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

by Kamran Pasha

  And now Umar tormented the poor freedman, who lay prostrate on the earth before the House of God, a gesture that immediately identified him as a follower of Muhammad’s new religion.

  “You son of a dog! Get up!” Umar’s voice was like an elephant’s cry, terrifying and unearthly at once. He was the tallest man I had ever seen, with a bushy black beard that grew down to his waist. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, the muscles bulging clearly from the thin fabric of his red tunic. Umar reached down with hands that were larger than my head and grabbed Bilal by the scruff of his threadbare white robes. Bilal did not struggle but looked into Umar’s eyes with a serenity that only seemed to enrage the monster more.

  Umar slapped Bilal hard, and I saw a flash of white as one of the African’s teeth flew out of his mouth. Alarmed, my father ran over to his side.

  “Umar, leave Bilal in peace. Do not profane the Sanctuary with your wrath.”

  The son of al-Khattab stared at my father, who barely came up to his chest, with contempt.

  “It is you who profane the Sanctuary with your lies, Abu Bakr!” his voice thundered. “You spread discontent and rebellion, turning slaves against their masters!”

  My father remained calm, refusing to let Umar get a rise out of him.

  “Bilal is no longer a slave to any man,” he said firmly.

  Umar spat in contempt.

  “Just because you bought his freedom does not make him any less a slave.”

  Bilal looked at his tormentor with a steady gaze. When he spoke, it was with a deeply melodious, musical voice. A voice for which he would be renowned in years to come.

  “You are right, Umar. I am still a slave. A slave to Allah.”

  Umar’s face reddened until it became the color of an angry sunset.

  “You dare speak to me about Allah before His very House!”

  Umar kicked Bilal hard in the gut, knocking the small man to the ground. The tiny African cried out in pain, grasping his stomach and writhing in pain. Umar pushed my father out of the way when he leaned over to help Bilal and then kicked him again.

  Furious, I ran over to Umar and kicked him in the shin.

  “Stop it! Stop hurting him!”

  By then, a crowd of pilgrims and locals had formed around us, watching the ongoing drama. When I lashed out at Umar, many laughed at the madness of a child taking on one of the most feared men in Arabia.

  Hearing their jeers, Umar looked up and saw the men for the first time. Alarmed at the sudden public spectacle his temper had created during the sacred Pilgrimage, Umar attempted to reassert his dignity and power over the bemused crowd.

  “Step back! I am a guardian of the Holy Kaaba!”

  But I wouldn’t let him get away with that.

  “No! You’re just a bully!” I threw my tiny arms around his legs to prevent him from kicking Bilal again, causing a greater eruption of laughter from the spectators. I looked up to see that while some were mocking, others, especially pilgrims who were foreigners to the city, were shaking their heads in disgust at the violent display before the House of God.

  And then I saw Talha, my favorite cousin, push his way through the crowd. My face lit up. Of all my relatives, he was the one I was closest to. There was a natural sweetness to him, like the honey from a bee’s comb. And he was so handsome, with his flowing brown hair and expressive gray eyes that always showed what he was feeling. And in them now I saw terrible anger.

  Talha stormed up to Umar, unafraid of the towering blowhard.

  “How brave of you, Umar. Fighting a man half your size, and then a little girl. Shall I bring you a cat to test your prowess next?”

  Umar stepped back, stunned by Talha’s reproach. He looked confused, as if he could not understand how a powerful man like himself had lost control of the situation so quickly. He finally stared down at Bilal, eager to have the last word.

  “Leave the Sanctuary and darken not its stones again with your black flesh,” he said contemptuously.

  Bilal stood proudly, wiping blood from his mouth.

  “God made me black and I praise Him for it,” he said with dignity. And then he raised his beautiful voice to recite a verse from the Holy Qur’an.

  “We take our colors from God, and who is better than God at coloring?”

  There was a murmur of interest from the crowd at the lyrical sound of the holy words. I saw several of the dark-skinned nomads, who were accustomed to being treated with contempt, take in these words with a look of delight. They started whispering to one another, and I knew that soon they would learn about the Messenger from whose mouth these strange words had emanated. Words that broke the rules of Arab culture and yet touched the heart. Words that could give a slave strength to stand up to a tyrant. Now the crowd wanted to know more about these words and who was spreading them.

  I saw in his sudden flash of regret that Umar had realized this as well. In his explosion of rage, he had only managed to bring attention to Muhammad’s message. Shaking his head, he grumbled to himself as he turned away from us.

  “You are all mad,” Umar said dismissively. And then he faced the crowd and raised his hands for their attention.

  “Know all present that I would not have harmed this girl,” he said, pointing at me in the desperate hope of regaining some dignity. “Umar ibn al-Khattab does not hurt children.”

  Umar turned to walk away from the scene, when Talha laughed bitterly.

  “Really? So why did you bury your daughter alive, you pagan wretch?”

  Umar froze.

  Time itself seemed to stop at that moment.

  When Umar turned around to face Talha, there was a terrifying madness in his eyes.

  “You…you dare…”

  My father realized that Talha had gone too far.

  “Leave it be, Talha,” he warned.

  But my cousin was filled with righteous indignation. It was an open secret in the city that Umar’s wife, Zaynab bint Madh’un, had recently given birth to a girl. Ashamed and embittered that Zaynab had failed to produce a son, Umar had taken the infant child into the desert. In accordance with the practices of the idolaters, he had left the child on the searing sand and covered her with stones until she died. The Messenger of God had condemned this horrifying practice, which had further alienated him from the rulers of Mecca, who viewed infanticide as a man’s privilege.

  “Murderer!” Talha cried, burning with the fire of outrage. “When you are raised on Judgment Day, you will account for your crimes!”

  And suddenly, as if a dam had broken, Umar rushed at Talha and threw him to the ground.

  Abu Bakr tried to pull Umar off him, to no avail. Umar threw my father aside as if he were one of my rag dolls. I saw him hit his head hard on the ground, drawing blood.

  “Father!” I ran to his side in horror. I had never seen my father bleed before and it terrified me. As I helped my father up, Umar violently hit and kicked Talha, who endured his painful blows with dignity.

  “Go…go find Hamza…” my father said softly. “He went to Mount Hira…I am too weak…”

  Hamza was the Messenger’s uncle, a bear of a man who was the only one of the believers of sufficient strength and stature to challenge the formidable Umar. I raced out of the Sanctuary toward the surrounding hills that led to Mount Hira.

  I DESPERATELY CLIMBED THE ROCKY hills in search of Hamza, hoping that I could somehow get him back in time to save Talha’s life. The thought of losing him, the cousin I loved the most, terrified me. Talha was the only one who did not treat me like a baby. He was strong and handsome and charming and always made me laugh. My gossipy friend Rubina thought I had a crush on him and teased me relentlessly that we would marry someday. Once she said this loud enough for him to hear, to my mortification. But Talha did not mock me. Instead he looked at me with a warm smile and said, “It would be an honor of which I am unworthy.”

  Oh, poor Talha. There are times that I think I should have left him to die at Umar’s hand. Then he would
have been the first martyr and no man would question his honor or place in paradise.

  But I was only a child and did not have the gift of prophecy. All I could see was that he would die at that moment unless I could save him. And I, whose name meant life, would not let him die.

  I stumbled on the rocks and cut my hand against the edge of a jagged boulder. A streak of blood ran down my palm, but I ignored it and clambered up toward the hilltop.

  And then I saw a sight that has been forever burned into my soul. Two men and a woman, emaciated and roasted by the sun, tied to the thorn trees like scarecrows. I recognized them immediately. Sumaya, who was often in my mother’s kitchen, fussing over the proper number of onions to put in the lamb stew. Her quiet, kindhearted husband, Yasir, and their small but stout boy, Ammar.

  I stood frozen, my young mind unable to process what I saw.

  THIS WAS NOT THE fate Sumaya had wanted for her family when they left their lives as wandering goat herders and sought a more sedentary experience in the city. She had come to Mecca hoping to find a wife for Ammar and steady employment so that her son could build a life for himself and perhaps one day his children. But all they had found was misery.

  Sumaya quickly discovered the rule of Mecca that newcomers had no rights unless they secured the protection of a powerful clan. But protection was expensive, and the few goatskins they owned would not suffice. So her family worked like slaves for whoever was willing to offer a few copper coins. Cooking and cleaning were her lot, while her son and husband would tend to the animals of the wealthy or provide help with their hands, laying stone and brick for the expanding mansions of the town’s wealthy lords. Sometimes the pay was good. But if their money was stolen, as it often was, they had no recourse. If their employers beat them and refused to pay after a hard day’s work, they could not protest or raise any objection. Without the protection of a clan, their lives were worth nothing in Mecca, and if they were killed no one would notice, much less raise a sword to avenge them.

  And then Sumaya had met the Messenger of God. She had been warned to stay away from his house by the families she cooked and cleaned for. Muhammad was a dangerous sorcerer, they said, and he would place a spell on any who came near. But after a week without food and no one willing to pay for their services, Sumaya, Ammar, and Yasir wandered over to the forbidden quarter of the city where the sorcerer was reputed to live. She had found a small crowd of beggars gathered outside his house, and saw a lovely woman named Khadija handing out fresh meat to the desperate poor. Sumaya had fallen before the noble lady’s feet and begged her for food and work. Muhammad’s wife had brought them inside, and given her family warm soup and shelter for the night.

  And then she was brought before the Messenger, heard his gentle words of hope, his teaching that the poor would sit on thrones of gold in Paradise if they renounced false gods and dedicated themselves only to Allah. It was a message that Sumaya and her family had embraced eagerly. And it was their embrace of the message that had now brought them here, tortured and left to die in the wilderness.

  SUMAYA’S SON, AMMAR, GAZED at me, his eyes alert and full of pain.

  “Aisha…daughter of Abu Bakr…help us…”

  For an instant, I forgot all about Talha. I ran toward them and desperately tried to tear apart their bindings with my small hands. His father Yasir was unconscious. Still breathing but weakly.

  “Who did this to you?” I asked, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.

  “Abu Jahl…”

  And then I understood. The Meccan lord who was the most vehement foe of Islam. The monster whose name was told to Muslim children when they were naughty. “Behave, or Abu Jahl will come for you.”

  Abu Jahl had come for them.

  I tore the flesh from my hand trying to break the cruel knots, but to no avail.

  “I can’t do it!” I felt hot tears coming to my eyes. Today was a day of death and destruction. Everyone I loved was in trouble, and I was powerless to help them.

  And then I heard footsteps. Someone was coming. Ammar heard it, too. He looked down the hill and saw a figure approaching.

  “It’s him! Hide!”

  I turned and saw a man dressed in rich purple robes, a lavender turban wrapped across his head, climbing toward us.

  Abu Jahl, the monster of my childhood nightmares, was here.

  My heart in my throat, I looked around desperately. And then I saw a fallen tree trunk lying to the side. I jumped inside the trunk, ignoring an enraged spider whose web I tore apart as I hid from this demon.

  Abu Jahl clambered over the ridge and stood only five feet away from me. He did not look like a monster. In fact, he was quite elegant in his rich robes, laced in gold filigree. His face was handsome and evenly proportioned, his cheekbones high, and his skin unusually fair for a native of the desert heat. He had a small and well-trimmed mustache that gave him a dapper look. His real name was Abu al-Hakam, which meant “Father of Wisdom” but the Muslims always called him Abu Jahl, “Father of Ignorance.”

  I saw that his hands were full. In his right hand, he held a spear, the jagged head polished to sparkle in the sun. In his left, I saw an idol. A small, curvaceous stone made of shining obsidian. Even from the distance, I could tell that it was an icon of Manat, Abu Jahl’s patron goddess, to whom he attributed his remarkable wealth.

  He looked at the three prisoners whom he had been left to die here. Abu Jahl smiled almost apologetically.

  When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost soothing.

  “I hope the sun god has taught you reason, Ammar,” he said, without any hint of the rage or madness that possessed Umar.

  Ammar looked him in the eye, ignoring the persistent flies that were buzzing around his sweat-drenched face.

  “There is no sun god. There is only Allah, the Lord of the Worlds.”

  Abu Jahl shook his head, looking deeply disappointed. He sighed, as if filled with regret.

  “Even to the end, you remain dedicated to your heresy,” he said. “Think, boy. If Allah cared about your singular devotion so much, why would He leave you to die in the desert?”

  Ammar’s lips curled in fury.

  “You did that, not Allah.”

  Abu Jahl shrugged and turned to Sumaya, who looked up at him serenely despite her pain.

  “You are Ammar’s mother,” he said, his voice eminently reasonable. “Tell me, Sumaya. Do you remember his birth? The agony of labor. The pain almost killed you. Yet your midwife prayed to Manat and you lived. Without the mercy of the goddess, how could you have endured those pangs?”

  He held up the idol and dangled it right in front of Sumaya’s face.

  “Manat ended your pain and gave you and your son life that night. And she can give it you again. Right now.” He leaned forward, holding the idol close to Sumaya’s lips. “All you have to do is kiss her holy image. And I will release you and your family from your bonds.”

  Sumaya looked at him, and then at the idol.

  I held my breath, praying that she would do it. The Messenger had said that anyone who was forced to renounce his faith for fear of his life, but kept it in his heart, would be forgiven by God. My soul screamed to Sumaya from inside the darkness of the tree trunk: Do it! Save yourself! Save your son!

  Sumaya smiled at Abu Jahl gently, almost gratefully.

  And then she spit on the idol of Manat.

  And then I saw Abu Jahl change. Something terrible came over his face. Not rage, like Umar’s, but an emptiness. A lack of feeling. In that instant, he looked more like a corpse than a living man. And he frightened me more with the rigid calm of his face than Umar had with all his bluster.

  “So you would choose death over life,” he said softly.

  Sumaya laughed suddenly, as if she finally realized that she had been wasting her time arguing with an imbecile.

  “No…I choose life…eternal life,” she said. She steeled her eyes on him, and I saw no fear. “There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His Me
ssenger.”

  Abu Jahl gazed into her face, and then nodded. He stepped back, locking his eyes on hers.

  And then, in one fluid movement that was so fast my eyes barely captured it, he stabbed her through her vagina, pushing the spear up into her womb!

  “No!” Ammar’s scream was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard. I bit my hand in horror, letting my own stifled cry shudder through my body.

  Sumaya cried out in terrible agony. She writhed on the tree trunk as blood poured out from her womb and into a thick crimson puddle at her feet. Abu Jahl continued to push the spear higher, tearing open her intestines and stomach from the inside.

  And then her screams ended. And there was only silence.

  As Ammar wept, I saw Abu Jahl casually remove the spear. He used Sumaya’s threadbare tunic to clean the blood off his weapon, before turning to face Ammar.

  “The gods have won,” he said simply, as if stating an obvious truth to the child.

  Somehow Ammar found his voice in the midst of terrible grief.

  “No…my mother has won…she is the first of the martyrs.”

  Abu Jahl allowed a small smile to play on his full, sensuous lips.

  “She will not be the last.”

  He turned and climbed back down the hill, whistling a happy tune.

  When he was gone, I emerged from the tree trunk. I felt like I was in a dream. The entire day had to have been a nightmare. Nothing I witnessed could happen in the real world.

  I stared at the dead woman, hanging ignominiously, her lower body drenched in the blood that had only moments before flowed through her veins.

  This was not real. It couldn’t be.

  And then the screech of vultures tore me out of my trance and I ran away, racing from the specter of death that would forever haunt me, even as the midwife had prophesied the night I was born.

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