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

by Kamran Pasha

  And then he leaned down and kissed the Messenger on the forehead.

  “Dearer than my mother and my father, you have tasted the death that God has decreed for you,” he said as tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks. “No death after this will ever befall you.”

  My father placed the cloak back over the body and turned to walk out. Not knowing what else to do and not wishing to spend another moment in the grief-stricken company of the other wives, I wrapped my face behind my veil and followed him into the courtyard.

  The first thing I saw was Umar, waving a sword from the pulpit and shouting like a madman, his voice became increasingly hoarse from his cries.

  “Those who say the Messenger of God is dead are like the Children of Israel, who proclaimed Moses dead when he climbed the mountain to speak with his Lord! And like those faithless cowards at Sinai, those who spread the lie against their Prophet will be killed! We will cut off the hands and feet of the traitors!”

  My father stepped forward and called out to his friend, who had by now clearly taken leave of his senses.

  “Gently, Umar. Calm yourself.”

  But Umar ignored him. He continued ranting and raving about the various creative tortures he would impose on any man who dared to say that Muhammad had died.

  My father shook his head sadly and then raised his voice, his measured words booming with authority.

  “Listen to me, my brothers,” Abu Bakr called out, and suddenly all attention was upon him. I saw the terrified and grief-stricken people of Medina look upon my father, the first adult man to embrace Islam and Muhammad’s childhood friend and closest adviser. Their eyes were pleading for him to end their pain, to show them light and lead them out of the darkness of uncertainty that covered them from all sides.

  And then my father spoke the words by which he would be forever remembered, the words he had been born to say.

  “If anyone worships Muhammad, know that Muhammad is dead. If anyone worships God, know that God lives and will never die.”

  A deep silence fell upon the crowd as the awesome, undeniable Truth was said at last aloud.

  And then my father recited a verse from the holy Qur’an that had been revealed years before, during the aftermath of Uhud, when the Messenger had nearly met his death on the battlefield. It was a verse that I knew by heart, but it had somehow been forgotten in the midst of the madness of the past few hours.

  Muhammad is just a messenger

  And messengers have passed away before him.

  If he dies or is killed

  Will you turn on your heels?

  Whoso turns on his heels will not hurt God.

  And God will reward the thankful.

  The Muslims gazed at one another in wonder, as if they had never heard these verses before. I saw the desperation in their eyes fade away, replaced by deep sadness that was nonetheless buttressed by the indomitable power of faith. And then I heard a terrible cry like that of a cat being strangled and my eyes flew to Umar. The power of God’s Word had penetrated the cloud of his madness, and he was standing bereft and alone on the minbar. And then the sword slipped out of his grasp and landed on the earthen floor of the Masjid with a clang. Umar fell to his knees and buried his mighty face in his hands and wept like a child.

  As the truth finally sank into our souls, the claws of panic released their grip on our hearts, and then the flow of tears began in earnest.

  Tears of loss, but not of despair.

  We knew now that the journey of Muhammad had come to an end.

  But the journey of Islam was just beginning.

  Book Four

  Birth of an Empire

  1

  Muhammad was dead, but the Ummah was very much alive and in desperate need of leadership. The next several hours were chaotic, as word spread through the oasis of the Prophet’s passing and various factions attempted to assert their own agendas. And then word came to the Masjid that the tribal elders of the oasis were gathering in the ancient meeting hall of the Bani Sa’idah, where they had forged their ever-shifting allegiances in the days before Islam. The old clans of Medina were apparently planning to choose one of their own for the leadership of the community, and they had pointedly met without inviting any of the immigrants from Mecca, those who had stood by the Prophet from the beginning.

  Upon hearing this, Umar flew into a new rage and grabbed my father by the arm, urging him to go and intervene before a decision was reached that would tear apart the Ummah. A Companion named Abu Ubayda, a respected Muslim from the tribe of Quraysh, joined them as they turned to face this new crisis. As my father and the other men hurried along to the old meeting hall, a thought flashed through my mind that Ali would likely have desired to attend as well. He had retired to grieve in his house with Fatima and their sons, and Talha and Zubayr were with him. For an instant, I wondered if I should send a messenger to Ali’s house to inform the others of the tribal conference under way. And then I felt that old flash of bitterness at Ali’s betrayal, and the thought quickly fled my mind.

  UMAR PUSHED HIS WAY through the heavy bronze doors that had been closed as the elders of the oasis gathered to discuss what to do now that the Messenger of God was dead. The issue that they had all been avoiding for the past several months could no longer be tabled, and a successor to the leadership of the community had to be selected.

  And it was an issue that remained as contentious as it had always been. Umar scowled at the sight of the tribal chiefs arguing angrily, each selfishly asserting his own claims to power. The room was packed and tempers were clearly rising as the rival tribes of Aws and Khazraj jockeyed for position. The Prophet had spent years working master-fully to bring these disparate and antagonistic peoples together, and the moment he was gone, they were ready to backslide into old feuds and enmity.

  Abu Bakr stood beside him, looking at the loudly arguing men with sadness. Umar knew that his friend’s heart was broken to see the cruel divisions of the past reassert themselves. Abu Bakr had always seen himself as a doting father over the Muslim community, and it must have been agonizing for him to watch people he loved like children fighting bitterly, the civility of the recent years torn apart with the opening of old wounds that only Muhammad had been able to heal.

  The stone hall was held up by dozens of sturdy pillars, and Abu Bakr leaned against one to steady himself.

  “Listen to me, my brothers,” he said. But his hoarse voice was lost in the tumult of dispute and heated emotion. The old man took a deep breath as if trying to find the energy to speak over the maddening roar of the crowd, and then tried again, but to no avail.

  Umar felt his blood pound in his ears, and then he strode forward into the middle of the room and raised his thick hands above his head.

  “Silence!” he cried out with such thunder that the windows shook. A pall instantly fell over the startled crowd and all eyes were upon him. He noticed that some of the tribal leaders were surprised, even irritated, to see that the Meccan immigrants had learned of this semisecret council. But if any wished him to leave, none had the courage to say so now.

  Umar turned to Abu Bakr and nodded. The old man strolled forward into the room, his back hunched over more than usual, as if his bones could no longer hold up the weight of responsibility that he had carried for so many years.

  “Listen to me, brothers,” Abu Bakr said, his voice hoarse but clear. “We are at a dangerous moment, when Satan will seek to mislead us, to tear apart what God has brought together. It is the time for measured judgments, not decisions made in the heat of passion.”

  At Abu Bakr’s carefully chosen words, Umar felt the tension in the crowd ease slightly. Abu Bakr continued, gently praising the Ansar, the natives of Medina who had taken in the Prophet and his sorry band of refugees a decade before. He acknowledged that had it not been for the generosity of men like the tribal elders who were gathered here now, Islam would have died. Instead, the religion had prospered and had conquered all of Arabia, and Medina had gone fr
om a backward and forgotten town to the capital of a new nation. A nation that was now facing new threats, from both rebels within and the great powers on its borders. What was needed now was a leader who could hold together the disparate tribes and guide the Muslims through the uncertain days ahead.

  “Medina is the capital of Arabia, but the nation’s heart remains in Mecca,” my father said slowly, his eyes peering at the faces of the elders. “If the Arab nation is to remain unified, its leadership must remain in the hands of Quraysh, the only tribe that has the prestige and the resources to keep the smaller tribes united under its command.”

  Abu Bakr’s words were met with silence. Then a tribal leader named Sa’d ibn Ubadah stepped forward. He was the head of the Abu Sai’dah clan, in whose hall they were meeting, and he had been one of the most prominent candidates for leadership whose name was being bandied about by the council before Abu Bakr had spoken. Umar tensed, knowing that Sa’d held in his hands the ability to rip apart the Muslim community or to bring it together

  And then, to Umar’s surprise, the tribal elder chose the latter.

  “You’re right,” the gray-haired Sa’d said, nodding to Abu Bakr. “The men of Medina have played their part in the destiny of Islam, and it is a hallowed role for which we will be remembered. But our hands are too small to hold the reins of Arabia.”

  It was a stunning admission and a capitulation of authority that would have been unthinkable years before. At that moment, Umar realized that the Prophet’s legacy was very much alive and their people would survive. Islam was like the sea—even when the surface appeared torn apart by the storms of time, at its heart it remained calm and serene.

  There was silence for a long moment. And then other chieftains stepped forward and nodded, accepting the truth of Abu Bakr’s words and joining Sa’d in renouncing their claims to power.

  And then Umar felt Abu Bakr take his hand and pull him forward and he turned to see that the old man had done the same with their friend Abu Ubayda.

  “I offer you these two men from Quraysh, men of nobility and character who can keep the Ummah united and spread the message of Islam to the world,” Abu Bakr said, holding Umar and Abu Ubayda’s hands high. “Pledge your allegiance to whichever you will.”

  Umar was shocked, and he glanced at Abu Ubayda, who looked utterly terrified. Neither of these men had expected that Abu Bakr would nominate them for the leadership of Islam. Umar felt tears welling in his eyes at his friend’s loyalty and belief in him, this gentle old man who had no ambitions of his own, no desire for power over others. A man of such honesty and integrity that the Prophet had named him As-Siddiq, the Witness to Truth, and had trusted him as his sole companion in the cave while the assassins hunted him in the desert.

  Abu Bakr. A man whom the Prophet had made his right hand in administering the daily needs of the Ummah, a man who had been wealthy and had given everything he had to free slaves and feed the poor. A man who lived like a pauper when he should have been clothed in the riches of power. A man who was loved by everyone and hated by none.

  A man whom the Prophet had appointed to lead the prayers just before he died. A man for whom the Messenger of God had set aside his own position as imam and had prayed beside in the final hour of his life.

  And then, like a bolt of lightning striking his heart, Umar knew what needed to be done. He lowered his hand and spoke words that seemed to come from someplace deeper than his own heart.

  “O Ansar!” he cried out, his voice trembling with emotion. “Do you not know that the Messenger of God himself ordered Abu Bakr to lead the prayer?”

  There was a stir of assent, and Umar saw Abu Bakr frown, giving him a warning look to stop. But Umar could not have stopped even if he’d wanted to. Something had taken possession of his soul, and the words erupted from inside of him, like the first shoot of life rising up from the dead earth after a rainstorm, signaling the beginning of a new era.

  “Then who among you would dare take precedence over him?” Umar asked. There was a moment of awed silence as Umar’s words sank into their souls. And the son of al-Khattab, a man who had been a monster and a murderer in another life and was now a revered and honored leader among men, took Abu Bakr’s right hand in his and proudly pledged his allegiance to his friend.

  Abu Bakr turned pale white and began to protest. But it was too late. Umar’s actions had stirred the emotions of the crowd, and suddenly the entire room descended on Abu Bakr. The reluctant old man was surrounded by the elders of Medina as they unanimously pledged their loyalty to him and proclaimed him Khalifat Rasulallah, the Caliph, or Vice-regent, of the Messenger of God.

  I WAS KEEPING VIGIL over the Messenger’s body when I learned of the council’s decision to elect my father as the new leader of the community. And I grieved. For he was an old man, tired and weary of the world, with no love of power. And yet his new role as Caliph would place him in the deadly path of others whose ambitions had been frustrated. Every decision he made would be scrutinized by his rivals and he would inevitably be compared unfavorably with the Messenger, who had been the most brilliant statesman the Arabs had ever seen. Ruthless men would be eagerly waiting for him to make a mistake, their daggers sharpened both figuratively and literally. It was a terrible and thankless position.

  But whatever my doubts, the men of Medina did not appear to share them. As word spread of Abu Bakr’s accession to power, crowds gathered outside his house and mobbed him with their enthusiasm, the Muslims lining up to pledge their loyalty to the man whom the Messenger had honored in the final moments of his life.

  Every household in Medina sent representatives to pledge their fealty and support of the new Caliph. Every household except one.

  Shortly after Abu Bakr had been chosen, Umar and the crowd of elders exited the ancient hall and headed immediately toward the small stone hut where Ali and Fatima lived with their sons. Umar pounded on the simple door of palm wood, demanding that Ali come out and pledge allegiance to my father, whose face was dark with embarrassment at the fervor of the mob.

  When Ali emerged, he looked at the Muslims with his unreadable green eyes and listened as Umar announced what had transpired.

  “Abu Bakr has been chosen,” Umar said. “Give him your hand.”

  Ali remained rooted to the spot and made no sign of moving to my father’s side.

  “You have made this decision without consulting the Family of the Messenger,” he said softly, a hint of hurt in his voice. The matter that had been on the minds of everyone that day, whether Ali would assert his own claim to power, had been settled in the least gracious fashion possible—by excluding him from the deliberations and denying him the opportunity to make his case.

  Umar scowled, realizing that Ali had reason to feel insulted but refusing to budge from the conviction of his own heart.

  “Even so, the decision has been made,” Umar said. “Give him your pledge of loyalty.” A hint of danger had entered his voice. If Ali chose now to challenge Abu Bakr’s appointment by the council, the Ummah would be torn apart and the demons of civil war would soon be upon us.

  Ali looked at the towering Umar, gazing deeply into his eyes. Few men would have been able to withstand the glance of either of these powerful men, and seeing them staring each other down was like watching two rams preparing for battle.

  And then a shadow fell between them and the Prophet’s daughter Fatima appeared as if out of nowhere. She took her husband’s hand in hers and squeezed it tight, and then turned to face Umar, who towered a head above her.

  “Leave us,” she said, her eyes burning with an anger that no one had ever seen before on her gentle face. Umar stepped back as if he had been stabbed in the gut

  My father immediately placed himself between them, seeking to prevent the tensions from escalating

  “I apologize to the People of the House,” the new Caliph said. “May God shower his blessings forever on the Family of the Messenger.”

  Fatima looked at Abu Bakr,
her black eyes still burning. And then, without another word, she guided her husband back inside and slammed the door on the crowd.

  ALI DID NOT PLEDGE his allegiance to my father that day, a fact that only increased my dislike for him. As long as he stood aloof, Abu Bakr could not reign in security, for the threat of rebellion from the Prophet’s bloodline would hang over him like a bitter and deadly sword. His legitimacy would remain in question, and the vultures that were even now gathering would move closer, ready to swoop in and destroy him.

  But as the sun finally set on that terrible day, Ali emerged from his household and came to my apartment to help make plans for the Prophet’s burial. Fatima was with him, and though I refused even to look at Ali, I gave the Messenger’s daughter a deep embrace. Whatever poison existed between her husband and me, Fatima had always been kind to me and I felt nothing but respect for this sweet girl. She held me tight as I wept over the loss of the man we had both loved, but she did not tremble with tears like the other women and was, in fact, strangely calm. I assumed that she was in a state of shock or denial and that the tears would come when the truth finally sank into her heart. But as the hours passed and she remained resigned and dignified, I finally asked her about her restraint in the face of her father’s death. She gave me a strange smile and said she had no reason to grieve, as she would be joining him soon. It was an odd and unnerving comment, but then she was an odd and unnerving woman, and I decided to leave her be.

  The immediate concern was what to do with the Prophet’s corpse. In normal Muslim tradition, the body of the deceased was washed ritually before it was shrouded, except in the case of martyrs, whose blood was considered a sign of eternal glory. The Prophet had not died on the battlefield and yet there was much hesitation to strip him bare and wash him like any other man. I myself had never gazed upon the Prophet’s naked body, for he was exceedingly modest, as I have said, and even when we made love, it was under the cover of darkness.