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

by Kamran Pasha

  But it was that very matter of religion that had quickly led to strife. My husband claimed to be a prophet in the line of Moses and the Jewish messengers. He had ordered us to pray toward Jerusalem and even fasted on the Jewish Day of Atonement, which they called Yom Kippur and we knew as Ashura. And yet the Jews had made it clear that he could not possibly be a prophet of their God, since they alone were the Chosen People. The Arabs, even though they were descended from Abraham through his first son, Ishmael, were not included in God’s covenant. The Messenger had been shocked and saddened by their rejection. To him, God’s message was for all mankind. How could it be that only one tribe would be privy to His Word? And yet the Jews held steadfast to their ancient beliefs and did not shy away from branding Muhammad as an impostor. And the relations between our communities had quickly chilled.

  But not all of the Jews of Medina were hostile to us. A rabbi named Husayn ibn Sallam had come to respect the Messenger as a sincere man seeking to bring the Arabs a better religion than the barbaric idolatry in which they were immersed. Ibn Sallam worked tirelessly to build bridges between the two faiths, to the derision of many among his own clan. His public show of friendship with Muhammad had cost him dearly, and the rabbi had become increasingly isolated from his fellow believers.

  And there was another, more private, supporter among the Jewish tribes. A beautiful girl named Safiya, daughter of the Jewish chieftain Huyayy ibn Akhtab of the Bani Nadir. When she had first heard that a prophet had arrived from the south, claiming to bring the Word of God to a wayward people, Safiya had been swept away by the romance of the idea. She had always loved her father’s tales of Moses confronting the Pharaoh and leading God’s people to freedom. Of Elijah standing up to the hubris of Jezebel and her Israelite puppet Ahab. Jeremiah, Isaiah, Ezra—all messengers of the God of Israel who had stood in defiance of power with the humble strength of truth.

  Ever since she was a girl, Safiya had fantasized about living in those days, when God spoke to men and the world was renewed by heroes of faith. Growing up as the daughter of a tribal leader and politician, she had watched the difficulties of ordering life in the desert and the troubling choices her beloved father, Huyayy, had to make to keep his people safe in the wilderness. Safiya had longed for God to send another prophet and take away her father’s burdens. To clarify right from wrong with the sword of justice so that the shadows of ambiguity that weighed on men’s souls would vanish under the rays of divine law.

  So when word spread through the oasis of a prophet who spoke words of power that changed men’s souls, she had been filled with wonder. Could it be that her prayer had been answered, that she had indeed lived to see the coming of God’s Chosen One, the man whom her people had hoped for since the days the Temple walls fell into oblivion? But she had quickly learned that her people did not share her enthusiasm and that her father in particular viewed the rise of this Arab prophet as a threat to Jewish survival.

  Safiya had buried her fascination with Muhammad in her heart. She kept wisely silent when she heard her father mock the man, denigrating the claim of this illiterate Arab to divine inspiration. And yet, over the past two years, this illiterate Arab’s power had only grown, and her father no longer dismissed him as a madman. Muhammad’s movement could not be ignored as a foolish cult anymore. The world was changing around them, and Muhammad’s increasing power had become a source of alarm for the Jewish tribes.

  And so it was that Safiya watched one night as three men sat glumly in her house, trying to make sense of a world they no longer recognized. Her father had invited Kab, the chieftain of the Jewish tribe Bani Qurayza, as well as their Arab ally Ibn Ubayy for what had become a weekly meeting to discuss the changing political face of Medina. But the three chieftains had sat around Huyayy’s elegant cedar table for almost an hour without a word, each lost in his own thoughts about the remarkable Muslim victory at Badr and what it meant for the oasis. Safiya served them honey cakes, which remained untouched. Unable to bear the silence any longer, she finally decided to speak up.

  “Why do you not rejoice, Father?” she asked casually, but with full knowledge that the subject was no casual matter. “Your allies have won a victory against the idolaters.”

  Huyayy gave her a sharp look. “These men of Quraysh I have known for many years,” he responded. “Idolaters they may have been, but they were honest in their trade. I take no pleasure in their deaths.”

  The Arab chieftain Ibn Ubayy grasped his wine goblet and took a long sip. He appeared calm, but anger burned inside him.

  “Muhammad’s victory has convinced these Muslims that God is truly on their side,” he said with an incredulous tone.

  Safiya hesitated. She knew that she was pushing her luck, but she needed to say what was in her heart.

  “Perhaps he is,” she said courageously. “Rabbi Ibn Sallam says—”

  Huyayy knocked over his wineglass, the purple stain rapidly spreading over the beige table coverlet.

  “Don’t quote that old fool to me!” Like many, Huyayy was discomfited by the broad-minded rabbi’s willingness to test the boundaries of Jewish tradition and scripture.

  Safiya recoiled as if she had been slapped. She could feel her cheeks grow warm with hurt. Her father had changed so much since Muhammad had arrived in Medina. Normally boisterous and kind, he had become increasingly brooding and prickly. And she blamed the treacherous Ibn Ubayy for poisoning his mind with plots and fears.

  As Safiya turned to leave, her head held proudly, she was surprised to feel her father’s strong hand take hold of her wrist.

  “Forgive me, my daughter,” he said softly. “The world is changing so rapidly. I feel lost.”

  It was the first truly honest thing he had said to her in months.

  “You should indeed feel lost,” Ibn Ubayy said with a sympathetic look. “The balance of power has shifted dangerously. The Muslims have been emboldened by their victory at Badr. They consider it a clear miracle for such a small band to rout a powerful army.”

  Kab, the chieftain of Bani Qurayza, laughed coldly.

  “Miracle? Bah. The Meccans were overconfident and underprepared. There is no miracle in hubris and poor planning.”

  “Be that as it may, Muhammad’s victory will raise his standing among the tribes of Arabia,” Ibn Ubayy said pointedly. “He has proven that Yathrib is a formidable threat to the northern caravan routes. Soon the tribes will send him heralds seeking alliance in order to protect their trade. And where will that leave your people, my friend?”

  “Where it always does,” Huyayy answered bitterly. “As outsiders.”

  Safiya knew that this Arab was seeking to use her people to advance his own ambitions, regardless of what the consequences might be for the Jews. And she would be damned if she would let him play her father like a Bedouin flute.

  “Do not rush to such judgments, Father,” she said quickly, ignoring Ibn Ubayy’s piercing gaze. “Muhammad has kept his end of the treaty. As long as we remain steadfast to the truce, we will prosper from the trade that these new alliances will secure for Yathrib.”

  Ibn Ubayy rose and approached her. She instinctively moved back. The chieftain of Khazraj maneuvered himself between Huyayy and his daughter, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “You have a good heart, my dear, but alas, you are a rare and precious flower,” he said with an air of affected sorrow. “The truth is, most men’s hearts are not like yours. They are filled with greed and jealousy. Even if your people prosper under Muhammad’s reign, what do you think will happen? The Muslims will resent you for your skill in bargaining. They will claim that you are stealing from them, hoarding the wealth that belongs to their community.”

  He was, of course, striking the very nerves that had been rubbed raw in the memories of her people. Their history was filled with such betrayals and Ibn Ubayy knew exactly the impact his calculated words would have. And to make matters worse, his old ally Kab, the head of Bani Qurayza, nodded in quick agreement.
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  “It is what always happens to our people, Safiya,” he said, sounding like a wise uncle reasoning with a stubborn child. “Since the days of Jacob and his sons, the world has resented our tribe for its prowess in commerce. Whenever we flourish, the nations conspire to take it away from us.”

  “You are wise to look at history, my friend,” Ibn Ubayy continued. “This is not the first time that an impostor has risen, claiming to speak for your God. And what do your rabbis say must be done when a false prophet is in your midst?”

  Kab began to glean where his Arab friend’s argument was leading. He leaned close to Huyayy, who looked weary from the weight of the conversation.

  “He must be opposed. His lies must be unmasked before the people.”

  Ibn Ubayy grabbed a velvet-backed chair, plumping himself down next to Huyayy. With Kab to his right and the Arab to his left, Safiya thought her father looked liked a tiny mouse trapped between the talons of a mighty bird.

  “Follow the wisdom of your fathers, Huyayy,” Ibn Ubayy said, his eyes burning with the fire of intrigue. “Muhammad claims to be a prophet like Moses, your lawgiver. Yet he cannot even read or write. He only knows of your Torah what he has heard from the mouths of others. Fragments of tales, misunderstood and misconstrued. His entire claim to power lies in his alleged revelations from God. Challenge Muhammad on his knowledge of scripture, show that his Qur’an differs from your Torah. Undermine the credibility of his prophecy, and you will defeat him in a way that no army ever could. That is the only way that you will protect your people from this new religion that seeks to dispossess you from your rightful status as the Chosen People.”

  Safiya knew that what Ibn Ubayy was proposing was far more dangerous than any contest of swords. Men could make war over land, water, or women, and still peace could be achieved, for the underlying matter under dispute was tangible, rational. But if Ibn Ubayy convinced her father to launch an ideological war against the Muslims, if they tried to insult or denigrate their neighbors’ faith, then there could be no reconciliation.

  If there was one thing Safiya had learned from arguing about the Torah with her own people, it was that fighting over intangible ideas was a losing proposition for all sides. Opinions hardened and conflict became a matter of hazy beliefs, phantoms that could never be satisfied, no matter how much blood was spilled. If the Jews allowed themselves to fall into this trap, they would become like a gazelle prodding a sleeping lion.

  “Father, don’t listen to him!” she cried, falling at Huyayy’s feet and clinging to his knees. “It is not the way of our people! Jews do not ridicule the beliefs of others! Let them have their religion and we ours. Or we risk bringing war upon us.”

  Huyayy gazed at her and she could see how tired he was. The lines around his eyes had become so thick that he looked like an owl. He ran a hand through her sandy hair as he had when she was a little girl.

  “War is already upon us, my child,” he said softly. “The Quraysh were the first to fall. We will be next. Unless the fire of Muhammad’s religion is quenched, it will consume the world—and our people with it.”

  Safiya looked at her father with pleading eyes, but he rose and gently nudged her away. The Jewish chieftain turned to his guests with a look of grim determination.

  “The time has come to show the world that this Arab who claims to speak for the God of Moses is a liar,” he said.

  Ibn Ubayy and Kab smiled in satisfaction. They had finally come up with a plan they believed could tear Muhammad off the throne that he had steadily been building himself for the past two years.

  The three men turned to walk into the courtyard and continue their conversation. Safiya stayed back, her heart heavy. There was no point in pursuing them, for she had lost the argument. She watched her father step through the carved oak doors into their manicured garden. And she had a vivid image in her heart of Huyayy walking into a lion’s den from which he would never return.

  8

  I sat near the Messenger in the courtyard of the Masjid as he shared with the worshipers the wondrous tale of Moses and Pharaoh. He was a remarkable storyteller, his hand gesticulating as he drew for his followers a vivid picture of the ancient prophet and his confrontation with the king of Egypt. All eyes were on him as Muhammad recited the newly revealed words of the Book.

  Moses said, “Pharaoh, I am a messenger from the Lord of the Worlds

  Duty bound to say nothing about God but the truth

  And I have brought you a clear sign from your Lord.”

  Pharaoh said, “Produce this sign you have brought, if you are telling the Truth.”

  Then Moses threw down his staff, and behold, it was a serpent!

  And he drew out his hand, and behold, it appeared white to the onlookers!

  Gasps of awe spread through the crowd of worshipers at the startling images. As the words of the Qur’an flowed from the Messenger’s lips in magnificent Arabic verse, the serpent and the white hand were so clear that we could almost see them with our eyes.

  And then I heard a loud cough coming from the back of the crowd. I looked up to see Huyayy, the Jewish chieftain of Bani Nadir, standing near the entrance to the courtyard. In his hand he held what appeared to be a scroll wrapped in blue velvet, although I did not recognize the writing that had been embossed in gold over the coverlet.

  There were murmurs of surprise at Huyayy’s unexpected appearance. The Messenger had long invited the Jews to come hear him preach, but they had politely refused, saying they did not need him to teach them what they already knew. And now the leader of one of the most powerful tribes had come on Friday, when the Masjid was overflowing with believers who had flocked to hear the Messenger’s weekly sermon.

  “Excuse me, but may I ask a question?” Huyayy’s voice was polite, but I sensed an edge there that I did not like.

  I turned to my husband, who looked at the visitor warily before nodding.

  “Who did you say it was that threw down the staff before Pharaoh?”

  The Prophet met the other man’s challenging gaze calmly.

  “It was not I that said it, for I only recite the words of God,” the Messenger responded. “God says in the holy Qur’an that it was Moses who threw the staff.”

  Huyayy’s face contorted as if he were confused.

  “How interesting. And yet the Torah says that it was Aaron that threw down the staff while Moses looked on.”

  There was a murmur of surprise in the crowd. It was such a minor difference that I did not care—the point of the story obviously wasn’t whether Moses or Aaron had thrown the staff but Pharaoh’s defiance of God’s clear signs. And yet some of the less sophisticated believers, unable to grasp the subtleties of poetry, found this seeming discrepancy troubling.

  Sensing that his challenge had the desired effect on at least some of the worshipers, Huyayy stepped closer to the Messenger and held aloft the velvet-covered scroll. He kissed it reverently before removing its wrap and unfurling the parchment to a page of what I assumed was Hebrew writing.

  “Perhaps you can show us where in the Holy Torah it says that Moses threw down the staff?”

  I felt the Messenger stiffen beside me.

  “I cannot read,” he said, a matter that had once been a source of shame for him but had since the days of Islam been the one clear sign of God’s favor. That a man who was illiterate could suddenly recite such great words of poetry had been the proof for many Muslims of Muhammad’s divinely inspired mission. And now Huyayy was using his unlettered past as a sword to mock the Revelation.

  “Oh yes, I forgot. I apologize,” he said, with no hint of apology in his tone. “But if you would indulge me, I have another question.”

  I saw the Messenger’s dark eyes beginning to narrow in irritation.

  “Ask, and if God has revealed it to me, I will answer.”

  Huyayy looked at the men and women seated on the floor of the Masjid as he spoke.

  “How many signs did God send to Pharaoh to let the
Children of Israel go?”

  That was easy. Even a young girl like me who was not well versed in theology had heard the story of Moses enough times to know the answer.

  “The holy Qur’an says nine,” the Prophet responded with dignity.

  Huyayy made an exaggerated look of surprise, his dark lips curling back to reveal yellowing teeth.

  “Really? But the Torah claims that there were ten plagues. Perhaps God forgot one when He spoke to you.”

  Now I could sense real unrest among the crowd. There was a rumble of conversation as people asked one another how the Messenger of God could have made a mistake like that. Even an illiterate man could still count, they whispered.

  “Another question, if I may—”

  I had had enough of this uninvited guest insulting my husband. I leaped to my feet and shouted at the top of my lungs.

  “No, you may not! You only seek to mock him!”

  Huyayy looked at me with amusement, and his contemptuous gaze made my heart pound in anger.

  “I did not know that the child bride speaks for the Prophet. It was not so in the days of Moses.”

  I felt a cooling hand against my forearm. The Messenger shook his head slightly and I felt a flush of embarrassment. I sat back down, suddenly wanting to be unseen and forgotten.

  The Messenger turned is attention to Huyayy. He spoke calmly, but I could see the vein at his temple beginning to throb.

  “Ask, and I will answer if God has revealed it to me.”

  Huyayy stepped forward, his eyes glistening like a falcon on its prey.

  “Who was Haman?”

  The Messenger glanced at his followers, who were looking at him eagerly, pleading with their eyes from him to best this arrogant interloper.