Muhammad (15 page)

But there is no messiah, no Temple, no way around the Gentiles. I must wander like Joseph among the unbelievers, only I don't weep. I adapt. And if these Muslims have found their own Elijah or even Moses, why should I kick the cow that gives me milk? My job is to write, not to judge. I've never seen Muhammad when he gets his messages, which keep coming, they say. New scrolls appear around him. Some days I'm not allowed in the door. Other days I see him begin to change. His eyes roll upward; he trembles slightly, like a sparrow you hold in your hand. At the first sign I'm driven out of the room.

One thing I do know. Muhammad hands down their laws, just like a Moses. So if a prophet says, “God told me this,” and his followers say, “We believe you,” how can anyone disprove it? When I am safely behind my own door I can light candles remembering the Maccabees, who died as heroes defending the Jews, and I can curse our enemies. There's time enough for that. Always time enough for that.

Muhammad hasn't passed fifty without gaining some canniness, and he saw these warring thoughts in my mind. One day he told me to put down my writing tablet. “Look in my eyes,” he said. “Do you see a fraud and a liar?”

I was too startled to reply.

“If you don't see a fraud and a liar,” he said, “then I am telling the truth. God has made me His messenger.”

I was embarrassed and mumbled something, I can't remember what.

Muhammad became stern. “Don't risk your soul. God commands me to save the Jews. He wants me to save the world.”

Muhammad paused, and for a moment I was afraid he
wanted me to make a choice, then and there. But he looked away instead and continued.

“For three years I couldn't even tell my uncles and cousins. Do you know what anxiety I felt? To know from God's mouth that all sinners are damned. He sees everything. He marks every deed we do on earth, and at the last day the damned will testify against themselves out of their own mouths. Can that day be far off?”

My heart was pounding. There was steel in his voice as he spoke, but not the steel of a madman. Muhammad got his strength from something outside his body. A force like lightning that can turn a soul to ashes or forge it in flames.

I stammered, “Don't ask me to believe. But I can see. You survived the fire.”

He looked surprised. “Do you see that? Because it's true.”

I lie awake wondering if the world will come to an end before the next sunrise. My mind still goes back to my childhood when I waited for the bird-catchers. Sometimes a bird would die suddenly. Maybe they gave it the wrong food, or maybe it had a broken heart from being separated from its mate. The bird-man would pluck the feathers of a dead bird and weave a fantastic cap for himself, glittering with every hue, more than a rainbow. You could hardly tell the catcher from the catch.

I hope Muhammad gets to see the birds in Paradise, as God has promised. And I hope I'm not left out when that day comes.

T
he faithful are readying for war. The night I found out, I had a nightmare. A pack of hyenas brought down a lion, and they started to gnaw at its carcass while it was still alive. The hyenas laughed as they pulled out the victim's entrails; the lion roared with defiance as it died. I woke up trembling and uttered one word:
Father.

I must have shouted without knowing, because Ali, sleeping beside me, rolled over and mumbled. I held very still until he fell asleep again.

Is this coming war a test from God?

The summer caravans leaving Mecca all travel by Medina on their way to Syria. They are Qurayshi caravans, most of them, and the grandest have a thousand camels. From a height it must look like a trail of ants creeping from horizon to horizon. Most of our Muslims are poor. A few farm on the tiny plots of land they are begrudged. Many others try to trade, but struggle in a foreign city where no tribe is their own.

Hauling a small cart of crops to market with limited prospects for the week, a hungry Muslim is passed on the road by camels loaded with silk, jewels, and spices. The temptation to raid is great.

When the raids first began, they were no different from the custom of poor Arabs trimming some extra fat from the rich. The caravans were disrupted for an hour and moved on. Ali was amused. “Half the time they can't find the caravans and come home empty-handed. The desert needs to be smaller.”

It was sport, a game. The nomads have been playing it since the time of our ancestors. If captives are taken, they can be ransomed. In the meantime, captives and captors sit around the same campfire and sing songs. One never hears of killings, because then a blood feud would erupt, and that means trouble on both sides.

Now everything has changed. It started when one of our real fighters, Abdullah ibn Jahsh, went south on the trail close to Mecca, risking greater danger. His raiding party found a small caravan camped in a palm grove. Three timid merchants guarded a few scrawny camels. When Abdullah's band descended on them, the first arrow from Abdullah's bow pierced a merchant in the heart. The shot was intentional. Shocked, the other two fell to the ground in surrender. They were marched to Medina, and Ali's amusement changed. The mob didn't greet Abdullah as a hero, but as a violator of the peace.

“Look at the rabble.” Ali pointed out the window at the grumbling people in the street, Jews and Arabs who had once welcomed us. They were disturbed and angry. Sport had gone too far. Rumors spread like wildfire that Abdullah had defiled the holy month of Rajab, when no fighting is
permitted. His attack was unholy, and many thought that he had the blessing of Muhammad to commit violence. Confidence in the Prophet was badly shaken.

“It's not our holy month,” Ali argued. “It belongs to the idol worshipers. How can we be bound by our enemy's customs?” Ali fumed when word came that a few poets in the marketplace were making up songs ridiculing the Prophet.

We had been married only a year. The whole time I hid my face from the raids and never asked if Ali was part of them. Then he brought me the news. A message had come to Father from Allah: “It is permitted to fight.” The message was longer than that. It spoke of those who had unjustly been persecuted for worshiping one God and driven from their birthplace. God was favorable to Abdullah's raid. A lesser crime by a Muslim was forgiven when the weak were oppressed, because that is a greater crime before God. But all I heard was the phrase that changed our lives.
It is permitted to fight.
Ali's excitement matched my fear.

“Faith, purity, blessings,” he said. “They aren't enough to defeat evil. Sometimes it takes blood.”

He squeezed my hand in reassurance, but it wasn't his words that frightened me. It was the look in his eyes. I couldn't bear to look back. A battle. Whenever it came, he would rush to fight on the front line. A defender of the faith could do no less. I've never seen a battle, but you don't have to see one to know who dies first. I took my hand away, so he couldn't feel my fear.

“Aren't we here to bring peace?” I asked.

“If we are wiped out, there will never be peace. This isn't an evil choice, because it's no choice at all. The enemy has decided to come for us.”

When I was a girl, a runner pounded on the gate demanding to see Father. His face was bloody, and he was filthy from running all the way to Mecca from the hills. A small party of the faithful had sought a remote place to worship in peace, but the Quraysh had them followed. In the middle of their prayers they were set upon by attackers with knives and clubs. My father blanched and listened gravely to the runner's account. The faithful were strong young men; they drew as much blood as they lost. It wasn't enough for the Quraysh to forbid trade with anyone who dared to follow the Prophet. They resorted to torture, especially if one of the faithful was a slave. An adopted son of my mother's was stabbed in the Kaaba itself.

Ali's eyes reminded me of all this. I prayed for God to give me words. “At least you won't have to buy your shield back,” I said.

His face flushed scarlet. It was cruel to bring back bad memories. I felt ashamed. But how much crueler for warriors to butcher each other.

Here is how Ali lost his shield. When we came to Medina last year, Father had begun to unite the people. He brought peace between the Jewish tribes and the Arab tribes, who had been fighting for three generations. For the Jews it was an eye for an eye; for the Arabs it was blood feud. Both sides could never forgive any harm done to their clans. But a hundred years of violence had exhausted them. They turned to Father, who brought his reputation for fairness with him to our new home. A peace pact was drawn up, and both sides placed their hands on one another, swearing to keep the city safe and to protect the poor.

When everyone was gone Father shook his head. “Oaths aren't enough. Pacts and treaties aren't enough.” There had
to be other ways to bond the tribes of Medina, because he knew that the Quraysh would come one day. He chose a partner for each Muslim man among the Arabs of the city, forming a brotherhood. Yet he knew the strongest bond was blood, and blood means marriage. I was innocent of all this. A seventeen-year-old thinks of a husband, I know, but Father was in grief over losing Mother. I sat at his feet every day, and even though he would marry again, he would never love anyone as he had loved her. Between us it was understood.

How amazing one day when I entered his room and Abu Bakr smiled at me. He always smiled to see me, but a woman knows the difference. He wasn't smiling like an uncle. There were only a few men who lingered at our house, men trusted by Father to tell him the truth at all times. Umar, who is very wise, also began to smile at me, and Ali, the cousin who had been part of our household as long as I can remember.

“A smile was all I had,” Ali would recall with a grimace.

It was true that he was poor. When they heard that Father needed a son-in-law to strengthen the faith, Abu Bakr and Umar offered themselves in open proposals. Father held up his hand. Everyone waited. Time went by, and still no decision. Ali could hardly stand it. I wasn't a child anymore asking him to look for my doll, and he had sat in council with men for eight years. Without money he couldn't even make a bridal gift. One day he came into Father's presence and sighed.

“What is it?” Father asked.

Ali was startled. “I said nothing, sir.”

“Ah, I thought you were asking for Fatimah.”

Father loved Ali dearly, and he gently suggested that Ali owned one thing of value, a shield chased with silver edges. He could sell that to get money for the bridal gift. Ali took
heart and obeyed. Then Father came to me and announced that it was God's will for me to marry Ali. Would I consent?

Something tied my tongue. Fear of leaving my beloved Father? Ignorance of what passes between a husband and wife? Ali had hidden his desire so completely, out of respect for Father, that he hadn't even made sheep's eyes at me. Before I could find anything to say, Father smiled. “God has made you silent. I know in your heart that you agree.” I realized he was right.

We were married here in Medina a year after Hijra. The Muslims, surrounded by strangers, were grateful for something to celebrate. My sister Ruqayah gathered all the women to cook the feast. The carpeted floor was crowded with dates, figs, lamb, and wine jars. It was like being home again. As many tears were shed for that reason as for joy. The whole company laughed when the richest guest, Uthman, who had married Ruqayah, rose to present a gift to the groom. With a flourish he brought forth Ali's shield. Uthman had paid for it, but refused to keep it. Father's eyes twinkled. There are ways to sell things and still not lose them.

It displeased my husband to be reminded by me now that he couldn't buy his shield back himself. I sighed. The same shield would protect him when the battle arrived. What strange paths Allah takes to work His will.

“I can't stop you,” I said. “If you are a
ghazi,
God be with you.”

“What is a
ghazi
to you?” Ali asked. How could I find the words to reply without offending him? Already I felt the heat from his burning cheeks.

“A
ghazi
is someone who strives for the sake of God,” I said.

“And is there a limit to striving?”

I cast my eyes down. “No, dear husband.”

“Well, then. Peace be upon you.”

“And you.”

Ali seemed satisfied. A stranger would be baffled by this conversation, I know, and all that it meant for the future. Perhaps our whole destiny depended on a shifty word.
Ghazi
means striver, but it's also what we call the raiders. It was an innocent term before Abdullah's arrow drenched it in blood. Now no one strives for Allah in peace. The
ghazi
provoke fights with the Quraysh. They declare that Allah ordains them, and suddenly their raids are holy. The logic of men is hard to unravel from the logic of God. He must see a purpose to all this violence.

Troubled, I ran to Father when he was alone. He sits in the dark brooding when he isn't in council. Medina has made him turn gray—but fierce too. His manner is so stern that some of the faithful fear him as much as they fear Allah.

“Why does God want blood?” I blurted out.

“A bold question from such a timid child,” he muttered. It was the closest to a rebuke I had ever heard from his lips. But I'd rather be loved for truth than meekness. I asked him again.

“God doesn't want blood,” he said. “He wants warriors when the unjust persecute the just. The faithful are made strong by defending their faith. Otherwise they will scatter like leaves when the next storm comes.”

“But the
ghazi
provoke the enemy.”

“They strike before being struck. God forgives them. He knows that the enemy has done violence to us for fourteen years already. He wants the balance redressed.”

These were hard words to hear from Father. It was as if he were speaking in the mosque. But when I gazed into his eyes, they weren't fierce; they were pleading. He went to the window and closed the last open shutter, making it night in the room.

“Don't try to read my mind, child. It isn't mine anymore. God commands everything, even my thoughts. I must obey.”

I ran away to console myself. How easy for his enemies to say that Father is hiding behind God. How convenient that these raids that infuriate the Quraysh have a divine blessing. I had to know the truth. It was shameful for a daughter not to believe her father. I do still believe him. Yet in my mind's eye I saw Ali's corpse being dragged across the battlefield, leaving a track of blood in the sand. I had to know.

I broke into Abu Bakr's room in distress. He was doing something he didn't want me to see and barely had time to hide it.

“A sword?”

He sheepishly brought it out from behind his back. “This old arm can barely swing one. I practice every day.”

Abu Bakr is a second father to me. He read my heart. “The Prophet isn't here to bring messages. He is here to bring justice. Look around you. The tribes of the city keep the peace. We have laws and safe places to worship. God protects the sons of Abraham as long as they obey him and bring his words to pass.”

I felt a spark of hope. “Then He won't allow any Muslims to be killed?”

Abu Bakr gave me a wry smile. “Certainly not a man as strong and brave as Ali.”

I blushed. “I wasn't asking just for myself.”

“Then hear me. If we fight for justice, it isn't violence. It's a righteous act. When righteousness remains passive, the unjust show no mercy. The nature of evil is to spread, like a contagion.”

This was a long speech for him, but not a practiced one. I know Abu Bakr. He risked everything in Mecca to stand beside Father. He broke blood ties and walked among assassins with his head held high. If anyone knows what a righteous act is, he does.

Abu Bakr hesitated. “I don't think you realize. The Prophet led one of the first raids. He became a
ghazi
when God commanded him.”

I was shocked, and yet I wanted the truth. Abu Bakr assured me that none of the early raids drew blood, or were meant to. Father had ridden out, because one of the greatest enemies of the faith owned the caravan. Like the others, this raid came to nothing, because the scouts couldn't locate the camel train in the vast reaches of the desert.

If that made me grateful, it was only for a moment. Allah began to weave a mystery around us, and like men stumbling in the dark the Muslims wandered into a scene whose outcome was known only to Him. It began when news came that the richest caravan of the year was heading home to Mecca. Its leader, Abu Sufyan, hated the Prophet. He accused him of wanting to destroy the tribal order, but we all knew Abu Sufyan's secret grievance. When a small group of frightened Muslims had fled across the sea to seek refuge in Abyssinia, his own daughter was among them. The Quraysh sent an ambassador to convince the Negus, king of Abyssinia, to send the refugees back to Mecca. Lavish bribes were laid at his feet, and evil might have won the day. That is, if
not for a leader of the refugees who read verses of the Koran to the Negus, who as it turned out was a Christian. Hearing the word of God and knowing how dearly we Muslims held the prophet Jesus, the king sent the ambassador home in scorn.