The Jealous

by Laury Silvers

  He turned away from her, facing the front of the mosque to perform his own greeting prayer, but couldn’t relax into the movements and keep his mind on God. Every muscle was tight with the frustration of her and worry about approaching Ibn Salah. He greeted the angels on either side of him to close the prayer, his tone towards them a little harsh. He muttered, “God forgive me,” then got up and crossed the mosque to the two men talking by the pillar. The older of the two wore a grand turban in deep blue, wrapped in the manner of the Hanafi school of law. He was draped in an elegant woolen robe and wrap over that. The fabric was pure white and shot through with blue thread. There was nothing humble about his dress. Mustafa thought he’d not be out of place with the Abu Burhans of this world, but he put his hand over his heart and bowed his head, saying with all the graciousness he could muster, “Assalamu alaykum, blessed Friday prayer.”

  They replied, “Blessed Friday prayer.”

  “I was wondering if you could direct me to Abu Mubarak Sherwan Ibn as-Salah al-Kurdi, I understand he teaches here?”

  They looked at him, obviously noticing his turban tied in the manner of the Hanbalis. The elder of the two took a moment, then replied, “He is not teaching today, but he is over there, sitting near the library door, as he regularly does on Fridays, if anyone needs to ask him a legal question.”

  The younger one looked to the elder for direction. He nodded to the young scholar, who said to Mustafa, “I’ll bring you to him.”

  The young man walked him to the library side of the mosque in silence then bowed his head to Mustafa, hand over his heart, and left him standing before Ibn Salah. The scholar he had been seeking was instructing a young man sitting beside him. Ibn Salah nodded at Mustafa, indicating he should sit, then returned to the conversation before him.

  Mustafa did as he indicated, and observed the man upon whom so much would rely. Ibn Salah’s back was straight, but not arrogantly so. He leaned in to speak to a young man before him, his face animated with apparent interest. His turban was neither too large nor too small, making no statement about his greatness nor his humility. He wore a quilted robe of tightly woven cotton, and a simple brown woolen wrap draped over one shoulder. He held himself with unmistakable dignity. Mustafa imagined himself in Ibn Salah’s place, students surrounding him at the mosque, and listened.

  Ibn Salah’s voice was kind, but scolding, “I do not diminish the opinions of our great scholars, for many times I am consulted on a problem and were it not for what I had memorized of their statements I would not know where to place my foot. That said, we cannot simply rely on earlier scholars’ legal opinions. Do you think that they could foresee every problem that would come to pass in this life? New situations will always arise. Even if you were to lead behind you a donkey-cart filled with all the books of all the fatwas of all the scholars everywhere you go, it is still possible that there would be no answer to a novel problem brought before you.” He sat back and slapped his knee lightly. “For this reason, we must endeavour to determine new rulings. Now, occasionally, we may find an analogous ruling from which we can determine the right way forward in this new matter.” Ibn Salah leaned in again, excited. “But other times, there is not even that! It is only our knowledge of the methods our fore-scholars used to determine their own rulings that guide us. In that, we infer the right way forward and produce new rulings on which those who come after us may be able to rely.”

  The young man nodded at Ibn Salah’s every word, but he could see that he found it shocking.

  He felt more than a little sympathy with the young man. He was obviously in no position to argue these points at this stage in his education, but the young man’s conscience was correct. Ruling by analogy was dangerous enough. The soul could imagine it sees all kinds of analogous situations to rule for its own benefit! Even worse was not giving primacy of place to our pious forebears, those wise men who followed the Prophet, and determining rulings based on nothing other than ‘method’ alone! God protect us from evil things. There is no telling where this might lead. The young man got up to leave, clearly dissatisfied. Mustafa sorely wanted to pull him aside and tell him to come and sit with the Hanbalis. He would find himself in a safer home than this one.

  Ibn Salah interrupted his thoughts, “I see you follow the Hanbali school, what do you think of what I’ve said?”

  Mustafa blushed, feeling caught out. He did not have the requisite knowledge to dispute with him. He must not agree, but he must not engage! He found his answer, “I would respectfully disagree,” and bowed his head, his hand over his heart, “But I am not here to discuss the merits of our different methods of drawing God’s intent from the Qur’an and the Sunna of our beloved Prophet, God bless him and grant him peace.”

  Ibn Salah’s face lit up with interest. “No?”

  “Do you remember the case of Imam Hisham al-Qatafi’s slave?”

  He frowned. “Yes, Mu’mina, how could I forget? Imam Hashim died recently, it seems as a result of the hardship he placed on the poor girl. May God forgive him.”

  Mustafa said it, but did not feel it, “Amin.”

  “And rumour has it that she had a curse put on him. It was understandable. But, I am sorry, do you mind me asking what do you have to do with all this?”

  “A childhood friend is an investigator with Grave Crimes and felt that you may be of some help.”

  “Why did he not speak to me himself?”

  Mustafa stumbled, unsure of how to describe himself, “I am involved in the investigation as, as a consultant.”

  Ibn Salah nodded. “What can I do?”

  “The case is not as straightforward as it seems. The girl confessed, but it may be that she did not intend to kill him. Although, one of the investigators, my friend, does not believe she killed him at all.”

  “And her confession?”

  “As you heard, she bought a curse. But the curse was, uh, to reduce the Imam’s sexual desire, not to kill him. The curse may have unleashed an ifrit who did the job. This confession, and an amendment citing that the killing may not have been intentional, was sent forward to the Police Chief.”

  “When does the case go before him?”

  “As soon as it reaches its turn on the docket. It could be tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Unintentional murder would typically be punishable by payment of blood money, but the Police Chief is not bound to follow religious law in his rulings.”

  Mustafa tried to interrupt, “It’s…”

  Ibn Salah ignored him, looking out across the expanse of the mosque. “The family would no doubt demand her execution and he would allow it.” He turned back to Mustafa, “They are an influential family, there is no reason that their slave would be shown mercy in this case. It is most likely to go against her.”

  Mustafa let out in a rush what he had been trying to say, “That is why I am here. There is, perhaps, another way.”

  Ibn Salah leaned in. “Tell me.”

  “It is possible that he was killed by poison, intentional or accidental. Anyone could have done it. It could even have been from a beating. We don’t know.”

  Ibn Salah sat back, confused. “Then why was her case moved on to the Police Chief’s court so quickly?”

  Mustafa chose his words carefully, “Her confession was submitted before they reflected on the other possibilities.”

  “And where is Mu’mina now?”

  “She is being held under suspicion, along with the woman who wrote the talisman.”

  “Ya Rabb, you know what will most likely happen? The Police Chief will put aside her case and leave her and the talisman maker in jail indefinitely. He would not release her on the basis of doubt, as a religious court might, unless the political circumstances warrant it.”

  Mustafa said, “You see the problem.”

  “Yes. God help these poor women; many people have been lost forever in those cells.”

  “We thought it might be possible to petition to have her case moved from the P
olice Chief’s court to a religious court for examination. It would delay the consideration of the evidence, giving the police more time to investigate.”

  “This crime happened in Karkh. Abu Burhan should hear it. Is this what you want?”

  “That is why I am here to speak to you. We had hoped you could help us get the case moved to a different court. Perhaps the court here in Rusafa.”

  “A petitioner would have to bring a case against her to Qadi Ibn al-Zayzafuni’s court. It cannot simply be transferred. I am surprised the police sergeant is not aware of this.”

  “My sense is that the investigators’ sergeant would prefer the two women be convicted quickly, or, as you mentioned, sit in jail, as they have other cases before them. Thus they are proceeding with his permission, but without his guidance, which,” he nodded to Ibn Salah, “is why they asked me to query you on the matter.”

  “Because I had petitioned the court against Imam Hashim on Mu’mina’s behalf previously.”

  “Yes. The investigators hoped you might once again.”

  “You don’t understand, someone has to petition the judge to hear the evidence against her, not on her behalf.” Ibn Salah continued, “You must find someone to bring a case against her. You could ask the family, I suppose, but why would they do that when they are more likely to see her executed in the Police Chief’s court?”

  Mustafa replied, finally understanding, “God help us, who?”

  Ibn Salah replied, “Ask yourself who would like to see her get a fairer hearing than she would get at the police court, then approach that person. I can, perhaps, query some colleagues. But you must do the same.”

  “Yes, I will,” he said with relief.

  “Good.” Ibn Salah hesitated, then said, “I can see that this case matters to you, more than simply consulting for the police. Do you mind if I ask why?”

  Mustafa replied carefully, “I first heard about the case you brought on her behalf from Burhan, Qadi Abu Burhan’s son. At the time, I objected to Imam Hashim’s behaviour and the ruling itself, which so unaccountably favoured him. And which did not,” he paused, “properly consider the nature of the harm being done to her.”

  Ibn Salah sat back. “Ah, so you feel for the girl.”

  “No!” He scrambled, embarrassed by the suggestion. “I mean, rather, I feel for the injustice done to her. But it is greater than that. It is that the injustice was done at the hand of fellow scholars.” His voice began to rise, “How can the people trust us to interpret God’s intent for them if we act not out of love of God and the Prophet but out of a desire to preserve our own rights over others at the expense of the most vulnerable!”

  Ibn Salah raised his eyebrows. “It is true that there are scholars who do not like their power challenged and will strike back. I assume you are aware of their retribution against me through my son.”

  “Yes, and Burhan threatened me similarly if I were to object publicly to his father’s rulings.”

  “I will not take this case as a matter of retribution on my part,” Ibn Salah said carefully. “I will do it so that justice is served, no matter the harm that comes to my family and me. God turns every injustice into justice.” He paused. “Alhamdulillah, my son quit gambling as a result of his shame and is apprenticing as a papermaker.”

  Mustafa’s eyes widened at the wonder of it. “Alhamdulillah.” Then, asked, “Do you think that Qadi Ibn al-Zayzafuni would take the case if petitioned?”

  Ibn Salah considered it for a moment. “I believe that he would see the wisdom in taking the case to demonstrate that we hold our own to account. Moreover, I have heard him complain that the police judge capital cases, those in which the crime and God’s punishment is mentioned in the Qur’an, rather than the religious courts. I imagine he may not want to miss the opportunity to demonstrate that the religious courts are more capable of evaluating the evidence and judge fairly, in keeping with the established principles of God’s law.” He paused. “I will speak to him.”

  The call to prayer finally came, and they both stood. They waited until the call was completed, each repeating its lines under their breath. Mustafa feeling the words, “Come to salvation,” expanding his chest in gratitude for God bringing him to this man. They walked together toward the front of the mosque to sit and wait for the sermon to begin.

  After the prayer was finished and everyone was standing to leave, Ibn Salah put his hand on Mustafa’s shoulder and asked, “Would you join my family for our Friday meal?”

  Mustafa lit up. “Yes!” Then stopped short, realizing Zaytuna was with him. “But I am here with my friend, not the investigator I mentioned. His sister.”

  “His sister? Are you to be married?”

  Mustafa tried to explain, “No. It is not like that. They both are like cousins to me. Family. We grew up side-by-side.”

  Ibn Salah replied, “Of course, she is welcome. My mother, wife, and sister will be glad for her company.”

  Mustafa involuntarily looked towards the rear of the mosque and saw Zaytuna standing there, not at all sure how she’d feel about the change in plans.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The mosque was filling fast. Women lined up in front of her. She looked around the women and over their heads but could not see Mustafa anymore. Leaning against the back wall of the mosque, the cold tiles sent a scolding chill through her. She slid down the wall and sat, pulling her wrap over her head. What have you done, woman? She’d pushed Mustafa away from her and traded the love of an uncle for the guidance of a shaykh. YingYue was at the head of both losses. YingYue was blocking everything she wanted. YingYue had her mother’s love of God, Mustafa’s attention, the approval of her shaykh, and, now, control over her. She began to weep quietly, but all the weeping did was remind her of how beautiful YingYue had been when her eyes welled over with tears. She wiped her face with her sleeve and said under her breath, “You are nothing but ugly, bony, and tall.”

  The imam stepped partway up the stairs of the minbar so that everyone could see him. But all the way at the back of the mosque, she could barely hear. They had one repeater toward the rear of the men’s section, but they needed another to amplify his voice to where the women were seated. She put her hand to her forehead as she strained to hear. Here was one more miserable thing. Bits of the prayer for the Prophet and his companions reached her. She heard parts of verses from the Qur’an that she recognized well-enough to reconstruct for herself. But she became more and more frustrated with every word that she could not make out. Then came snippets of the required extravagant praise of the Caliph. She snorted. The woman next to her gave her a scolding look. Zaytuna returned the glare. But then the praise seemed to go on and on. My God, is the whole of the sermon in praise of al-Muktafi? Salla Allahu alayhi wa salam ala Muhammad! We praise this man as if he were the Prophet himself! As if he cared about the likes of us! She heard the imam say, “The character of the Commander of the Faithful is that of a majestic lion, a crashing wave, a bewitching moon, and a glorious Spring.” She snorted again. This time the woman in front of her turned around, gesturing, palm down, for her to be quiet. Zaytuna gave the woman a hard look for her trouble. She wanted to yell across the mosque at the imam, at the lot of them, “May God make your mothers regret you!”

  No sooner had she realized that she’d cursed them that she regretted it, begging God’s forgiveness and praying for them all, and their mothers. She forced herself to remember God to try to calm herself. She began to breathe rhythmically, one breath in, one breath out, for every syllable, saying within herself, La illaha illallah, la illaha illallah, la illaha illallah. She tried to lose herself in it, but the comforting waters of God’s love stayed just out of reach. She called them, extending her remembrance out to their edges, but they pulled away from her. Her chest felt tight. She feared she would begin to cry again. A woman to her right touched her arm. She looked up, everyone had stood, and she had not noticed. Zaytuna sniffed and wiped her eyes again and stood for the Friday prayer.
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  Afterward, she remained behind, her back against the cold tiles, waiting for enough women to go so that she would not be crowded as she left. Looking for Mustafa, she at last saw him walk out with Ibn Salah. She filed out behind the women and saw the two men standing outside waiting for her. Now she could see Ibn Salah up close, she was taken back, he wasn’t what she expected. His clothes were simple. Very fine, but simple. He had a gentle bearing. Anyone seeing him would know him for his importance and admire him for his humility. This is how Mustafa will be before long. She felt sick. There is no room for me in that world. As she got closer, she could hear Ibn Salah’s voice. It was clear and kind, yet carried the energy of his interest. She slowed down to listen. “I was asked when she might return to prayer after delivering the stillborn child by cesarean. The wound by which it was delivered was still seeping. I ruled that the case was analogous to postpartum bleeding in a typical birth. Because the fluid was no longer red, she must return to her prayer. So how would you Hanbalis answer such a query?”

  She saw Mustafa’s shoulders tense, and she knew he was unsure of himself. She hurried forward. “Mustafa!”

  He turned around, and she saw the worry on his face fall away, grateful for her interruption.

  “Ibn Salah, I would like to introduce you to my cousin. Zaytuna bint al-Ashiqa as-Sawda ash-Shuniziyya.”

  She saw Ibn Salah’s eyes widen slightly at her mother’s unusual name. He placed his hand over his heart, bowing his head, saying, “Good to meet you.” He continued, “I have invited Imam Mustafa here to my home for lunch, and we would be grateful if you would join us.”