One of the women said sighing, “Oh…. now that’s not explaining brother, that’s telling us why you don’t think we need an explanation.”
The younger man yelled, pointing, “This one has caught him out!”
Mustafa’s voice grew firmer, “Hear me out. Auntie Hamida, when she sorts through the chickpeas she does not just sort them into good to eat or bad to eat. It’s not so straightforward. She knows that some chickpeas may be just fine if mashed, but not proper for a stew, less so even a salad where each one has to stand out perfectly.”
A man laughed at him from deep within the crowd, saying, “Brother, have you been eating in the Caliph’s kitchen? We eat the brown and black ones with our weed greens!”
Mustafa laughed, afraid of showing how scared he was of losing them to these men who would use these decent folks against themselves for their own ends, “You know I eat the black and brown ones in my weed greens, too! It’s only to make a point. Imam Ahmad’s son included all the hadith that scholars might use in making a decision about what we should and should not do and he graded them, like Auntie Hamida here with her chickpeas. I was trained how to use them, just like every cook is trained to use each kind of chickpea….If we had the luxury of choosing our chickpeas, that is,” he laughed. “But we are rich with hadith. We do have the luxury to choose.”
A few people nodded with him, a man too, not just the women, and he continued, his voice rising with every word, feeling he was getting through, “Obviously, these men have not been trained. They think each hadith is as good as another and should be used to say whatever they like!”
The older man objected, “The sisters here may fall for that since they want to keep to their sluttish ways, but the men here know from here on out that you are nothing but a liar and arrogant. Just like one of the Caliph’s men thinking he knows better than everyone else.”
A woman called out, “That’s right! Walla, what are these women doing? Pray in your homes sisters!”
Another woman yelled over to her, “Who are you kidding, you old bird! I see you in the mosque everyday, early for prayer, gossiping with your friends.”
“Exactly! I would not gossip if I prayed at home!”
“You would have no time to see your friends if you prayed at home!”
Other women’s voices called out against her, “What am I supposed to do when I am out shopping? Where do I rest? In the street like the men? All I have is the mosque.”
The older of the two men yelled out above them all, “Aisha, the beloved of Muhammad, declared that the Prophet would never have let women pray in the mosque if he knew what kinds of whorish behaviour they would be up to these days!”
Mustafa raised his voice above them, taking his opening, “That word! How dare you insult these women again! These are our mothers, sisters, wives, and friends who care for us while you prattle on about what you’re owed on account of not being able to control yourself!”
Several women in the crowd shouted in agreement.
Mustafa pressed on, “You two should leave or you’ll be facing these women’s fists.”
Now the women laughed. More than a few of them wanted to get their hands on these men now and yelled, only half-joking, “Let us at them!” A couple of women broke through and put their hands on the men, pushing them.
The older man easily pushed back at a woman who taken fistfuls of his qamis, then looked at Mustafa with open disgust, saying, “You offer the Hanbalis nothing but shame!” He turned back to the woman who had hold of him and spit in her face, finally getting her hands off of him, and walked away.
Mustafa ran to the woman and unwound a portion of his turban for her to use to wipe the spit from her face. The gesture did not go unnoticed. He breathed with relief as he heard one of the women say, “That’s our brother Mustafa, not so proud as to unwind his turban for the likes of us.”
The crowd began to disperse, some of the women, and a few of the men, hailing their greetings and blessings at Mustafa. Saliha made her way forward to him. The woman gave back the end of his turban to him and thanked him, but Mustafa stood holding it, not wanting to wind back up the cloth with the man’s spit on it, not knowing what to do. Saliha reached him, took the end of the cloth and said quietly, “You’re going to have to wind it up.” He tipped his head down to her instead and she wound his turban back up for him. He nodded in thanks, then turned, walking with her back to Zaytuna, who met them part way.
She smiled at him broadly, “Mustafa! It’s nice to see that all that studying of yours came to some good use! But you know, you did not explain in the end.”
“No, I did not understand a bit of it,” agreed Saliha.
Zaytuna looked at Saliha and started to explain what she meant about “not explaining” and decided now was not the time. She turned to Mustafa, “Well, you might need to find more types of beans to explain, but people are going to need to know how you make decisions if you don’t want them following those fools.”
He lowered his voice, “Perhaps. But maybe it is better to say, I’m not sure I should explain. Uncle Abu al-Qasim says you only speak to people according to their capacity.”
Saliha retorted, “Oh and we are short on capacity, are we?”
Mustafa defended himself, exhausted, “That’s not what I mean.”
Zaytuna answered, “That’s not what Uncle Abu al-Qasim meant either.”
He ignored them, “These men are not fools. I think they know exactly what they are doing. My guess is that they are Barbahari’s men. He can’t control them. I don’t even know if he is trying to control them. This may be exactly what he wants.”
“Barbahari? Who is that?”
“A scholar. Important. A Hanbali, too. But I don’t know that Ahmad ibn Hanbal would recognize the man as one of his own were he alive today.”
Saliha said, “I mind my own business. I’m too busy washing clothes for this.”
Mustafa said, “Their problem is that they try to make other people’s business their business. I’m afraid we’ll see more of them if we cannot stop them.”
Zaytuna raised an eyebrow at Saliha, “They’re the kind that go into widows’ houses to see what they’re up to.”
Saliha’s eyes widened, “Oh.”
Mustafa turned to Zaytuna, “Barbahari was a student of Sahl Tustari.”
Saliha broke in, “Tustari? Who are you people talking about now?”
Zaytuna ignored Saliha, “How can what you say be true if these are his students?”
Mustafa answered Saliha with some exasperation, “One of the greatest Sufis, Saliha.” Then he turned to Zaytuna, “Well, you know so was Ghulam Khalil. The teacher is not always responsible for what their students become. Barbahari may be sincere, but he is brutal.”
Zaytuna sighed, “‘Sincere’, Oh Mustafa, you grant people too much.”
Mustafa defeated, shook his head, “Enough of this. The funeral prayer is here. We have something more important to do. Let’s go inside.”
Chapter Eleven
They turned away from the dispersing crowd toward the wide-gated doorway of the Shuniziyya mosque. Its yellow brick walls were covered in stucco and carved with calligraphy and interlaced geometric designs just like the mosques in more wealthy areas of the City. It even had deep blue tiles like the others inset into its archways. But it had no other luxury except serving the people. It did not escape Zaytuna that Junayd and his companions lived in this neighbourhood among the poor, taught the poor out of this mosque that served them, and helped feed them out of their own pockets. Her mother had brought them to sleep in this mosque and eat the barley bread and onions handed out to those in need in the few days before Uncle Nuri discovered them and brought them to Junayd’s home.
Mustafa moved ahead toward the front of the mosque where they could see a small bier with a body on it laid out under a green cloth off to the side. Zaytuna watched him stop and hold open his hands, palms to the heavens, to recite the opening chapter of the Qur’an
for the boy before performing his two cycles of prayer in greeting to the mosque. Then Zaytuna watched him move and begin to pray, thinking he was like a quiet stream moving through smooth rocks. She turned to follow Saliha to the rear, quieted by Mustafa’s gentleness, and looked for an open place in the area set aside for women.
The call to stand in prayer sounded and the women and children who had been resting against the rear walls of the mosque, put their things away and moved into lines facing qibla on the long stretches of soft woven reed mats. Zaytuna saw a large, older woman leading a young girl, her wrap wound loosely around the girl’s head and body and a niqab covering her face, through the door at the last second. Instead of pushing their way into one of the lines in front, they wove their way to the very back and took a place at the end of the line. Zaytuna strained to see the girl. She thought, suddenly frantic, It must be her, Zaynab.
The imam called out, “Allahu Akbar!”
Saliha elbowed her to pay attention. Zaytuna turned back to face qibla, directed towards Mecca, and raised her hands to her ears and lowered them, folding her hands over her stomach. She struggled to keep her eyes on the spot on the floor where she would place her forehead during the prostration, wanting instead to crane her head around and see the girl.
“Allahu Akbar!”
She bowed, saying, “God forgive me” under her breath as she realized she had not recited the prescribed verses from the Qur’an as she should. She put her hands on her knees but couldn’t remember what she was supposed to recite during the bow, saying to herself instead, What is wrong with you, woman?
“Allahu Akbar!”
She stood again, this time giving in, and turning her head to see if she could see the girl. She turned back quickly, but Saliha had caught it and threw her hand out, gesturing, “What are you doing?”
Zaytuna gestured back, “I know! I know!”
“Allahu Akbar!”
She prostrated and placed her forehead on the floor, along with everyone else. But she had, by this point, forgotten the words to every movement of prayer she had been performing since she was big enough to follow her mother on the mat beside her. Asking herself instead, Zaynab is here? This is no quick walk from her neighbourhood. Maybe Layla was right? Why would she come if Zayd was not something other than a servant to her? And the old woman, she must be the housekeeper. Why would she bring…
“Allahu Akbar!”
She sat back on her feet and remembered, at least, to say, “God forgive me.”
“Allahu Akbar!”
She bowed in prostration again, this time speaking directly to God, What good are these questions? What good can I do? Why would You bring Layla to me? And now Zaynab and the housekeeper? They shouldn’t even be here, yet here they are. What good could I possibly do? Her chest was beating hard and her head began to ache.
“Allahu Akbar!”
She stood again and tried to calm down, forcing herself to breathe evenly. She folded her hands over her stomach for the next cycle, but instead of reciting the required verses, she said to herself, So I ask questions, like Layla wants, I uncover the story. How does this do justice to their suffering? Nothing will change.
She looked out over the lines of people standing in prayer and the final verses from the first chapter of the Qur’an came to her, It is You alone we worship, it is You alone we beg for help, guide us on the straight path, not the path of those who have demanded Your wrath, and not the path of those who have gone astray.
“Allahu Akbar!”
She bowed, tears coming, saying, Asking questions…. Is this how I fit into the pattern?
“Allahu Akbar!”
She stood back up. God. Listen. Please. Tell me what You want from me!’ She felt a warmth and comfort wash through her, quieting her heart, but not overtaking her, and she knew somehow she should trust the unfolding of these events. She shot back at herself, This is just the whisperings of your own soul. God is not calling you. And if He did, what then? What can you trust God to do with you?’
She answered herself back, I don’t know.
Then turning to God, she asked, If this is the path You want from me, if You want me to find out what happened, do some justice for these children, then make the Imam make a mistake, say something wrong, recite incorrectly. I’ll hear it and I’ll know.
“Allahu Akbar!”
She prostrated, trying to keep her breath even, praying the rest of the cycles in form with everyone else, but she was silent inwardly, not saying to herself the required parts of the ritual. Rather she focused on listening to the Imam, so far ahead of her at the front of the mosque, for her answer from God.
“Allahu Akbar!”
As she stood for the last cycle of prayer she heard it. The Imam uttered the first word of the opening chapter of the Qur’an aloud when he should have remained silent. Bismillah. Words spoken out of place, and a clap here and there from the people in the congregation to correct him.
“Assalamu alaykum wa rahmatullah, Peace to you and God’s mercy”
She turned her head to the right, then to the left, closing the ritual prayer, and remained seated back on her feet, in supplication, not speaking, but now paying attention to the calmness that had come to her. Her muscles relaxed in its warmth, her head lifted from the lightness within, and her hands opened out in supplication. She said quietly, aloud, “Alhamdulilah, Allah, alhamdulilah.”
Saliha heard the words and opened her eyes from her own supplication and saw Zaytuna’s head back and her hands reaching up in prayer, now nearly above her shoulders, rather than looking down at her open hands, held low before her, as she should. She gently placed her hand on Zaytuna’s arm to wake her from her state. Zaytuna looked at her and said, “I know what I have to do. I know what I am for.”
Saliha was worried, “Okay, Zay, okay. Everything will be fine. Let’s stand now for the funeral prayer. They are bringing Zayd’s bier to the front.”
They stood, but instead of staying in place, Zaytuna took hold of Saliha’s hand, pulling her through the thinning prayer lines towards the back to stand near the old woman and the girl. As they moved she saw two older women with black sashes tied around the waist of their wrap and qamis marking them as corpsewashers. The boy was young enough that it was still permissible for women to wash him. Yes, they must be the ones who washed him! She pulled Saliha to squeeze in next to the two women.
“Allahu Akbar!”
Chapter Twelve
After the prayer ended, Zaytuna turned to the corpsewashers, saying “May God accept your prayer.”
“And yours,” and the two corpsewashers turned to walk towards the door of the mosque where the bier would be carried out by the men on their way to the graveyard.
Zaytuna touched the sleeve of the one nearest to her, “Such a small body. May God give ease to the poor child’s parents. What heartbreak. I suppose that’s his mother and sister over there,” pointing at the girl she assumed was Zaynab and the housekeeper with her. “God heal their hearts.”
Saliha watched with amazement as Zaytuna lied. Her dear friend, who would rather hurt her feelings than refrain from telling her the smallest, unnecessary truth, was lying with the best of them.
One of the corpsewashers turned, “The poor boy. We washed him, you know. No parents we know of. May God give him peace.”
The other one shot her a look and motioned that they should go.
She nodded and turned to Zaytuna, “God forgive me, I shouldn’t speak about it. My heart just goes out to the poor boy.”
Zaytuna didn’t have to tell Saliha what to do. Saliha moved forward and took the other corpsewasher’s arm in her own and walked her ahead, keeping her occupied by inquiring about the work and how one trains for it.
Zaytuna kept her more talkative corpsewasher back a few steps and said quietly, “What happened?”
She turned her head conspiratorially and whispered to Zaytuna, “We heard from the housekeeper. That’s her over there. We heard that he
was sleepwalking and walked right off the roof in the middle of the night. His poor arms were broken in pieces. Must have tried to catch himself as he hit the ground. Imagine it! God protect us all! You know we’re always gentle with bodies of the poor souls who have passed, but even more so with the broken body of this little one.”
“Was something else broken?”
“God cover us from such things, His poor neck broken and his head was loose in our hands. Although I suppose that means it was a quick death. There’s real mercy in that.”
Zaytuna looked at her quizzically, “How strange, sleepwalking.”
“No, my husband, God rest his soul, used to walk in his sleep. We had to keep the door tied up high so he couldn’t get out. But…”
“Yes?”
“Well, you know what was strange,” she looked ahead to see whether or not the other corpsewasher was watching her, “he had a silk drawstring holding up his ratty sirwal. It looked new, perfectly clean except dirty as sin where he tied and untied it. You should have seen the embroidery and beading on it! What I wouldn’t give for it, but you know we have to pass everything along to the poor house if the family doesn’t want it. All to say, dear… that wasn’t his.” She stopped and pointed towards Zaynab and the housekeeper, “It has to be the young miss’s there. He worked in her father’s household.”
Zaytuna exclaimed in a whisper, “Just like in the romantic poems! The girl gives her lover the drawstring from her sirwal as a promise of their love!”
“Oh!” She scoffed, “Not likely. He’d have stolen it!” Then losing all sense of respect for solemnity of her work, she shared, “You didn’t see the boy’s face,” and she pushed her own nose all the way to the side, “nose bent clear over to one side of his face. Poor thing was ugly as sin.”
The Lover Page 10