The Lover

by Laury Silvers

Mustafa took hold of his reed pen, pressing the tip of his thumb against its sharpened end.

  Burhan saw him reach for the pen and said, “What a blessing we have the opportunity to write down these hadith directly from Imam Abu Abdelrahman al-Azdi.”

  Mustafa replied, “We are indeed fortunate,” in such a way as to cut off conversation. Burhan did not reply. He wished Burhan would wait for the doors to open somewhere else, go for a stroll around the mosque. Pray. Something. The pause lingered just a moment too long.

  Burhan broke the silence, “What an interesting story you told about the jug you made. Is that a typical Sufi practice?”

  “If you want to learn more about our way of life, Burhan, you are welcome to come and see Shaykh Abu al-Qasim al-Junayd.”

  “I hear he is a formidable man.”

  “A great scholar as well.”

  “In name only.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve heard Father say he only pretends to be a jurist when opportunity strikes.”

  “I would take care here, Burhan. Insulting those brought near to God never ends well.”

  “Another one of your quaint beliefs, like making jugs….,” then with a questioning dip of the head, “and cups for mysterious female cousins?”

  Mustafa turned his head away from him, looking to the door of the Imam’s home, willing it to open. Uncle Abu al-Qasim most certainly did not need his defence although he sorely wanted to give it.

  Burhan changed tack, “I wonder if you saw a most interesting case tried here last month?”

  Without propriety, Mustafa pretended he did not hear him and looked around the mosque, everywhere except at Burhan standing before him. Then he closed his eyes and took a breath, asking God, Why is he on me like this? Then the image of Imam Abu Abdelrahman taking his turban off his head and replacing it with his own came to him and he understood. How could he be so stupid as to not recognize Burhan’s jealousy and not expect this kind of attack. His anger and frustration ebbed into something like pity for Burhan. Mustafa opened his eyes and looked up at him, calmer now, and replied to him, “What case?”

  “Sherwan Ibn al-Salah al-Kurdi filed a complaint with the court on behalf of a slave girl who had complained to him about her master, perhaps you know him, Hashim al-Qatifi? She claimed he was harming her and preventing her from worship. The harm, she said, was rape. Absurd of course, a slave cannot be raped. One cannot rape that which you have the right to do with as you please. So this girl would pray long hours into the night until her master would fall asleep. At first he did not pressure her, but after a few weeks of this, he spoke to her about it. She did not relent, so he put a stop to it. He took her whenever he liked from then on out, middle of a prayer or not. She testified that he would pull her off her rug or even pull down her sirwal and take her from behind when she was bent over in prayerful prostration. He himself admitted to all this before my father.”

  The calm that Mustafa had grasped for himself fled him. From the first sentence he knew where the story was going. He grew up around the frank talk of women. He knew what men were capable of doing and he knew how women had to bear up under it. Once, in his teens, mimicking the men in the neighbourhood, he told his mother that a woman known for her sharp tongue would do better if her husband took a stronger hand with her, and his mother had clapped him so hard aside his head he’d seen stars. Listening to Burhan now, he began to shake, spitting out in a near whisper, “He’ll take his place in hell for that.”

  Burhan laughed, “Well, that was up to my father. If it were to be decided that the man had the legal right, then what sin was there in it?”

  “Why did you raise this case with me?”

  Burhan pushed him, “Don’t you want to know what happened?” Burhan waited a moment, pleased with the look on Mustafa’s face, mottled by anger now. He continued, “Ibn al-Salah knew better than to argue the right of the man over her. That was indisputable. He argued instead that the judge should force her master to free her due to her great piety. He said he himself would arrange the payment and promised far more than she was worth on the open market. He quoted all the relevant verses from the Qur’an and hadith on freeing slaves, especially pious slaves, quoting, of course, If you know something good of a slave, free them.…”

  Mustafa finished the verse, “…and do not compel your enslaved women into fornication.”

  Burhan laughed, “Just so. Nevertheless, it is not fornication, nor compulsion, if a master has sexual rights over his slave. The master was a jurist himself. He knew all this and correctly argued that his sexual rights over the girl were well-established in law. He said that while pious injunctions are well-meaning, they are not legally binding, especially here, since her piety was not proven by her habit of praying at length.”

  Mustafa’s anger broke through, “How in the world could her prayer be proof that she was not pious?” But as he said it, he knew the answer to the question. He knew what would be argued. The fact of it turned him inside out. They would argue, and he should agree, that she was rebelling against his right over her and using prayer as an excuse.

  If it hadn’t been for the way his mother had raised him and if he had not listened to the harrowing stories of the wandering women who came through Junayd’s community, he would think just like these men. He would not say so to Zaytuna, truth be told he would be afraid to admit it to her, but he did not see any legal way around men’s rights over women or their slaves. Maybe men shouldn’t have such rights over women, but he was not a jurist; he did not know how to argue against it. It scared him to think about it. He did not know if he should argue against it even if he knew how.

  No matter, he insisted to himself, having rights over women and slaves does not give a man permission to take as they please. Good men use their privilege with care. He shook with frustration. Ya Rabb! Why could these men not be good? There were good men, but too many were like Burhan and his father. He hated these scholars who relied on the evidence of their own desires and ignored the Prophet’s most beautiful example. If they could find one hadith that supported their worst inclinations, they would ignore all the ones that called them to something better. If they could incline the Word of God their way, then that would become the centre-pole for the tent of their filthy hunger. He had done nothing but tie himself up in knots. What would Zaytuna think of him?

  Mustafa turned towards the classes underway in the mosque. He could not look Burhan in the eye and continue speaking evenly. He looked at a pillar in the distance, letting his eyes lose focus, knowing he should not continue, but asking anyway, “And your father, how did he rule?”

  “He sided with al-Qatafi, of course. He ruled that while he, as a judge, was obliged to do what he could to prevent the harm of him pulling her from her rug and entering her while she is in prostration, he must also affirm the right of the owner to have sex with his slave. But really, what did she expect? She was a fiery thing. A little Zanji demon with scars decorating her face. My father reckoned he was supposed to be terrified of her. But he was not.”

  Mustafa could not help it, “And Ibn Salah?”

  “He had no proof of her sincerity in prayer. On the contrary, all the evidence pointed to her interest in prayer being conveniently timed to her master’s desire for sex. She probably only became Muslim in the hopes of being released. For goodness sake, if she had any sense of piety she should have hidden her shame from testifying publicly in court!

  “My father justly acted to prevent harm by instructing the girl to ask her master’s permission before praying supplemental prayers. Further, he advised that she should pray her obligatory prayers immediately, so he would know that she was available otherwise. Should he desire sex, she must comply even if she would have to rush to bathe herself to perform the next obligatory prayer in its required time. That resolved the matter of her being pulled off her prayer rug or entered while prostrating. And he predicted to al-Qatifi that he would find his slave was much less interested in God tha
n had been the case previously.”

  “There was no discussion of selling her.”

  “Of course,” Burhan nodded. “As you know, Mustafa, that was entirely the right of the master to do so, and he declined.”

  Mustafa said, his voice now flat, “And what was the response of those observing? I assume there was a crowd, as usual.”

  “Not as many as usual. They limited the numbers of who could sit in to protect the reputation of the master and the shame of the slave. Nevertheless, there were a few people off the street and some the master’s colleagues as well. News of the case spread among them. A few jurists, worse a fellow judge, criticized my father for assuming he knew what was in the heart of the slave. Endless quotations of the hadith on the inability to look into a person’s heart and know their faith. They believed she should have been freed. al-Qatifi’s reputation was harmed despite being in the right. Of course, who cares what the people think, but it was utter hypocrisy on the part of his colleagues. It is most properly the job of the judges in the sharia courts to decide on a person’s faith, not the people.”

  Burhan looked to the side and snorted with impatience, sounding as if he were repeating something he heard from his father’s mouth, “The caliph may think it is his court’s purview, but it is far more our right, as the people’s bearers of religious knowledge, than the religious judge in caliph’s pocket or, worse, the chief vizier and his minion secretaries.” He shook his head, “They only bother with the cases of grand political offence in any case. Who will correct the faith of the people if not us?” He looked back at Mustafa, “And so it was here.”

  Mustafa wondered if this excuse for a man were capable of reflecting on what he had just said. He doubted it, but could not help himself from asking, “Burhan, I am curious. If you were to stand before Imam Ahmad ibn Hanbal and tell him this story. What would be his reaction?”

  “Of course, Imam Ahmad has ruled that a slave can be forced to have sex against her will. But you claim otherwise? I get the sense you believe you are not only the inheritor of Sufi wisdom but also the scrupulousness of an Imam Ahmad.”

  Mustafa retorted, “And he would say that the existence of a right does not make acting on that right obligatory or even preferable to God!” No sooner was the word “right” out of his mouth than he looked around him, somehow worried that Zaytuna were able to hear him.

  Burhan sighed, “Imam Ahmad was a mountain of a man. We should be pleased to be the dirt at his foot and do the best we can, by following the Law that he himself helped establish. But I have not yet got to my point, here, Mustafa.”

  Mustafa closed his eyes, “Please tell me and let’s be done with this conversation.”

  “The point is that despite Ibn al-Salah’s best intentions, the woman lost her case and he found himself on the wrong end of the stick with my father. It seems that Ibn al-Salah’s son was something of a gambler, in debt to the wrong people, and got himself into a bit of trouble. My father had his family investigated afterwards, you see, and the son was turned over to the police. You seem so much like Ibn al-Salah, I thought it only fair to warn you how preening, pious men such as yourself fare in this world.”

  Mustafa’s eyes, now opened, focused on Burhan. He understood the threat clearly. Burhan wanted him to know that there would be a price to pay for standing up for what was right and good. Mustafa showed no fear. He said nothing except, “There is no power or might except God.”

  Then Mustafa silently thanked God for His guidance. The message could not be clearer. He knew absolutely that he had to act as Zaytuna requested. Imam Ibrahim must not be allowed to get away with murdering an innocent boy. None of these animals must be allowed to escape. God is free to forgive them in the Hereafter, but in this life, they must pay. Walla, he would do his part.

  Others began to arrive for the class. He didn’t recognize the three who were walking towards them, one of whom was distinctively light-skinned. His sirwal, his qamis, and his robe, were all made of perfectly white silk and edged with elaborately embroidered vines and flowers in rich hues and words in kufic lettering that he could not make out. Red curls stuck out from underneath his white and gold striped turban, not wound in the manner of any school. The flagrant display of wealth sickened him, but maybe Burhan would be drawn to it and turn his attention to flattering him. Mustafa stood. He wanted to perform two cycles of prayer to clear his mind and heart of this conversation and to make a supplication to God for the sake of the enslaved woman and Ibn al-Salah and his family. He wanted every word he wrote of the Prophet’s legacy today to be written with reverence for his example, not the lingering bitterness of this conversation and worry about the girl. More so, he needed calm to consider how to question Imam Ibrahim’s students. He greeted the three approaching them and moved away to perform his prayer.

  He heard others arrive and the doors open as he was in his second cycle. He finished his prayer quickly and left his supplication for later so he could enter well in time before the Imam. Mustafa got up to join the others for class. Despite hurrying, he was the last one in. Thank God, the Imam had not yet entered.

  The room he had sat in just the day before, arranged for guests, was now set up for students. Low writing desks filled the room and sheepskins were laid out behind them. Amina was there, sitting behind a screen. Just as well, Sharafuddin wouldn’t have been able to focus on the hadith otherwise. More sheepskins and pillows were placed where the Imam would sit and recite to them the hadith of the Golden Chain. There was only one open desk for students left. Unfortunately, it was just behind Burhan and his fellows. He took his place and waited quietly, but he could hear them talking. He arranged his paper and put his inkwell and reed pen into place when he heard Burhan say, “How surprising that the illustrious Imam Ibrahim let his students take a break from copying his collection.” His friends tittered in acknowledgement of the cleverness of his comment.

  Mustafa looked around to see who they referred to and realized it was the three students he did not know, including the rich one with the curls, sitting well behind them.

  Abdelaziz leaned in towards Burhan and said, “His collection? I think you mean, al-Naysaburi’s collection.”

  Burhan’s back straightened. Nasir leaned in so far towards Abdelaziz that he was nearly in Burhan’s lap, saying loud enough for the room to hear, “The hadith are forged?”

  Mustafa sat up, trying to turn his attention to them without being obvious.

  Burhan pushed Nasir back hissing, “Lower your voice.”

  Mustafa nearly said out loud, “No!”

  Burhan turned to Abdelaziz, “This is a serious allegation, be clear.”

  Mustafa leaned forward in his desk, resting his elbows on it. He could just hear Abdelaziz who dropped his voice and conspiratorial tone at Burhan’s remonstration.

  He said, “No, the hadiths themselves are not forged. I have it on good authority that al-Naysaburi is the true collector of the hadith. Imam Ibrahim never heard the hadith himself. He has no true ijaza to teach them. He and al-Naysaburi just happen to have the same name, Ibrahim Ibn at-Tahir. Somehow Imam Ibrahim got hold of al-Naysaburi’s copy with the ijaza written in the back after al-Naysaburi died and scraped out ‘al-Naysaburi’ and wrote in ‘as-Silafi’ in its place.”

  Mustafa, shocked, thought, The collection is plagiarized!

  Nasir leaned in again, this time careful not to go so far, and said, “I thought no one respected his collection because he takes money from the Caliph’s people. If he is willing to associate with those whose grandfathers happily tortured our grand-teachers, well, how can his transmissions be trusted in any case?”

  Abdelaziz spoke back, “That’s not it…,” nodding to Burhan. “...as I heard, in any case.”

  Burhan interjected, “You shouldn’t be so high on your horse. Many of our great scholars are presently in the employ of the Caliph’s courtiers. Hadith scholarship itself would not survive without the stipends for teaching their incorrigible children. Fu
rther, I would insist that you recall that you repeat the hadith of the scholars who directly collaborated with the Caliph’s people.”

  Nasir objected, “Only because their hadith are repeated by other trustworthy scholars, in their own collections. In any case, none of those collections were written by Hanbalis, by Baghdadis. The people remember. We remember that Ahmad ibn Hanbal wouldn’t even pray over the souls of the men who collaborated!”

  Mustafa’s hand twitched, wanting to slap the desk, saying to himself, ‘That’s right!’

  Burhan tried to get back control of the conversation, “Abdelaziz. Tell me, on whose good authority do you make this accusation of plagiarism? Bring the man to my face to testify to it if this is true.”

  Abdelaziz sat up so that he might look down on Burhan, “I do not have his permission to share his name.”

  “That is unacceptable, I won’t hear another word of this. If you share this news with anyone else without evidence to back it up, you will find yourself on the wrong side of things. The man is an ass. But to steal another’s work, to claim oneself in a chain of narration one has no right to, this is a grave sin before society and God. To accuse someone of such a sin without evidence? I will make it my business to see your reputation is ruined should this gossip reach me again.”

  Mustafa watched Abdelaziz’s face drain of colour as he considered Burhan and the threat before him. True or not, he was not willing to argue the point now. Mustafa sat amazed at the lot of them. To Burhan, the rape of a slave was merely a tedious matter needing legal negotiation to be made pious, whereas this was worth his highest ethical objection. Of course, he corrected himself, the forgery was worth everyone’s highest ethical objection! But walla, so was this mistreatment of the slave woman, the destruction of a man’s family because he dared to stand up for her, and, then, Burhan’s threat to his own person! What is wrong with these people? Mustafa’s agitation distracted him to such a point, he could not focus. He held his pen again, rubbing his thumb over the rib to try to pull him back to where he sat and what task lay before him.