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

by Kamran Pasha

  And in a world where gold was flowing in rivers, corruption and venality began to set in. Complaints arose over the self-serving conduct and brutality of some of the Umayyad governors, but the Caliph himself did not hear of the growing unrest until the sparks of discontent had become a raging fire.

  For Uthman had made one terrible mistake in choosing his own inner circle. He had appointed a young cousin named Marwan ibn al-Hakam to serve as an adviser. Both Marwan and his father had the dubious distinction of being cursed by my husband, who had expelled them from Arabia because he saw in their hearts the disease of grave treachery. They had remained in exile until Uthman took power. Feeling great sorrow for his kinsmen, the old man had pardoned them and recalled them to Medina in the hope of rehabilitating them. It was a foolish mistake, motivated by the softness of his heart, for the moment the bitter young man returned, he quickly sought to achieve power over those who had humiliated him. Using honeyed words and feigning humility, Marwan rose to power as Uthman’s personal scribe, thereby becoming responsible for writing—and reading—all of the Caliph’s correspondence. Using his newfound power, Marwan began issuing commands under the Caliph’s seal without his knowledge, furthering the interests of corrupt members of the Umayyad clan while keeping word of the growing unhappiness in the empire from the old man’s ears.

  But even if Uthman remained oblivious to the rising cries of discontent, word was rapidly spreading to others in Medina, and our alarm at the deteriorating situation began to grow. My brother Muhammad, now a handsome and passionate young man, had emigrated to Egypt and had become embroiled in the political strife there. He was an idealistic youth who was ready to fight against injustice wherever he saw it, and his status as the son of Abu Bakr gave him immediate standing among the Egyptians. Within a short time, my brother became a vocal leader of the opposition, and he gained the support of Amr ibn al-As, the revered conqueror of Egypt, whom Uthman had displaced as governor in favor of his own kinsman.

  The unrest in Egypt soon boiled over into rioting, during which the Umayyad governors brutally suppressed the protesters. Muhammad sent several letters to Uthman demanding that he address the grievances of the Egyptians, but they quickly disappeared into the void through Marwan’s machinations. Convinced that the Caliph had himself become corrupt, my young and idealistic brother led an armed band of rebels to Medina to demand Uthman’s resignation.

  It was a foolish act, the tactic of a young and misguided man who wanted only to do the right thing. For that, I hope he is one day forgiven. But the one person I cannot forgive in the drama that subsequently unfolded is myself.

  I WAS NOW A woman in my forties and I thought I had gained the wisdom necessary to intervene in these dangerous affairs of state. As word of the uprising in Egypt came from my brother, I went to Uthman to plead with him to replace the corrupt governors who were fomenting chaos. Marwan attempted to deny me an audience, but when I stormed inside Uthman’s palatial home, his guards stepped aside, afraid to lay a hand on the Mother of the Believers.

  When I saw Uthman, he looked old and very tired. I could see a hint of confusion in his eyes as he looked at me for a long moment. It was as if he did not recognize me, a woman he had known from birth. Even though my face was veiled, my golden eyes still sparkled. But his mind soon cleared and he smiled, his face still beautiful despite the weight of decades. He listened to me patiently for some time, but I could tell that he did not understand what I was saying. And then I realized to my horror that Uthman had absolutely no idea that the situation in Egypt had changed, that there were men marching in the streets of the province calling for the ouster of his appointed envoys. He kept looking to Marwan for confirmation, but that wily rat shrugged as if this were all news to him. At the end of our audience, Uthman politely rose and asked me to give his regards to my mother, Umm Ruman, and all blood drained from my face.

  My mother had been dead for over twenty years.

  I left the Caliph’s manor with dread in the pit of my stomach. Not only was Uthman being manipulated by corrupt officials, he appeared to be suffering from dementia. The future of the empire was at stake and I had to act fast.

  I BEGAN TO SPEAK to the elders among the Companions. Talha and Zubayr, who were revered by the community as two of its greatest war heroes, were sympathetic to my concerns but were wary of openly challenging the Caliph. I finally turned in frustration to Ali, who sternly warned me to stay out of political affairs.

  “You are playing with a sharp sword, my Mother,” he said. “It is a weapon that could cut you in turn.”

  My face grew red at what I perceived to be his condescension, and I stormed out of his house. I returned to the Masjid and shared my concerns with the other Mothers, but they all joined Ali and the other elders in warning me to stand back. Ramla was especially caustic in her words, which was no surprise, considering that she was the daughter of Abu Sufyan and a kinsman of Uthman. Umm Salama was kind but firm, saying that our place as the Mothers of the Believers was to teach and nurture the Muslims. Politics was the domain of men. Even Hafsa, who had gone from a bitter rival to a close friend over the years, was nervous and refused to commit herself to supporting me against the Caliph.

  Angered by my failure to drum up support among my peers, I decided to turn to the masses. I began to appear regularly in the marketplace, standing veiled but proud and calling out to the men to pressure Uthman to step down. It was a dangerous act of rebellion in the heart of the city, and only my honored status as the Prophet’s wife kept me from being arrested by the Caliph’s men. As I shared my concerns with the people of the city, I lit a fire that I hoped would smoke the old man out of his home and cause him to see the truth of the world. But it became a fire that soon threatened to consume everything I had worked for my entire life.

  For my brother Muhammad arrived with hundreds of armed and angry young men from Egypt and the rebellion I had sought to incite suddenly became a terrifying reality.

  MUHAMMAD MET WITH ME and explained that he did not seek violence, but he was willing to defend himself and his men. Realizing that my young brother’s veins ran hot with the fire of justice and that his emotions were ruling his reason, I tried to mediate. I arranged for a private meeting with the Caliph, who listened patiently to the litany of complaints from the Egyptians—how Umayyad officials were stealing from the local treasury, how wealthy and well-connected criminals were being pardoned in exchange for bribes while the poor suffered the lash, how taxes were being levied unfairly on the populace without their consent. Such behavior might be the norm of other nations, Muhammad argued with passion, but we were the servants of God. If the Ummah turned a blind eye to injustice, the incredible wealth and power God had given us would be taken away,

  Uthman nodded throughout the meeting, but his eyes looked glazed and I wondered how much of my brother’s speech the old man truly heard or understood. But in the end, the Caliph surprised me by agreeing to Muhammad’s request that the Umayyad officials in Egypt be replaced. And then he summoned the wretched Marwan to draft a letter to that effect, removing the Umayyad governor and replacing him with my brother. I saw Marwan’s eyes narrow, but he complied. I read over the letter myself to make sure that he had obeyed the Caliph, and I saw no irregularities in it. The parchment was signed by Uthman and sealed in wax with his insignia, and Muhammad rejoiced. He had come to Medina prepared for a fight, and the Caliph had instead given him everything he had asked for.

  I was delighted but not completely surprised. Uthman had always been an exceedingly kind and generous man, and in truth, I could not remember him ever denying a request by anyone. Indeed, it was his complete openness that had been the cause of the current scandal, for he had never turned down the request of any man—including those who sought to use him to their advantage.

  I embraced my brother and led him back to his men. When they learned that the Caliph had capitulated, there was much rejoicing and a few danced with joy, until stern looks from some of the more
pious fellows quickly sobered them all up.

  As Muhammad rode back into the desert for the long journey to Egypt, the nation he now ruled, I decided to go to Mecca on Pilgrimage and thank God for bringing the troubling crisis to a peaceful resolution. As I rode out in my armored howdah, surrounded by the Caliph’s finest guards, I did not see a lone rider emerge from the stables and ride north, carrying a secret letter that bore Uthman’s seal.

  THE ENVOY WAS INTERCEPTED by my brother’s men after one of their intrepid sentries realized that they were being followed. They caught the rider and searched him until they found the letter bearing the Caliph’s mark. When my brother read the secret dispatch, he turned bright red with rage. For it was a letter purporting to be from Uthman, ordering the governor of Egypt to arrest Muhammad and execute him as a rebel the moment he returned.

  Muhammad’s men raced back to the city and immediately laid siege to Uthman’s house. I was already on my way to Mecca and was utterly unaware of the horrifying turn of events. I have often thought that the world would be a different place today had I just stayed home a few more days. But such are the pointless musings of regret.

  Even as I traveled to the holy city of my birth, blissfully ignorant of the sword that now hung over the Muslim nation, my brother’s men proceeded to take control of Medina. They bullied their way into people’s homes and took whatever provisions they deemed necessary to support their “holy cause.” When other nations later heard about the course of events in the Muslim capital, they must have been shocked that a small band of rebels could have taken over so quickly. And yet there was no standing army inside Medina, as there had been no need for one for the past twenty years. The Muslims ruled the world from horizon to horizon, and the thought that Medina could come under attack had been laughable.

  But no one was laughing now. My brother confronted Uthman with the letter and the old man denied any knowledge of it, despite the parchment carrying the Caliph’s seal. But Muhammad was not satisfied.

  “Then you are either a liar or a puppet being used by others,” he retorted. “In either event, you are unworthy to lead Islam.”

  The gentle Uthman was deeply saddened by these words, perhaps because he heard the ring of truth in them. Of course I have never believed that the Caliph ordered my brother’s death. The vile monster Marwan had clearly written the letter, but it would be the old man who was held responsible for it. And perhaps Uthman finally saw the reality of what had happened and his heart had shattered with the realization that he had been duped by a young man he loved like a son. He retired to his home and did not come out again, leaving his fate to God.

  The rebels grew increasingly agitated as the days passed and Uthman neither emerged nor responded to their demands for his resignation. It soon became clear that tempers were boiling, and the threat of violence was no longer just an unfortunate possibility. Ali dispatched his sons, Hasan and Husayn, now grown into fine young men, to guard the Caliph’s doors, and the presence of the Prophet’s grandsons held back the spreading wave of anarchy for a time.

  But as the weeks passed with no resolution, the Egyptian rebels decided to force the issue. They cut off all delivery of food and water to the elderly Uthman, who was a prisoner in his own home. The Jewess Safiya, my sister-wife, tried to save the beleaguered Caliph. She owned a house that bordered his and she set up a plank on her roof by which she would pass across food and water to Uthman’s young and pretty wife, Naila.

  On the forty-ninth day of the siege, a group of men led by my brother stormed the roof of Uthman’s house and broke in. The gentle old man sat on the floor in his study, reading the holy Qur’an. He seemed utterly unafraid of the rebels who were ransacking his house, bloodlust flowing through their veins. My brother Muhammad, filled with the fire of idealism and pride, finally came upon Uthman and raised his hand to deliver the deathblow. He grabbed the Caliph by his beard, at which point the elderly leader looked up at him and smiled softly.

  “Son of my brother,” he said, his warm eyes gazing into my brother’s soul. “Let go of my beard. Your father would not have done this.”

  It was a simple statement, said without malice or accusation. And in that instant, his words penetrated my brother’s heart and Muhammad fell back, as if waking from a dream. Shame and horror filled him, and he realized how far he had fallen.

  My brother turned back, ready to order an end to the attack. But it was too late. Several of his men broke into the room, the bloodlust burning wild in their eyes. Seeing the Caliph alone and unarmed, they raced to him, swords raised.

  “No!” Muhammad ibn Abu Bakr screamed. But the rebels ignored him and threw their leader aside. And then they descended on the softhearted Uthman, who loved peace and could not bring himself to harm even his enemies. His wife, Naila, threw herself as a shield on top of her husband, but the rebels sliced off her fingers and tossed her aside like a rag doll. And then they stabbed the Caliph nine times, their blades slicing through his neck, his heart, and his skull with monstrous brutality. Uthman fell over dead, the pages of the holy Qur’an he had so carefully compiled stained with his blood.

  Even as I write this, dear Abdallah, tears stain these pages. It was a brutal murder of a good man, and I cannot hide from God the truth that I share some of the blame. Had I not spoken out against Uthman in public, had I instead used my influence to calm the fire in my young brother’s soul, perhaps he would have lived. And I shudder as I remember the terrible words of my husband so long ago, his warning that the sword of God would be unsheathed against the Muslims should harm ever befall Uthman, a sword that would consume our nation until the Day of Judgment.

  May God forgive me for what I did, for I acted then out of passion for justice, even if I was misguided. But for the actions I would take next, Abdallah, I do not know if pardon is possible. What I did in the aftermath of Uthman’s murder came out of the blackest pit of my own soul, a crime for which I can never forgive myself, even if God and the angels grant me reprieve.

  7

  I was in Mecca when I first heard the news of the siege of Uthman’s home. I had just finished the Pilgrimage, along with my sister-wife Umm Salama, who had joined me. We were planning to return after completing the rituals at the House of God, when envoys sent by Zubayr advised us to remain in Mecca until the rebellion was over. My heart had sunk when I heard word of my brother’s actions, and I desperately sought to return so I could calm him and arrange some kind of reconciliation. But Umm Salama begged me to stay away from the chaos and our guards pointedly refused to permit me to leave until peace had been restored to the capital.

  The weeks dragged on without word and I began to have a terrible feeling in my heart that things had gone wildly wrong. And then two men rode in from the desert, bearing news that horrified me and brought my blood to a boil. They were not envoys—the matter was too urgent for messengers. They were my closest friends, my beloved cousin Talha and my brother-in-law Zubayr. One look on their ashen faces and my worst fears were confirmed.

  We gathered in the old Hall of Assembly, where I had spied on Hind and the council of Mecca a lifetime before. The stone walls looked as they had almost forty years before, cold and proud, untroubled by the vagaries of time. As we sat inside the chamber that had once been the throne room of our enemies, Zubayr revealed all that had happened. His once handsome face was now heavily lined, and a mighty scar ran down his right cheek. Your father had fought in so many battles that I could not even remember where he had earned this mark of heroism.

  Talha, for his part, had been unable to fight in the later wars of conquest because of his shattered hand. Instead, he had spent his years working as a merchant. His brilliant negotiating skills and his talent for learning the languages of our conquered subjects had allowed him to build a vast business empire, and he had been transformed over the years from an impoverished cripple into one of the richest men in the empire. And he had spent much of his vast wealth on spoiling his beautiful daughter, whom he had named
, perhaps not surprisingly, Aisha. She was a vivacious young woman who had captured the hearts of many of the young men of Medina but had a shocking reputation as a flirt who enjoyed leading boys on. I had often sternly lectured the girl about social proprieties, and she had simply laughed and said I would have done the same had I not been married as a child and hidden away behind a veil. I would always give her a tongue-lashing for her impudence, but in my heart I loved her like a daughter, and I knew there was more than a little truth to what she said.

  It was to Aisha bint Talha that my thoughts turned now as my friends revealed the shocking news of Uthman’s murder. I grieved for the old man who was a victim of his own kindness, and I feared for the people of Medina now that the blood of the Caliph had been spilled. According to Zubayr, Uthman’s cousin Muawiya was dispatching a mighty contingent from Syria to avenge the Caliph’s death. Apparently Marwan had been able to get word of the siege to the Umayyad leader, and when Uthman was killed, his blood-soaked shirt had been sent to Damascus, along with the remains of poor Naila’s severed fingers. The outraged Muawiya had held aloft these grisly relics in the newly constructed Grand Masjid of Damascus, built next to the church where the prophet John the Baptist was buried. With his brilliant oratory, he had riled up the passions of the crowd, and the cry for vengeance was rapidly spreading through the empire, especially after news of how the rebels had treated Uthman’s corpse

  “What happened to Uthman’s body?” I asked and then saw Zubayr’s face grimace with pain.