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

by Kamran Pasha

  And as the evil tongues continued to spill their poison, even my husband’s trusting heart was no longer immune to the lies. He stopped visiting me on our appointed days and I realized with horror that the seeds of nagging doubt were beginning to germinate in his mind.

  And so it was that I sat weeping in my tiny home, the mud walls that I had despised as a prison now my only protection from the crowds that gathered daily in the courtyard to mock my honor. My mother sat beside me, holding my hand and brushing my hair as she had when I was a little girl a lifetime before. I was grateful for her soothing presence and yet troubled by her inability to look into my eyes. The thought that she, too, might quietly doubt my integrity was more painful than I could bear.

  The door opened and I looked up to see my father enter. He appeared to have aged a dozen years in the past few days, and his graying hair was now almost completely white.

  I wanted to get up, to run into his arms, but there was a terrible cloud over his face. And then I realized with dread that he was looking at me less in sympathy than in anger, as if I were somehow to blame for this calumny, and I felt the sting of new tears in my eyes.

  “What has happened?” he said softly, looking at my mother rather than me. But I spoke up quickly, refusing to let others talk of my situation as if I were not present.

  “The Messenger bade me stay with you until he decides what to do,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking under grief.

  My mother patted my hand and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Do not fear. This will all pass soon,” she said, her voice sounding distant, as if she were talking aloud to herself rather than to me. And then she looked over at my father, who was still avoiding my eyes. “You are a beautiful woman and the wife of a powerful man. Those who speak against you are filled with envy.”

  Her words were meant to comfort, but I could hear the hint of doubt in her voice and could see her looking at Abu Bakr as if for reassurance. But he simply stared at his feet without responding.

  “But what am I to do?” I cried out in agony, begging for them to set aside their hesitation, to save their daughter from this cauldron of sorrow. “What if the Messenger divorces me? Or I am put on trial for adultery? The punishment is death!”

  The horror of my words seemed to break through the ice between us and I saw the first hint of compassion on my father’s tired face.

  “Do not fear, my daughter,” he said, finally moving from the doorway to sit by my side. “He is the Prophet of God. If you are innocent—”

  All the color drained from my face and then came flooding back in a rush of anger that made my skin burn.

  “If I am innocent?”

  “I only meant…”

  I rose to my feet and moved away from him.

  “I know what you meant! You don’t believe me!”

  My father tried to take my hand, but I pulled it away as if he were a leper.

  “I didn’t say that,” he said meekly, trying to undo the damage of his careless words. But it was too late.

  “You don’t have to!” I raged at him. “I see it in your eyes!”

  My mother tried to intervene. She took a deep breath and then finally looked at me directly.

  “Aisha, you are a young girl who has been through so much,” she said softly, and I could see that she was struggling with the words. “You are such a vivacious child with a love for life, and you have been burdened with more responsibility than any girl should bear at your age.” She hesitated and then said the words that would tear my heart in two. “I know the veil has left you feeling lonely and trapped. It’s perfectly understandable to seek an escape, even for one night…”

  I felt my heart miss a beat, and for a second the world spun around me. I was drowning and there was no one to save me. Not even my mother, who was intent on pushing my head farther into the rancid waters of shame and scandal.

  And then I heard myself speaking, but it was not me. A voice unlike any that had emerged from my throat echoed in that room. It was deep and harsh, like a man’s, resounding with power and terror.

  “Get out!”

  Umm Ruman’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, and her eyes bulged from her lined but still elegant face.

  “Don’t talk to me that way! I am your mother!” There was more fear than anger in her voice, as if she did not recognize this strange djinn that had taken possession of her precious daughter.

  And yet the voice I could not control would not be silenced.

  “No! I am yours!” I could hear it say. “I am the Mother of the Believers! I am the Chosen One, brought by Gabriel himself to the Messenger of God! You must obey me as you would obey my husband! Now get out!”

  Tears welled in my mother’s luminous eyes and yet I felt no sorrow for her. I felt nothing but outrage and righteous indignation.

  My mother looked as if she were about to retort. I saw her hand trembling as if it took every last thread of willpower to refrain from slapping me across the face.

  And then my father rose and touched her on the shoulder, shaking his head. My mother’s fury collapsed like a dam and the flood of grief that was inside her was released. She wept violently, her face buried in her hands, her body shaking with such violence that I thought her delicate bones would shatter.

  I gazed down on her grief and turned my back, preferring the sight of the dull brick wall to that of my own flesh and blood who had betrayed me. I heard the rustle of cotton robes as Abu Bakr rose and helped my crying mother to her feet. Their footsteps echoed coldly on the stone floor and then I heard the door slam behind them.

  I was alone now. More alone than I had ever been. Even though sunlight streamed in through the tiny cracks in the sheepskin covers over my window, I could feel a curtain of darkness falling over my life. A blackness so thick that even the shadows of the grave seemed to burn like torches of hope.

  And then, with nothing else left to do, I fell to my knees and prayed.

  And then, in that lonely silence where the only sound was the sullen tremor of my heart, I heard a voice inside my mind. It was gentle and soft, like the whisper of a spring breeze, and it recited the words of the holy Qur’an.

  God is the Protector of those who have faith. From the depths of darkness, He will lead them forth into light…

  28

  I sat close as my maid Burayra whispered to me what she had heard outside the door of Zaynab’s apartment. She was one of the few members of the household who had stood by my side as the scandal had spread and I counted her as my one true friend in what was becoming the darkest hour of my life. Her plump arms were soft as cushions and I would lean into them and weep every night as I awaited news of my fate. I had come to rely on Burayra’s persistent cheer to keep me from surrendering to despair. But tonight her chubby face was downturned with the weight of the words she carried.

  “Zaynab bint Jahsh spoke in your favor with the Messenger,” she said, to my sincere surprise.

  “Zaynab?” It was hard to believe that my greatest rival had spoke in my defense. And I suddenly felt exceedingly cheap and small for all the dark thoughts and bitterness I had harbored about her over the years. “Then I have been wrong about her. May Allah bless her.”

  I would later learn that as the whispers of infidelity had grown louder, as the whiff of scandal had become a cloud of stench over the sacred household, some of Zaynab’s friends had told her to rejoice. The daughter of Abu Bakr, her chief rival in the harem, would soon be undone by the sword of shame, and Zaynab would become the principal wife, the most revered of the Mothers in the eyes of the community. My downfall would be the catalyst that would raise Zaynab’s sun in the eyes of God and man, and she would quickly fill the void in her husband’s betrayed and broken heart.

  Such was the excited chattering of the other women of standing in Medina, women from powerful and noble families who had welcomed the wealthy Zaynab as one of their own even as they scorned me as an ambitious upstart. To these ladies, I had fina
lly received my long- overdue comeuppance, and they were eagerly awaiting the final act in this sordid drama, a denouement that would end in my disgrace and divorce from the House of the Messenger. The fact that my end could be met under a pile of stones in the desert, the ancient punishment for adulterers, did not seem to concern these catty gossips. They were too busy savoring the spice of scandal to consider that a young girl’s life was at stake.

  Perhaps not too long ago, Zaynab would have happily done the same, delighting in my fall. The humiliation of a woman whose childish games had brought the curtain of the veil down on all of them, cutting Zaynab and her sister-wives off from the world forever. She should have taken justified pleasure in my predicament as the proper retribution for a life of entitlement and unearned distinction as the Messenger’s only virgin wife.

  And yet now that her rival was in the center of a maelstrom that would in all likelihood consume me, Zaynab felt no joy. She had never liked me, that was true, and my hold on Muhammad’s heart would always be a source of jealousy for her. But in her heart, she knew that I was innocent of the slander. For all my faults, my arrogance and quick temper, Zaynab knew that I was utterly besotted with the Messenger of God and would not willingly submit to the charms of any man, even one as dashing and virile as Safwan. No, in Zaynab’s eyes, I was not guilty of adultery. Idiocy, yes. Immaturity, yes. But she knew that I would not, could not, be unfaithful to Muhammad, any more than the moon could refuse to follow the sun.

  And so it was that Zaynab bint Jahsh, my chief competitor for the heart of God’s Messenger, made a decision, one that would perplex her friends but one that was made because it was the right thing to do.

  I listened intently as Burayra shared with me what she had heard.

  “O MESSENGER OF GOD, may I speak?” Zaynab had been sitting by the Prophet’s side for some time before summoning up the courage to raise her voice.

  The Prophet looked up at her, his eyes weary. He had sat by Ali for nearly half an hour without either man speaking. Zaynab had watched the two, more like father and son than cousins, as they gazed at each other as if communicating without words. To anyone outside the confines of the sacred household, the persistent silence would have seemed awkward. Yet those in the inner circle of the family had come to understand that the relationship between Muhammad and Ali was special. The normal rules of social propriety did not seem to exist between them, as if they were one person rather than two, part of each other in some mysterious way that was beyond the understanding of mere mortals.

  “Speak, daughter of Jahsh, for I would hear your counsel,” the Prophet said softly.

  Zaynab hesitated, afraid that she was inserting herself into matters that were dangerously outside her purview. But as she looked at the pain in her husband’s eyes, she knew what she had to do.

  “Aisha and I have never been close, for many reasons that do not matter anymore,” she said, cautiously at first, as if every word were a step onto a deadly battlefield. And then the words came rushing from her lips, as if something greater than herself had taken control of Zaynab’s soul and was speaking through her. “But I can say this. She loves you and you alone. It is a passion that is so fiery that it consumes her with jealousy at times, to the grief of your other wives. But it is that very same passion that makes it impossible for her to have done the things she has been accused of.”

  She stopped, almost afraid to breathe. The Prophet looked at her and she saw the flicker of gratitude in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Zaynab.”

  He spoke like a patient thanking a doctor for a desperately needed salve. Her words had lessened his pain, his isolation. But she could see that the torment of doubt still raged in his heart.

  “Even if I believe Aisha, the scandal threatens to consume the Ummah like a wildfire,” the Messenger of God said with a sigh, “I don’t know what to do.”

  Zaynab’s eyes fell on Ali, who looked down at his hands for a long moment before finally raising his head to speak.

  “There are many women besides her,” Ali said gently.

  Zaynab saw the Prophet stiffen as if he had been stung, and then tears welled in his black eyes. The Messenger looked at his younger cousin, who shrank back slightly from his gaze, as if in apology. And yet Ali did not retract his words.

  In the years to come, Zaynab would remember this simple exchange between two men. A few words between family members dealing with an embarrassing scandal, words that would have had little impact beyond the moment had they been said by other men with more modest destinies.

  Ali’s advice was well intentioned, she knew. His suggestion that Muhammad should divorce Aisha was likely being whispered by many other Companions. They were words that were said out of love for Muhammad and a desire to protect the honor of his household. But words are like sparks, and these would kindle a flame that would forever change the course of history.

  I WAS STUNNED WHEN Burayra told me of Ali’s advice to divorce me. The Prophet’s cousin had betrayed me. The man who was closest to my husband’s heart had tried to use his powerful influence to have me expelled from the People of the House, have me cast out like a leper into the wilderness. He had judged me guilty without evidence and had cast his lot with the evil men and women who were spreading lies to destroy me.

  I felt my heart begin to pound, and the blood rushed so quickly to my head that I reeled as if I had been slapped. In that one moment, every complex feeling I ever had toward this strange and unearthly young man coalesced into one emotion.

  Hatred.

  “Ali…” I said his name out loud with difficulty, my voice shaking with anger so hot that it burned my tongue white. And then I made an oath that would change everything. The course of my life and the destiny of Islam itself turned on the words that exploded from my lips like a raging flood, destroying everything in their path.

  “By God, I will humble his face to the ground…I will tear him from his seat of honor if it’s the last thing I do…”

  I saw the terrified look on Burayra’s face and I did not care. She stared at me as if she did not recognize me, and she was right. For in that moment, Aisha bint Abu Bakr, the frivolous, warmhearted girl who loved life, was dead. I had been reborn as a woman of ice, whose cold heart beat for only one purpose.

  29

  After I had heard that the Prophet was being advised to divorce me by his closest allies, I left the confines of my apartment and returned to my mother’s home. It was not that I felt safer or more accepted there. On the contrary, my parents’ doubts were like claws scratching at my heart, and it was difficult for me to look either of them in the face. But I could not continue to dwell in the household of the Messenger, sleep in the bed we had once shared, as long as there was a cloud of suspicion hanging over me. And if I were to be cut off from the marriage bond—or worse, placed on trial for adultery—then I did not want to face the indignity of being taken forcefully from my own house. And so I donned my veil and left of my own accord one morning, with Burayra my only protection against the accusing stares of the crowds as I walked down the cobbled streets of Medina.

  My mother gave me a small room in the back of her stone hut, little larger than the cell that had been my apartment in the Masjid. She tried to comfort me, but I brushed aside her clumsy efforts at reconciliation and kept to myself. I spent the days in prayer, kneeling before God and asking Him to remove this lie that had been branded on my name. And every night I slept alone on the rough cot, the mattress made of knotted palm fiber that cut my skin raw as I tossed and turned with a thousand nightmares. But no matter how horrible the dreams were, the faces of djinn and demons that haunted my nights, I preferred the troubled madness of sleep to the greater nightmare that awaited me when I awoke.

  I remained in that room for six days, emerging only to visit the rickety toilet shed behind the back wall of the house. My mother tried to coax me to join the family for meals, but I would simply take rough pieces of meat and bowls of wheat porridge back into
my room and eat alone. After two days, she stopped asking me to come out and simply left the food on a tray by my door.

  And then, on the seventh day, I heard a knock and my father’s voice asking me to let them in, for he had brought a visitor. The Messenger of God had finally arrived to speak with me. And I could tell from my father’s grave tone that he feared the worst.

  I was numb from the unrelenting pain of the past few weeks and I felt nothing in my heart as I went to greet my husband. No anger, no fear. No despair. And even the love that had always bonded us was hidden so deep in the void of my heart that I could not find it. I was a corpse, without life or sensation, a dead tree whose branches rustled under a cold wind.

  I opened the door to see the Messenger of God, his face drawn and solemn, looking down at me. I offered a perfunctory greeting of peace and then sat down on the hard cot and stared straight ahead, ready for whatever judgment he had brought.

  The Prophet entered, followed by my mother and father, who looked more frightened than I had ever seen them. Even during the tense flight from Medina, their faces had been calm, their demeanor untroubled and steady. And yet now they looked as if everything they had was about to be taken away from them. I would have appreciated their fear for my future, a sign of their love for me despite their doubts and misgivings about my character. But my heart was like winter frost on the palm leaves, sharp and unyielding.