by Asen Djinah
Despite his denial, Jaffar still had the habit of holding on to his wife’s braid whenever he was in bed. He did so instinctively, without even realising it.
The laughter and rowdy conversation of the men gradually died down as they settled for the night. Jaffar took the strand of hair from his bag and lay down on his sleeping rug, thinking of his childhood and his parents. As always, he felt guilty whenever he thought of his mother; it was such a long time ago that he could no longer remember her face. The sadness he felt when they took his parents away came back into his mind. Caressing the hair, he felt some comfort and was soon fast asleep and snoring.
Chapter 3
Young Jaffar cast a furtive glance towards the little girl sitting on the doorstep. With her thin face and her two plaits hanging in front of her flowery dress, she looked younger than her eleven years. She too had been watching Jaffar, for when she saw him looking over she smiled. Jaffar quickly averted his eyes after smiling back, and then cheered exaggeratedly as one of the boys he was playing with hit the stick high into the air.
‘I hope no one noticed me smiling at Devorah,’ he thought anxiously.
Although Jaffar knew the girl’s name, he pretended not to know anything about her or her family. He had always thought it really silly for his friends to ignore Devorah, but had never dared to say so.
‘They will most certainly mock me for taking the side of a Jew,’ he thought, having long decided to keep quiet.
On the far side of the courtyard, five girls were playing sikena – a game similar to hopscotch – and like the boys, they too ignored the little Jewish girl. Poor Devorah spent her days sitting alone on her doorstep, watching the other children play. Every now and then her mother would poke her head out of the doorway to check on her. Just as Jaffar looked away, Devorah’s mother appeared in the doorway.
‘Are you all right, Neshomeleh – sweet soul?’ she asked.
‘I am fine, Ima – mother,’ the little girl replied.
Ever since the Jewish family had moved into the courtyard almost a year ago, the other families had ignored them completely. There were nine rooms around the courtyard, with three rooms on each of the three sides. The fourth wall, facing the track outside, had the entrance door in the centre. To the left of the door, there was an enclosure made of mud walls some four-foot high, serving as a washroom. Here, members of the nine families of the courtyard would crouch out of sight to clean themselves. On the other side of the door was a pit latrine which gave out a fetid and overpowering smell, especially at midday when it was hottest. The room next to the latrine had been vacant for quite some time, with the landlord unable to find a tenant. Anyone who came to view the room was put off by the horrid smell.
So for a long time there were only eight families living in the courtyard, one in each room with the exception of the one next to the latrine. Jaffar and his parents shared one such room, with a curtain separating his parents’ sleeping area from his. All the families did their cooking in the courtyard, in front of their doorway. The area was one of the poorest in the neighbourhood and attracted the most destitute families since the rent was low. Although they were poor, the families helped and supported each other. Whenever one family had a stroke of fortune and earned a bit more, they would send over some food to the others. When one of the men was unable to work due to illness, the other families would pool together and send some provisions. There was a real sense of community within the courtyard, one that was typical amongst the underprivileged. During the day the boys played together in a group, while the girls kept their own company. From the moment he woke up every morning, Jaffar could not wait to be with his friends. He most certainly did not want to lose them over that little Jewish girl.
It had been Thawfik, Jaffar’s father, who had convinced the landlord to rent the room to the Jewish family, much to the indignation of the others. Thawfik had been working as an assistant cobbler to Doran, Devorah’s father, at the souk for the last couple of years. When he first moved to the town, Doran used to work on his own, barely getting any work as most customers disliked doing business with a Jew. But being a shrewd man, Doran had hired Thawfik.
‘I want you to pretend that you are the cobbler and I am your assistant. This way we will get more customers,’ he had told Thawfik.
After moving to another part of town, the business had slowly picked up over time. Although he lacked experience in his new job, it was Thawfik who would call out to attract customers. And it was he who would negotiate the price with them, while Doran remained in the background. The two of them had arranged a system of signals to communicate, so that Doran could inconspicuously let Thawfik know what price to ask for a particular repair. Two years of working together had turned Thawfik into a skilled cobbler, almost as good as Doran himself. The two partners earned just enough to feed their families and lived a frugal life. Over time, they had become good friends.
‘Do you know of any rooms for rent?’ Doran had asked Thawfik one day.
Doran and his family had been living in a tent on the edge of town, since they had arrived to Qadday. He had found it difficult to find a place as most landlords refused to accept him, afraid of alienating their other tenants.
‘Where I live, there is a room which has been vacant for some time. Why don’t you come and have a look? I will speak to the landlord,’ Thawfik had replied, eager to help his friend.
The appeal of someone paying full price for the room next to the latrine was too tempting and the landlord had agreed to let the room to Doran, much to the other tenants’ dismay. Apart from Jaffar’s parents, no one else had exchanged a word with Doran or his wife Eliana over the past year and the other parents had forbidden their children from playing with Devorah.
Jaffar heard his mother calling and his face lit up. This was his favourite time of the day. He cast a final glance at Devorah, smiling briefly as he darted towards his mother standing in the doorway. He threw himself at her and clung to her legs, his head buried in her clothes. It was the one time of the day that his mother took a break from her chores and Jaffar could have her all to himself.
‘Go wash your hands, you dirty boy,’ Feryal said to him teasingly, with an exaggerated stern tone to her voice.
Jaffar laughed happily and rushed out to the washing area. When he came back, mother and son sat down on the carpet and enjoyed their simple meal of flatbread and milk.
‘Did you talk to Devorah today?’ Feryal asked, aware of the on-going conflict facing her son.
‘I don’t want to lose my friends, else I will have no one to play with,’ Jaffar replied once again.
Feryal did not press him, being fully aware of the disdain the other families held towards their Jewish neighbours. She herself had been under pressure to stop talking to Devorah’s mother, Eliana.
‘Ummi, Tell me another story from when you were a child,’ Jaffar asked after they had eaten.
Feryal sighed and smiled. Every day, Jaffar would ask her the same thing and every day while doing her morning chores, she had to rack her brains to think of something new to share. In a way she was grateful, since Jaffar made her find time in her busy schedule to sift through her memories and remember those childhood events which otherwise would have been forgotten over time.
‘Let me do my prayers first. You go and lie down in the meantime,’ she told the boy.
Jaffar smiled happily and rushed to his mother’s sleeping rug. It was the only time of the day he was allowed in his parents’ sleeping area and he could not wait for his mother to come and join him. When Feryal finished praying and came to lie by his side, Jaffar’s hand immediately reached out and gently caressed his mother’s hair.
‘One day, when you get married, you will be holding your wife’s hair to fall asleep,’ she teased him, unaware how true her words would turn out to be.
While Feryal told him about the time she got into trouble for inadvertently setting fire to the family tent, Jaffar stroked his mother’s hair and his eyes
grew heavy. By the time she had finished her story, Jaffar was fast asleep.
Chapter 4
It was early morning and cool in the palace, yet beads of sweat slowly began to appear on both Nuffay and Safwan’s foreheads as they waited in the lobby next to the caliph’s office. It had been a shock to both of them when they had heard pounding on their courtyard doors in the middle of the night.
‘Caliph Omar wants to see you in the morning,’ guards from the Palace had informed each of the two scholars.
Both ulamas had been unable to get back to sleep and when morning came they were tired as well as nervous. They had been on the same podium as Caliph Omar during several court cases, but never had they been face-to-face with the caliph before, let alone held a conversation with him.
‘I hope Ulama Kateb will be present so I don’t have to face Caliph Omar on my own,’ Nuffay thought nervously.
He was unaware that Safwan had also been invited to the palace. It was only when the two met at the palace that each realised he was not the only one being sent for.
‘Salam Alaikum’ Nuffay said politely.
‘Alaikum Salam,’ Safwan replied, with equal politeness.
Such was the rivalry between the two scholars that they barely exchanged a word beyond their greetings, despite having worked together for four weeks. Neither of them knew the exact purpose of the summons to the palace, although they suspected that it had to do with the Prophet’s sayings they had been gathering.
‘Caliph Omar seems to prolong the wait deliberately, to make us feel even more nervous,’ Safwan thought suspiciously.
Sitting on the cushioned bench opposite his rival, Nuffay was thinking more positively.
‘If I handle the situation appropriately, it might provide me with an opportunity to get back into Ulama Kateb’s favour,’ he schemed.
Caliph Omar had endured a restless night in Maymuna’s quarters. Lately, although he fell asleep immediately, exhausted after his busy day, he would usually wake up after a couple of hours, unable to go back to sleep. His thoughts would always turn to the stark choice facing him.
‘Should I follow the Prophet’s guidance or do I make his sayings public?’ was the dilemma on his mind.
With the threat facing the empire, he was at a loss as to how to proceed. He glanced towards his wife sleeping by his side and tried not to make any sudden movement. However with all the worries on his mind, as he tossed and turned, Maymuna stirred from her sleep.
‘Let me get you some warm milk and honey. It will help you get back to sleep,’ his wife said, sitting up.
Maymuna knew about her husband’s worries, as this had been his only topic of conversation these past few days. Earlier in the week he had confided to her the details of his meeting with Kateb and Jaffar and the conflict he was faced with.
‘It might get me back to sleep, but it certainly won’t help me decide what to do,’ Omar replied, feeling slightly irritated at his wife’s suggestion.
‘My dear husband, sometimes the correct choice is staring you right in the face, yet you cannot see it. You are like someone who cannot see a grain of sand in the desert,’ she riposted.
‘I know what I would do if I were you,’ she then added more softly under her breath.
Omar raised his upper body, leaning on one elbow. He looked at Maymuna lying by his side, though he could barely see her face in the dark. He knew exactly what she was going to say.
‘Balaa? – Yeah? What would you do?’ he asked, nevertheless.
Omar could hear Maymuna sighing in the dark and waited as she carefully thought out her reply.
‘Thinking of the slaughter and the bloodshed to come, I can think of only one thing; that the priority must be to save as many lives as possible,’ she finally replied in an assured tone.
Omar sighed. Right from the beginning, both Maymuna and Sophiya had been hinting that his main priority should be to save the empire, even if it meant publishing the Prophet’s sayings. But this was the first time that Maymuna had openly said so. He thought about the saying for martyrdom, then quoted it loudly for his wife to hear.
‘“There are six things for the martyr. He is forgiven with the first flow of blood, he is shown his place in Paradise, he is protected from punishment in the grave, secured from the greatest terror, the crown of dignity is placed upon his head—and its gems are better than the world and what is in it—he is married to seventy-two wives among Al-Huril-'Ayn of Paradise, and he may intercede for seventy of his close relatives.”
There was a moment of silence as Maymuna pondered, having heard the narrative for the first time.
‘It is very powerful indeed. And when people hear that it came directly from the Holy Prophet’s mouth, they will rush to join the battle. It will solve all your problems,’ Maymuna commented.
‘You don’t understand. That is the problem. It is far too powerful,’ Omar replied.
Caliph Omar remained quiet for a while, leaning on his elbow in the dark. And then suddenly, making up his mind, he got up without saying a word. He walked out of the room to speak to the guards on night duty.
‘Can you immediately send word to Ulama Kateb that I would like to see him in the morning? Tell him that I also want to see the two scholars who collected the saying we discussed. He will know what I am talking about and which two scholars are responsible,’ he instructed.
Omar went back inside and returned to bed, wishing that Jaffar was here and not away on his trip to the eastern border.
‘I would not mind that warm milk you mentioned earlier,’ he said to Maymuna in a conciliatory tone, as he lay down next to her.
Old Kateb nodded at the two waiting scholars as he walked past and entered the caliph’s office. Unknown to Nuffay and Safwan, Caliph Omar had already arrived and entered his office though his private door.
‘Salam Alaikum, Your Excellency. You wanted to see me?’ Kateb greeted Caliph Omar.
‘Alaikum Salaam, Ulama Kateb. Yes, I wanted to speak directly to the two scholars who recorded the saying,’ Omar replied, looking up from the papers he was poring over.
‘They are my two brightest scholars and are here, waiting in the lobby. Should I get them for you?’ Kateb asked.
He wondered why the caliph wanted to speak to them. Surely it would not make any difference; Kateb had every faith that his scholars had carried out the task properly.
‘Yes, please,’ Omar replied.
When Nuffay and Safwan walked into the room, Caliph Omar immediately recognised both of them. He recalled that Safwan was the prosecuting ulama in the adultery case and Nuffay was the defending ulama. They both looked nervous as they greeted the caliph.
‘What a coincidence,’ Omar thought.
‘Thank you for coming at such short notice,’ Omar said to the two scholars.
‘Tell me about the martyrdom saying that you came across. Who told you about it? And tell me, in your opinion, whether the persons reporting it were speaking the truth,’ he inquired straightaway, turning to Safwan.
Safwan licked his lips and shuffled from one foot to another, without answering. He looked uncomfortably at Caliph Omar and then at Kateb. He felt everyone’s eyes on him as they waited for him to speak.
‘I was not actually in the room when it was reported,’ he finally blurted out.
Ulama Kateb could not believe his ears. He had staked his reputation on guaranteeing to Caliph Omar that his system of collecting the sayings was beyond criticism and reproach.
‘What do you mean you were not in the room?’ Kateb shouted.
‘I was not well and missed a couple of days. In my absence, it was Ulama Nuffay who interviewed the contributors and recorded this particular saying,’ Safwan explained awkwardly.
‘What were you suffering from that you had to miss this important matter?’ Kateb snapped at the poor scholar.
With his eyes on the floor, Safwan was forced to confess about his worm infection and how the laxative he had been taking as part of th
e remedy meant he had to be close to the latrines. Listening to the exchange between Kateb and Safwan, Nuffay was secretly gloating. Fate had favoured him and if he played it right he could be back in favour. He looked at Caliph Omar, who had not said a word during the entire altercation and decided that it was time for him to step in and save the situation.
‘Your Excellency, the fact that Ulama Safwan was not present when the saying was reported does not change a thing and most certainly does not impact upon its credibility,’ he said with a grave voice.
Everyone turned towards Nuffay as he spoke. Safwan was grateful for his intervention since it drew attention away from him. Nuffay went on to describe the circumstances, in great detail, how on two consecutive days, two different and unrelated persons had come to him with the same narrative. He included their names, the line of transmission and the town where they came from.
‘Realising the importance of the saying, I asked the local imam about the two men. The imam vouched that they were both reliable and respected members of the community,’ he explained.
As Nuffay spoke, he could see from the corner of his eye that Chief Ulama Kateb was nodding approvingly at his every word. Caliph Omar had heard enough and he thanked both scholars and Kateb for their time before dismissing the party. Though satisfied with the details provided by Nuffay, he wondered whether he should trust the word of only one man.
‘I could easily track down the two persons who contributed to the narrative, but that will take too long. I simply don’t have the time. Day by day the Byzantine invasion is getting closer,’ he thought with resignation.
Despite having met with the two scholars, Omar was no clearer about the dilemma on his mind.
Chapter 5
