even as he did when he rose to heaven on Lailat-ul-Mi’raj!”

  The crowd rumbled at Umar’s words, and many cried out in support of his claim. The Messenger of God was not dead. His soul was traveling through the heavenly spheres as it had done before and would shortly return to revive his body.

  It was a dream and a fantasy, and it was what they wanted to hear. And yet Abu Bakr had long ago learned the painful lesson that wishful thinking and reality were often desperately at odds.

  He turned and stepped inside his daughter’s home to see the terrible truth for himself.

  I SAT IN THE corner, shaking violently as the other Mothers gathered around me, their loud wails tearing the hole in my heart even wider. And then a shadow fell across the threshold and I saw my father enter, hunched and weary with age. His eyes immediately fell upon the figure of the Prophet, which lay on my bedspread covered in his favorite green cloak.

  Somehow I managed to get to my feet and run into his arms. He held me tight as I wept like a little girl, patting my hair gently as he used to do when I would skin my knee racing down the streets of Mecca a lifetime ago.

  And then he stepped back and let me go, his attention fully on the unmoving outline of the Messenger’s body. My father approached the shrouded corpse slowly, and then, with great reverence, he lifted the cloak from my husband’s face. I watched through blurred eyes as Abu Bakr leaned close and checked the vein in Muhammad’s neck for a pulse and then his chest for any fleeting heartbeat. Abu Bakr finally put his ear close to my husband’s lips in search of any sign of breath. My father finally sighed and lifted his head, gazing down at the body of the man who had changed his life and the world.