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

by Kamran Pasha

  The Jews did not deign to respond to this new charge against them, but their leaders made it clear that Muhammad’s humiliation at Uhud should serve as a reminder that the future of the oasis was not as clear as the Muslims would like to believe. And they were right.

  It was the realization of our precarious position in the aftermath of defeat that forced the Messenger to hold a secret a council of his closest Companions. A handful of the most influential members of our community met inside my tiny apartment, with guards placed in the courtyard of the Masjid to ward off any eavesdroppers.

  My father pulled his beard, which had begun to turn from gray to cloudy white.

  “Now that the Meccans have tasted victory, they think we are weak,” he said grimly. “It will not be long before they attack Medina again with a stronger force.”

  Umar grunted in assent.

  “We must make new allies among the Arab tribes if we wish to mount a defense,” he said, leaving unspoken the obvious fact that our Jewish neighbors could not be relied upon to uphold their end of the treaty if Abu Sufyan invaded.

  Ali leaned forward.

  “The Bedouin tribe of Bani Amir is well armed, and they have no love for Mecca.”

  I wrinkled my forehead at the mention of the unfamiliar tribe, and then I remembered that the Bani Amir were shepherds who brought their flocks to pasture in Medina every spring. Their wool was actually quite decent, with thick curls that made excellent blankets during the cold winter months, and their shearings sold well in the marketplace. They had remained neutral in our conflict with Mecca, but they definitely had a vested economic interest in the prosperity of the settlement.

  Uthman nodded favorably at Ali’s suggestion.

  “I know their chieftain, Abu Bara. He is an honorable man and would be a useful ally.”

  My father coughed, as if he often did when he had to make an indelicate comment.

  “I have heard that Abu Bara’s leadership is in question,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Rumor is that his nephew Husam is seeking to displace him.

  Uthman frowned. The complex nuances of such a power struggle could not be grasped by his simple and straightforward nature. A fact that would cause much grief to the Ummah in years to come.

  “Husam has many friends in Mecca,” he conceded with some difficulty. “If he seizes control of the Bani Amir and allies them with Abu Sufyan, we will face a formidable enemy.”

  Umar banged his hand on his knee.

  “Then we must unite his tribe clearly with the Muslims,” he said with his customary intensity. “If we can forge relations of blood and marriage between us, it will cement an alliance.”

  There was a long silence as the Messenger’s counselors considered their options. Marriage as a means of establishing treaties between peoples had a long and honored tradition in Arabia. But the question remained as to who among the notoriously independent Bani Amir would be amenable to a match with the Muslims and whom they could be paired with to forge an alliance that would justify the Bedouin risking their lives in Medina’s wars.

  And then Ali spoke, his voice ringing like a bell in the small room.

  “Zaynab, the daughter of Khuzayma, is a member of the Bani Amir.”

  Umar’s bushy eyebrows rose.

  “The widow of Ubayda?”

  Ali nodded. And then I had a flash of memory of courageous Ubayda on the plain of Badr, his leg cut off by the dying Utbah. He had been the first Muslim to be killed in battle and had expired with his head in the Prophet’s lap. I knew his young widow, Zaynab bint Khuzayma, in passing. She was a quiet soul, who spent most of her time helping Fatima by feeding the People of the Bench or distributing alms to the needy. I had heard the Messenger once refer to her admiringly as “the Mother of the Poor.”

  Zaynab was a frail woman whose body was malnourished and small, and I found it hard to imagine that this plain, ghostly lady would find a suitor easily. Glancing at the dubious looks on the faces of the other men, I gathered that they were thinking similar thoughts.

  Ali turned to face the Prophet, who had sat uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire discussion. My husband looked worn and tired, and I knew that he was still grieving for Hamza and the dead of Uhud.

  “Zaynab is a cousin of the chief of Bani Amir and can turn his heart in our favor,” Ali said. And then he added words that immediately shook my world. “If the Messenger were to marry her, it would create a powerful bond between the Muslims and the Bedouins.”

  I felt bile rising in my stomach.

  “You are quick to offer my husband’s hand in marriage!”

  Ali looked at me with those unreadable green eyes. If he was stung by the vehemence of my reaction, he did not show it.

  “I meant no offense,” he said simply. “But the Messenger is the head of our community. For the Bedouins, only a marriage between leaders of tribes would be sufficient to earn their allegiance.”

  I sat back sullenly, my arms folded across my chest in defiance. Of course what Ali said made perfect sense from a practical point of view. But I was in no mood for practicality. I had already been forced to contend with one young sister-wife because of the Messenger’s political needs. And now I was being asked to accept another woman in Muhammad’s bed for the sake of state policy.

  The Messenger did not look at me. He sat quietly, considering Ali’s words. When he spoke, there was a calm decisiveness in his voice that I had not heard since the tragedy at Uhud.

  “Zaynab bint Khuzayma is a good woman,” my husband said. “She is kind to the poor. And she is the first widow of Badr. I know of none worthier to become a Mother of the Believers.”

  I felt my heart sink as the Messenger turned to face Ali.

  “Send her my proposal. If she accepts, invite Abu Bara to the wedding and let us make a treaty with his tribe.”

  Ali nodded and rose to leave. I could not help but give him a furious look as he walked out. He met my eyes, and for a second I saw cold disapproval in his glance. I felt a sudden flash of outrage at his judgmental stare, as well as an inkling of shame at my own jealousy. But as Ali walked out, my wounded pride won the struggle inside me, and I bit my lip in fury until I drew blood.

  2

  The Messenger married Zaynab bint Khuzayma a fortnight later, and a fourth apartment was built, the newest, just north of Hafsa’s stone hut. Abu Bara, the head of Bani Amir, attended the wedding of his cousin and publicly proclaimed that the Bedouin tribe was now bound by blood to Medina. The alliance had been successfully formed, and the Messenger’s political marriage had closed the chinks in our armor after the humiliation of Uhud.

  And it was an alliance that was tested almost immediately. Abu Bara’s ambitious nephew tried to disrupt the pact by leading a renegade group of his tribesmen to attack a Muslim hunting party that wandered into Bani Amir territory. The survivors of the attack hid in the wilderness and took their vengeance on a group of Bani Amir shepherds who were innocent of complicity in the plot.

  The dangerous cycle of retaliation had begun and the Prophet wisely offered to ease tensions with the Bedouins by paying a hefty sum to settle the claims of the shepherds’ grieving families. The sum demanded—a thousand gold dirhams—was substantial and posed a significant strain on the Bayt al-Mal, the Muslim treasury. And so the Prophet sent Ali to seek financial support from the Jewish tribes in accordance with our old treaty.

  When I heard this, I shook my head in disbelief.

  “The Jews have long forgotten our treaty,” I said to him one day as we sat in my room eating roasted lamb from a wooden bowl.

  The Messenger’s hand brushed against mine as he reached in for a shank, and I could feel the coolness of his fingers beside my own. He took the soft shoulder meat and bit down, savoring its delicate taste.

  “If our friends have forgotten the pact, then perhaps it is time to remind them,” Muhammad said, as if he were discussing a small bill of goods to be paid in the bazaar.

  But I k
new that it was not as simple as that. Blood had been spilled and one of the Jewish tribes was now in exile. Pressuring the remaining Jews to pay for a blood feud between the Muslims and the Bedouins would place an even greater strain on relations between the two communities.

  And then as I looked into the Messenger’s twinkling black eyes, I realized that he understood this. This was a test of Medina’s power in the aftermath of Uhud. If the Jews failed to honor the treaty, there would no longer be any question as to where their allegiance lay. And with Mecca now assuredly plotting to fan the brushfire that been ignited at Uhud, we could not afford to have neighbors whose intentions were hostile. The Jewish fortresses guarded the mountain passes into the city. Their disloyalty could prove disastrous should Abu Sufyan’s forces again march up the hills toward the heart of Medina.

  There was no more time for guessing—the truth of our political situation had to be assessed now. And the blood settlement provided an innocuous means of testing the waters. If the Jewish tribes renounced their obligations under the treaty, the Messenger would have ample reason to expel them from the oasis.

  It was an utterly ingenious stratagem. If the Jews paid the Bani Amir, they would be held accountable for any future treaty obligations by a well-armed third party. And if they refused to pay, the Bani Amir would join forces with the Muslims and remove their threat from the doorstep of Medina. I realized that the Messenger would win either way.

  I saw the Prophet smile as if he read my thoughts. As he continued to eat heartily of the lamb, I felt a surge of relief that I was his wife and not his adversary.

  THREE DAYS LATER, I was walking alone through the marketplace. My husband had been invited to a dinner at the home of Huyayy ibn Akhtab, the leader of the Jewish tribe of Bani Nadir. His request for their help in paying the blood money to the Bedouins had been received with surprising graciousness. Huyayy had sent word that he wished to begin a new era in relations between their peoples. They worshiped the same God, after all, and both communities had a vested interest in the security and prosperity of the oasis. And so he offered to host a feast of reconciliation at which the Messenger would be his honored guest.

  The Prophet had departed to attend the gathering with a small band of his Companions. In his absence, I decided to make a trip to the bazaar and see what new goods had arrived on the morning caravan. As I walked through the paved alleys of the city, I marveled at how things had changed in the past few years. Medina had been a dirty and unkempt town, where the streets were littered with refuse and camel dung. Women could not step outside alone without fear of harassment or worse by drunken tribesmen. The heady smell of khamr had hung over the town like a drunken cloud.

  But now the cobbled stones were whitewashed and crumbling walls had been rebuilt. Women and children now walked about freely, although the imposition of the Muslim head scarf was still the subject of grumbling by some of the prettier girls, who were accustomed to parading their luxurious locks as a means of enticing a husband.

  But the most remarkable change was the ban on wine. Initially Muslims were permitted to drink alcohol, even though the Messenger himself would not touch any strong drink that befuddled the senses. But as the institution of communal prayers was formalized at the Masjid, incidents of believers showing up drunk and disrupting the services had become increasingly problematic. Finally, after a drunken brawl among youths almost erupted into a street battle between the old enemies of Aws and Khazraj, the Messenger received a Revelation prohibiting the consumption of alcohol altogether. Some of the Companions voiced concerns that such a ban would be hard to enforce, as wine and khamr were a traditional part of Arab culture. And yet when Ali recited the new verses in the marketplace, the streets were soon running with wine as the citizens emptied their flasks. It had been a remarkable testament to how deeply faith had transformed these people—although I guessed that there were still a few bottles of wine being consumed in secret every night among the less devout.

  Still, law and order had been achieved, and the visiting traders who arrived from all over the peninsula departed Medina with a sense of new possibilities. Perhaps the people of Arabia did not have to live like wild animals, crudely struggling for survival in the wilderness. Perhaps they could build cities and roads and establish courts of law that would end disputes without bloodshed. Medina was becoming a model for a new Arabia, and the word that Muhammad’s way led to peace and security was already spreading like an unstoppable sandstorm through the lonely wastes beyond the hills.

  I walked through the stalls that day feeling happier than I had in some time. The sky was crystal blue with nary a cloud in sight. The air was warm and buzzing with life. Despite the horrors I had witnessed at Uhud, life was moving forward. And now that the Jews had renewed our pact, Mecca was unlikely to attack again. The sweet smell of peace was in the air.

  I stopped before a cloth dealer and saw a lovely roll of saffron-colored silk. I ran my fingers through the fabric, letting its softness send shocks of pleasure down my wrist. The merchant, a grizzled old man with one eye, leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “The finest cloth from India,” he said in a whisper, referring to a mythic land that was said to be south of the even more magical China. A land of vibrant colors and spices that could be found nowhere else on earth. A land where tigers and monkeys roamed the streets and armies fought with the aid of elephants. A land that was said to have so many gods that the idols of the Kaaba were like tiny stars lost amid the glory of the Milky Way.

  All rubbish, of course. I doubted that this fabled realm existed anywhere outside the fevered imaginings of campfire storytellers. And in any event, whenever a merchant mentioned India, you knew you were in trouble. Traders always claimed that their goods had been imported from there when they wanted to charge exorbitant prices.

  True to form, the merchant smiled widely, revealing a jungle of broken and blackened teeth.

  “Only twenty gold dirhams,” he said, after glancing around to make sure no one had heard what a magnificent bargain he was offering the pretty young lady before him.

  I suppressed a smile at the old fraud.

  “I’m just looking. Thank you.”

  And then I saw the silk dealer’s face change. He had recognized me. Suddenly the practiced showmanship vanished and I saw fear and awe in his eyes.

  “You…you are the Mother of the Believers…Please, take it as a gift…”

  He handed the roll of silk to me reverently, his wrinkled hands trembling, and suddenly it was I who felt like the fraud.

  “My husband would not let me take something without paying,” I said hastily. I suddenly regretted having come here alone.

  I saw tears well in the old man’s eyes.

  “Then take it in exchange for a prayer,” he said in a voice that cracked with emotion. “My daughter Halima is sick with the oasis fever. Please pray for her. I know that God listens to the Mother of the Believers.”

  I suddenly felt sorry for this kindly old man. He looked at me with the eyes of a child, completely trusting that I could do something for him. But I could not even find an answer for my own fervent prayers. I had now been with the Prophet for almost four years and my womb was barren. I had been praying every night for the past year for God to quicken my body with new life. And there had been no answer.

  “I will ask my husband to pray for her,” I said softly. “And insha-Allah she will be healed.”

  The merchant’s face lit up in a smile of pure glee. He fell to his knees and praised Allah so loudly that people in the bazaar stopped what they were doing to stare.

  I felt my face flush red. I wished the old man peace and quickly turned to walk away.

  And then I walked right into a tall woman whose face was almost completely covered by a black veil. All I could see were her gray eyes, which pierced into me like an arrow.

  “Alms for a poor woman…”

  She held out her hand and I saw that her fingers were finely manicured, not rough
and callused like those of all the other beggars in the town. And yet there was something about the intensity of her gaze that suggested she carried more sorrow than all the hungry women and children who came to the Bench every day asking for food.

  I reached into my small leather purse and took out a few silver coins. As I placed them in her outstretched palm she gripped my hand with terrifying strength.

  “Let go of me!” I was suddenly afraid, even though I knew that if I cried out, the entire bazaar would rush to the aid of the Mother. But something about the mournful way that she looked into my eyes filled me with greater dread than the violent threats of any enemy.

  The woman leaned close to me and I could smell rosewater about her. Even though she was dressed in rags, her flesh had the unmistakable scent of luxury.

  “Your husband is in danger.”

  My heart forgot to beat for an instant, and then made up for it by hammering with wild abandon.

  “What are you saying?” I had to raise my voice to hear my own words over the pounding in my ears.

  “The Bani Nadir plan to kill him outside the walls of their fortress,” she said softly, her gray eyes shimmering with tears. “Save him. Or war will be upon us and Medina will be washed in blood.”

  I felt all color drain from my face. The woman let go of my hand and I felt my legs moving even though I had not willed them to do so. And suddenly I was racing away from the strange woman, away from the stands of olives and spices and jewelry, away from the cobbled streets of Medina into the palm groves that stood between the oasis and the mighty walls of the Jews.