by Kamran Pasha
Of course, my nephew, you know the bad blood that existed between us in later years, and even now I have difficulty writing her name without my hand shaking in fury. What she did to me, in my moment of terrible grief, may be forgiven by Almighty God, but my human heart cannot extend to her that clemency.
In those early days, I did not know the depth of her cruelty, and yet I still had a visceral dislike for Ramla the moment I laid eyes on her. There was something about her that struck me as dangerous, far more so than open enemies like her father or her conniving stepmother, Hind. In one glance, she sized up others as if weighing them and calculating their worth, and I never knew for what purpose. And yet Ramla was charming and I saw how she could make the Messenger laugh with her worldly stories from her travels to the courts of Yemen and Persia as part of Abu Sufyan’s trading ventures. And I hated her.
In truth, I hated her because she was beautiful and young, and her breasts were well shaped and firm, unlike my own, nothing more than tiny buds that barely rose from my chest. Yes, I had childish fantasies that I would grow up and marry the Messenger someday, as did every other young girl among the believers, and seeing Ramla sitting near the Prophet and her cousin Uthman, I felt the cold, harsh flash of reality. I was a child and she was a woman.
When dreams shatter, Abdallah, they can leave mighty scars that are always raw to the touch.
That night we sat and listened as the Messenger told us more about his wondrous journey to Jerusalem. Of how the angel Gabriel had come to the Messenger while he had slept near the Kaaba, leading a wing horse named Buraq. Together they had flown to Jerusalem, where they landed at the ruins of the Jewish shrine the Temple of Solomon, which was called in the holy Qur’an Al-Masjid Al-Aqsa—the Farthest Place of Worship. There, amid the fallen stones of God’s other House, sister to the Kaaba, the Prophet had prayed with the spirits of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus.
And then he revealed a secret that we were sworn to keep from the unbelievers, who were unworthy of the highest Truth. From a rock that stood at the site of Solomon’s Temple, the Messenger had ascended into heaven and traveled through the many realms of Paradise until he stood before the Throne of God. The Prophet had never before claimed to have spoken directly with Allah, who had communicated with him for the past ten years through angels as intermediaries. But this night, he had crossed the farthest reaches of Creation, past the Lote Tree of the Utmost Boundary beyond which even Gabriel could not ascend. And there, outside time and space, where there was neither light nor darkness, Muhammad communed with his Lord.
We listened with rapt attention, and many wept, as he described the glories of Paradise, the rivers of milk and honey, and wine that did not befuddle the senses. Of perfect trees that provided eternal shade and fruits whose scent was enough to quell the hunger of mankind for eternity. And there were youths like sparkling pearls that served the residents of Paradise with any food or drink that they desired, and houris, beautiful virgins whose touch made men forget all the earthly pleasure they had ever known.
At the mention of these delightful creatures, I saw many of the women’s faces fall. The thought of their men traipsing about in the afterlife with such perfect beauties did not seem like much of a paradise for them. But the Messenger kindly told us that all believing women who entered Paradise would become houris themselves and that there would be no jealousy or loneliness in eternity. Men and women would enjoy one another’s company and the ecstasies of one another’s bodies in a way that would make the coupling of this world seem like brief and fleeting pleasure, like a tickle from a feather.
The Night Journey had given the Prophet renewed hope and faith. Now that he had seen the wonders of the spiritual realm, the daily struggle of life on Earth held little fear. But most important for the community, God had sent the Messenger back from heaven with a new set of rules for our daily lives.
First and foremost, the ritual prayers and prostrations that we had performed haphazardly over the past ten years were now to be organized and made a daily practice. Five times a day—before sunrise, in the early and late afternoon, after sunset, and in the darkness of night—the Muslims would be required to bow before God in formal worship. And perhaps most startling, God had commanded us to face the holy city of Jerusalem when we prayed. We were accustomed to facing the Kaaba, even though the Messenger had never specifically commanded it, but now we were being told to turn to the north, to a city most of us had never seen and knew of only through myth and legend. But the Messenger was clear. Jerusalem was the home of the Prophets, and he was the last in their line. So we grudgingly obeyed.
He listed for us further commandments that he had been given in heaven. We would be required to fast for thirty days during Ramadan, which was the sacred month in which the Revelation had begun ten years before. That meant no food, water, or sexual relations from first light until sunset. I saw the look of general dismay at word that even intercourse would be banned during the fast, and the Prophet smiled gently, reminding us that sexual relations were a blessing from God, just like food and water, and restraining our lust would purify our souls and allow us to couple with deeper meaning and intensity when the fast was over.
And finally, we would be required to pay zakat, or alms, to the poor. Before this day, we had been encouraged but not commanded to share our wealth with the less fortunate. But now one-fortieth of every believer’s wealth officially belonged to God and the community and must be given freely to feed and clothe the needy. I stole a glance at Ramla to see how this proud woman, reared in the wealthiest home in Mecca, would react to being forced to give up a portion of her riches every year, but she was all pleasant smiles and graciousness, which only angered me more.
These were the Pillars of Islam, the Messenger announced, commanded by God from His Throne. Along with the testimony of faith, that there is no god but God and Muhammad is His Messenger, they would serve as the formal tests of a Muslim’s basic commitment to his or her faith.
The Messenger paused and then added that there was one final Pillar, which was obligatory only for those who had the necessary wealth to undergo the journey and were healthy enough to perform its requirements: the Pillar of Pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca, which every Muslim who was capable should perform once in his or her life.
We all looked at one another, confused.
Finally, Umar spoke up.
“But, Messenger of God, we all live in Mecca,” he said with his usual bluntness. “The Holy Kaaba is down the street. Why would we need to travel to perform the Pilgrimage when we do so every year with ease?”
I saw a strange look of sadness cross the Messenger’s face.
“It may not be so easy in the years to come, my friend.” And with that he rose, and we knew that the audience was over.
As the excited crowd cleared the hall, I saw the Messenger smile at Ramla and speak to her in low tones. A gesture of intimacy. My stomach twisted painfully.
And then, to my surprise the Prophet looked at me across the room and his eyes sparkled. And then he waved to my father to come to his side.
Abu Bakr nodded to my sister, Asma, and me.
“Go home. I will join you soon, insha-Allah.”
I did as I was told and stepped outside, before I realized that Asma was no longer at my side. I looked up to see her standing beside the gate to the Messenger’s house, speaking with his cousin Zubayr. The handsome young man leaned in and whispered something in her ear and she laughed, her cheeks flushing.
I smiled to see them together and walked home alone.
21
That night, after Asma returned home late to a harsh scolding by Umm Ruman for her unseemly flirtations, I sat in a corner of the living room, playing with my favorite dolls, ugly little things made from rags and robe fiber, which I had named Akil and Akila.
I acted out the wedding between these two figures, a favorite game, but in my mind’s eye, instead of my dolls, I saw my beloved sister finally wedding the boy she had secr
etly loved for years. Your father, Zubayr, was considered a great catch by the girls of the city, and I had never really believed that Asma had a chance with him. But the Messenger said that God holds the hearts of men between His two fingers, and turns them any way He wishes. It was evident that God had turned Zubayr’s heart to your mother at last.
I heard the door open and saw Abu Bakr return. I rose to greet him, but he looked at me with intense eyes.
“Go to your room, little one.”
There was something in his tone that frightened me, and I stood rooted on the spot.
“But, Father—”
“Go,” he said forcefully. “I need to speak to your mother.”
Somehow I knew that whatever had upset him had to do with me. I scoured my memory for all the naughty things I had done recently and I wondered which of them had finally gotten me in trouble.
Pondering my childish sins, I turned and went to my room and closed the door. But instead of playing with my dolls on my bed, I leaned up against the door to listen. I heard muffled voices and I strained to make sense of them. Finally I decided to risk it and I opened the door a crack, just enough to hear my parents’ words with some clarity. I grimaced as the acacia wood creaked against the marble floor and I wondered whether they had heard and knew I was eavesdropping.
“What’s wrong?” My mother’s voice was hushed but brimming with concern.
“Nothing is wrong,” my father said. “I…just need a moment.”
I heard my mother pour him a glass of water. After a moment, he spoke, and his words were filled with both fear and wonder.
“The Prophet had a dream,” he said softly.
“I know. He told us all about the Night Journey,” my mother responded.
“No. This was many nights ago,” Abu Bakr said. “It was only after his vision during the Night Journey that he decided it was time to share it with me.”
My father had always been respected as an interpreter of dreams, even in the days before the Revelation. He was like the prophet Joseph, a man who had been gifted with such a keen understanding of the human heart that he could easily read the symbols locked inside the hidden imaginings of the mind.
“The angel Gabriel game to him carrying a bundle of green silk,” Abu Bakr said slowly. “When the Prophet asked what was in the bundle, the angel said: ‘Your wife.’ And then he unrolled the silk and the Prophet saw a girl.”
Abu Bakr stopped. For a moment, I saw an image of Ramla wrapped in Gabriel’s silk, and I wanted to vomit. This beautiful and cunning daughter of Abu Sufyan would soon be in the bed of the Messenger of God. My heart beat fast with indignation.
But when my father spoke next, my heart stopped
“He saw Aisha.”
For the next several minutes, I heard nothing more. It was as if I had been struck deaf and even the torment of the damned in hell would have passed by my ears unnoticed.
When the world started again, the sounds came rushing at me faster than I could comprehend.
“What do we do?” My mother’s voice was shrill, like a lamb bleating at the first sight of the sacrificial knife.
“We obey God,” he said simply.
I heard my mother slam something down on the table and the door shook with its vibrations.
“But Aisha…she is promised to Jubayr ibn Mutim!”
This was news to me.
I had met Jubayr a few times, but I could barely remember what he looked like. I was aware that he was a cousin of the hated Hind, and I had heard rumors that he had been considering converting after Ramla had joined the new faith. Apparently, I was being used as a negotiating chip by my father to entice this powerful lord of Quraysh to embrace our faith. My heart, which had soared moments before to know that I was chosen to be the Messenger’s wife, now sank into rage and despair at the thought that my own family could bargain my life away so casually.
“Jubayr’s father has always opposed the marriage and will be relieved when we rescind the proposal,” he said matter-of-factly, as if discussing the proper value of onions in the marketplace. “If Jubayr is destined to come to Islam, God will find him a virtuous wife, I’m sure.”
I felt rage building in my young veins. Nowhere in this discussion had anyone mentioned or cared what I might have thought of any of this.
I heard my mother’s skirts rustling as she paced across the room, a habit whenever she was nervous or unsure.
“She is so young—” Umm Ruman objected, but my father cut her off.
“No younger than most brides these days,” Abu Bakr said simply. “The marriage will not be consummated until her cycles begin.”
There was a long silence in which the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my heart.
When my mother spoke again, I could hear deep concern in her voice.
“She will become the Mother of the Believers, a role only held by Khadija. How can a child take her place?”
“The Messenger understands the delicacy of her youth,” Abu Bakr said. “He will also marry an older, more mature woman who can run the household.”
I saw Ramla in my mind’s eye and felt my stomach sink. How could I be a cowife to the daughter of Abu Sufyan? She was so much prettier than me and was older, would know how to please a man. The Messenger would grow bored with me and toss me aside for a woman who was more his equal.
“Who?” my mother asked, with the excited curiosity of a gossipmonger.
My father paused, and I prayed to God: Please, don’t let it be Ramla.
“Sawda bint Zama,” he said at last.
I fell back with a thud and for a moment I was convinced that my parents had heard and knew I was listening. But they did not come into my room, and I sat in shock, absorbing this information.
And then I bit down on my hand to keep from laughing.
God had answered my prayer.
Sawda bint Zama was a sweet but elderly woman, a widow of considerable wealth, as Khadija had been. She was an excellent cook and would be a valuable addition to the Messenger’s household. But she was old and her body worn. If I were indeed meant to marry the Prophet, at least I would not have to compete with her in the bedroom. And even at that tender age, I knew that men valued young and beautiful women who could give them pleasure and bear them sons. Muhammad was the Messenger of God, but he was a man like any other in that respect, and I almost clapped with glee knowing that I could give him joys that Sawda would be incapable of providing.
When I crawled back to the crack of he door and listened, I heard my father speaking.
“I knew the night Aisha was born that she was special,” he said wistfully. “When the Prophet told me of his vision, I knew that the moment of her destiny had come.”
My mother sighed loudly
“Everything will change.” There was resignation in her voice and I knew that she had accepted the will of Allah.
“Everything must change,” my father responded. “With Khadija gone, the Muslims are in despair, walking like dead men. Aisha is a fountain of life. She will resurrect them.”
My mother was silent for a moment, lost in reflection.
“The midwife said our daughter would bring death.”
“Life and death are bound by a power beyond understanding. The power of transformation,” Abu Bakr waxed philosophical. “Aisha wields that power. She is the sword of transformation. Some things must die so that others may be born. That is her birthright.”
In later years, when my hand held that sword and rained death upon the Ummah, I wondered if my father had had some prophetic insight of his own.
“I am afraid,” my mother said simply.
And then I heard my father, the bastion of strength in our household, admit something that I could not have imagined.
“So am I, my love. So am I.”
I closed the door and crawled into bed. My mind was racing almost as fast as my heart.
God had chosen me to marry His Messenger.
It sounded laugh
able, but somehow it felt right. As if some part of my soul had always known that was my purpose. I took my dolls and put them aside with a pang of loss that comes when one period of life ends and another begins.
Yet I did not know where I was in the journey of life, or who I was to be, walking the path that I had been set upon.
I felt trapped between two worlds. I was no longer a child, but I was not yet a woman.
And yet, soon, I would be the Mother of the Believers.
22
One night, several months after I learned that I was betrothed to the Messenger of God, my father pulled me out of bed and told me to dress quickly. My mother and sister were still asleep and Abu Bakr told me to move quietly so as not to wake them up. We had an appointment tonight that it was best not to let them know about.
Confused and a little intrigued, I threw on a woolen robe over my cotton tunic. I tied my hair in a yellow scarf, but my father made me take it off and replace it with a black one that would not reflect the moonlight and draw attention to my presence. We tiptoed through the house, past my mother’s bedroom, where I could hear her snoring steadily.
I felt a sudden rush of excitement as we stepped out into the cold night. I knew that all this secrecy had something to do with my new status, and I was eager to unravel the mystery.
My father, wrapped in dark blue robes, his mouth covered by a strand of loose cloth from his brown turban, led me through the abandoned streets of Mecca. Normally there would be at least a few citizens sleeping in bunks outside their doors, as was the custom during the summer months when the cooling winds helped ease the raging heat that made sleeping indoors unbearable. But tonight was unusually cold and everyone was indoors.
