Mother of the Believers Part 50

And yet I did not resist. I let myself feel all the anger and doubt and misery and loneliness and regret that I had locked inside myself, let it all flood into my heart, until I felt swelled up with its bile.

And then I said aloud the words that Adam had said after he had been expelled from Paradise. The words that had reconciled him to his G.o.d. The words that even now could free me from the weight of the million sins that were poisoning my soul. The words that my husband had come to remind mankind of, one last time.

"Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned."

And then the darkness took me, and I knew no more.

Epilogue.

The End of the Beginning

Medina-AD 678 What is faith?

It is a question that I asked at the beginning of the end, and I ask it once again now, at the end of the beginning. The setting of one world and the dawn of another.

Perhaps I have written this account, this collection of my memories, for no other reason than to answer this question that has haunted me over the years.

Nearly twenty years have pa.s.sed since that fateful day in Basra when I faced my darkest demons, and the world has moved in directions that none of us could have expected.

Ali is dead. Muawiya reigns unchallenged as the Caliph of the Muslim empire.

It was an outcome that none of us could have foreseen on that terrible, blood-soaked plan in Iraq. Ali emerged victorious in a battle that he had never wanted to fight. The worst fighting had centered around my camel, as Ali's men sought to bring down the most visible symbol of the enemy, while my own soldiers had fought to the death to make sure that the Mother of the Believers was unharmed. In the end, the last of my protectors was killed and the poor camel's legs were hamstrung. When my howdah crashed to the ground, the Meccan resistance collapsed and Ali's men held sway over the battlefield.

I lay inside the upturned carriage in shock, an arrow having torn into my shoulder. My mind was still reeling from the strange vision I had experienced at the height of the battle, but I felt no fear in my heart. Even though I was facing almost certain death at the hands of my enemy, I was calm, serene, for I had surrendered my fate to G.o.d. I had become, in truth, a Muslim Muslim.

And then the steel curtains parted and a gentle hand reached inside to see if I was still alive. My brother Muhammad had ridden out into the field when he saw my camel fall, and he alone had the courage to peer inside the sacred carriage and see if the Messenger's most beloved wife still lived. I held him tight and wept, and the tears cleansed my heart as the rain would soon cleanse the green fields of Basra of the stain of blood.

After Muhammad had removed the arrow point from my shoulder and bandaged my wound, he picked me up like a little girl and carried me back to Ali's tent. The Caliph looked at me with great sorrow, and I could see that his green eyes were now crimson from grief.

"Zubayr is dead," he said simply, and I felt my heart crumble. They had been best friends and had fought beside each other, and now he was gone.

Somehow I managed to find my voice.

"And Talha?"

Ali turned away, unable to answer. Muhammad took my hand in his and shook his head, and I felt a scream rising in my throat.

"How?" was all I could choke out. It did not matter, but I needed to know.

"It was not one of our men," my brother said softly. "A soldier of the Bani Tamim in our ranks said that Talha was betrayed by Marwan, who shot him in the back in heat of battle."

The world was vanishing in a veil of tears.

And then Muhammad leaned close to me.

"My witness said that Talha spoke before he died, but the words made no sense to him," he whispered.

"What did he say?"

"She is still so beautiful."

ALI PARDONED ME in public and announced that he had nothing but respect for the Mother of the Believers, the wife of Muhammad in this world and the hereafter. He led funeral prayers for the dead on both sides of the conflict. And then he sent me back to Medina with an honor guard. in public and announced that he had nothing but respect for the Mother of the Believers, the wife of Muhammad in this world and the hereafter. He led funeral prayers for the dead on both sides of the conflict. And then he sent me back to Medina with an honor guard.

I returned to my home in silence, unable to share with anyone the depth of pain that I carried. The other Mothers avoided me for a time, and the only person I could turn to for support was my sister, Asma. She was kind to me, although I sensed that there was a distance between us. She did not say it aloud, but I always believed that she never truly forgave me for having led her beloved husband, Zubayr, to his death.

Isolated from family and friends, I focused on doing what I could to repair the damage I had inflicted on our faith. I returned to teaching and sharing the hadith that contained my beloved husband's words. But I renounced any involvement in politics.

The Battle of the Camel was not the end of the civil war, just the beginning. Muawiya refused to make peace with Ali, and their struggle erupted into open warfare on the plains of Siffin near the Euphrates. The brutal battle between the Muslims led to thousands of dead on both sides. And then Ammar, one of Ali's soldiers and a man from my childhood memories, was slain. Yes, Ammar, whose mother, Sumaya, had been the first martyr; Ammar, the youth whom Hamza and I had rescued from the wilderness. The Messenger had once prophesied that Ammar would die a martyr, like his mother, and that his killers would be wrongdoers. When word spread that Ammar had been killed in battle by Muawiya's men, some of the rebels lost heart, fearing that the Prophet's words now branded them as the unjust party.

Ali gained the upper hand. But as his forces were poised to annihilate Muawiya's regiments, the crafty politician sued for peace, sending out troops who held pages from the holy Qur'an high on their spears. Ali was tired of warfare between brothers and accepted Muawiya's proposal to arbitrate their rival claims to the leadership of the community.

It was a decision born out of compa.s.sion and statesmanship, but some of Ali's partisans were shocked to hear that he was willing to negotiate what they believed to be his divine right to rule. Ali himself had never publicly claimed any such right for himself or his heirs, and some of these partisans turned against him like spurned lovers. They renounced their support and branded him a traitor. These fanatics decided that they alone possessed the true understanding of Islam, which had been corrupted by men like Ali and Muawiya. And these self-proclaimed true believers, known as the Khawarij, Khawarij, were now dedicated to cleansing Islam by destroying anyone who failed to embrace their uncompromising vision. The were now dedicated to cleansing Islam by destroying anyone who failed to embrace their uncompromising vision. The Khawarij Khawarij sent spies with poisoned daggers to rid the Muslim world of its competing claimants to the throne. They struck Muawiya in his palace in Damascus. The son of Abu Sufyan was grievously wounded but survived. sent spies with poisoned daggers to rid the Muslim world of its competing claimants to the throne. They struck Muawiya in his palace in Damascus. The son of Abu Sufyan was grievously wounded but survived.

Ali was not so lucky. A Khawarij Khawarij a.s.sa.s.sin named Ibn Muljam stabbed him in the head while he was leading the prayers in Kufa in southern Iraq. Ali lived for two days in excruciating pain before dying a martyr. His final wish had been that his a.s.sa.s.sin be tried fairly and that the Muslims should refrain from torturing him. In this last request, he was ignored, and his followers made Ibn Muljam's final hours on earth horrifyingly painful. a.s.sa.s.sin named Ibn Muljam stabbed him in the head while he was leading the prayers in Kufa in southern Iraq. Ali lived for two days in excruciating pain before dying a martyr. His final wish had been that his a.s.sa.s.sin be tried fairly and that the Muslims should refrain from torturing him. In this last request, he was ignored, and his followers made Ibn Muljam's final hours on earth horrifyingly painful.

In the aftermath of Ali's death, his son Hasan was briefly elected Caliph in Kufa but abdicated under threat of attack by Muawiya. The Syrian governor quickly declared himself Caliph, and the Family of the Prophet did not oppose him. Muawiya was gracious in victory and treated the People of the House magnanimously. He gave them great wealth and generous pensions, on the condition that they stay out of politics and not challenge his rule. The Prophet's grandsons, Hasan and Husayn, agreed, and they withdrew from public life to the quiet sanctuary of Medina. They lived in peace in the oasis, and I saw them regularly, always greeting them as if they were my own sons.

And then a few years ago, Hasan unexpectedly fell ill and died. There was much weeping in Medina for the son of Fatima and Ali, and there were rumors that he had been poisoned by Muawiya's corrupt son Yazid, who had feared that Hasan would challenge the power of Damascus once the Caliph died. I do not know if this is true, but I have learned that the Umayyads are a cruel and vicious clan.

For in the midst of all this madness, I faced my own painful tragedy at the hands of the Bani Umayya. My fugitive brother, Muhammad, was finally captured by Muawiya's men. The lord of Damascus wanted my brother sent to him so that he could face trial for his involvement in the events leading to Uthman's death. But my proud and fiery brother taunted his captors with such intensity that they disobeyed Muawiya and killed him on the spot. Even as I write this, my hand shakes in horror at their vile actions. For the Umayyad commander added desecration to the crime of murder. The odious man took Muhammad's corpse and threw it into the carca.s.s of a dead mule, and then set it on fire.

I wept for many days when I heard the terrible news. And then, in the midst of my grief, Ramla, the daughter of Abu Sufyan who had married my husband, made a vicious gesture to rub salt in the wound. She ordered her servants to cook a lamb and then deliver the meat to my door, with a note saying that it had been roasted just like my brother.

I have not touched meat to this day. And I have never forgiven the heartless Ramla, nor will I look upon her again, even if we are reunited as Mothers of the Believers on Judgment Day.

LAST NIGHT THE M MESSENGER of G.o.d came to me in a dream. He was clothed in green and surrounded by a golden light. I bowed my head, too ashamed to look at him. But then he took my face in his hands and raised my eyes to meet his. of G.o.d came to me in a dream. He was clothed in green and surrounded by a golden light. I bowed my head, too ashamed to look at him. But then he took my face in his hands and raised my eyes to meet his.

"What will happen to me, my love?" I asked. "For I fear that when my time comes, my sins will grab hold of my soul and pull me into darkness."

Muhammad smiled at me, his eyes twinkling with an ethereal radiance.

And then he said to me the words of the holy Qur'an that I had heard before, at a time when hope had been clouded by fear of death.

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

And then he vanished and I awoke knowing that the day of my death was fast approaching.

AND SO WE COME to this moment at long last, beloved Abdallah, son of my sister. to this moment at long last, beloved Abdallah, son of my sister.

What is faith?

It is a memory. Of a time when all was perfect in the world. When there was no fear and no judgment and no death.

It is a memory of a time before we were born, a beacon to guide us back from the end to the beginning, to the memory of where we came from.

It is a memory of a promise made before the earth was formed, before the stars glittered in the primordial sea.

A promise that says that we will remember what we have learned on this journey so that we may return full circle, the same and yet different.

Older. Wiser. Filled with compa.s.sion for others. And for ourselves.

What is faith?

It is the memory of love.

Afterword.

In the Name of G.o.d, the Merciful, the Compa.s.sionate I, Abdallah ibn al-Zubayr, add these closing words to my beloved aunt's account of her life. It has been over a decade since the death of Aisha bint Abu Bakr, but I still remember her final moments as if they were yesterday. As her kinsman, I was one of the few men living who could look upon her face, which was still remarkably beautiful and largely untouched by the ravages of time. Her skin was still pale and soft like a baby's, with only a few lines to mar her statuesque features. Even though she was nearly seventy years of age, her golden eyes were still vibrant and filled with life, as well as a hint of the sorrow that she had carried with her since the Battle of the Camel.

The final illness had been hard on her, her fingers cracking with pain, and yet she somehow managed to finish this record, driven by some need within her to tell her tale before others told it for her. When she finished the book, she gave it to me and then retired to her apartment, from which she would never emerge again. As her illness took hold of her, my mother, Asma, and I spent the final hours at her side, even as thousands of believers, both men and women, gathered outside the Masjid to pray for her recovery.

I remember how frightened she looked as the moment of death approached, and it was deeply painful for me to see a woman who had always been so strong curled up in terror like a child. I reminded her that she had nothing to fear, that she was the beloved of the Beloved of G.o.d, and that whatever mistakes she had made would be forgiven. And yet she seemed oblivious to my words, and she muttered over and over again, "Astaghfirullah" "Astaghfirullah"-"I seek the pardon of G.o.d."

And then, as the sun began to set and the sky turned the crimson hue that had once been the color of her hair, I saw Aisha's breath slow and I knew that the time had come. My mother, Asma, her elder sister, took Aisha's hand in hers and squeezed rea.s.suringly.

And then I heard the wind rise outside and the heavy curtains that hung on my aunt's door began to rustle. And for an instant, I could have sworn that I heard a voice tinkling through the veil. A gentle voice that called out the name given to Aisha by the Messenger of G.o.d.

Humayra.

It was a name that had not been spoken aloud since Muhammad's death, may G.o.d's blessings and peace be upon him. Perhaps I imagined it, but if I did so, I was not alone. My aunt stirred upon hearing the voice in the wind. And it was as if the memory of joy returned to her, for Aisha's fearful prayers stopped. She looked across the room, to the curtained section of her apartment where the Prophet, my grandfather, Abu Bakr, and the Caliph Umar were buried.

And then I saw her smile, her face as radiant as that of a girl on her wedding night, and she spoke to someone whom neither my mother nor I could see.

"My love..." Aisha said.

And she was gone.

We buried her in Jannat al-Baqi, Jannat al-Baqi, the cemetery that is now the resting place of most of those who knew and lived beside the Messenger of G.o.d. With Aisha's pa.s.sing, there were few left on earth who had seen and spoken with our beloved Prophet, and all that was left were the accounts of his life, the hadith, they had so meticulously related for future generations. the cemetery that is now the resting place of most of those who knew and lived beside the Messenger of G.o.d. With Aisha's pa.s.sing, there were few left on earth who had seen and spoken with our beloved Prophet, and all that was left were the accounts of his life, the hadith, they had so meticulously related for future generations.

Over the past ten years much has changed, and not for the better. By the grace of G.o.d, the Muslim empire continues to grow and now stretches from Kairouan in North Africa to the Indus River. Constantinople still stands, but the Muslims remain committed to taking the seat of Christendom. For now, we are content to control the islands of Rhodes and Crete, from where the believers will expand into the northern realms of the Romans, insha-Allah, insha-Allah, if G.o.d wills. if G.o.d wills.

Yet even as our empire eclipses those of Alexander and Caesar, there is a growing sickness at its heart. For since the death of Ali, whom, I am ashamed to say, I fought against in my youth, the spiritual core of the Muslim leadership has been replaced by men of cunning and zeal but questionable morals. The Caliph Muawiya succeeded in bringing order and prosperity after years of civil war, and his rule was for the most part benign and wise. And yet under his command, practicality and expediency became the primary motivators in dealing with affairs of state, and the ideals of our Holy Prophet degenerated into mere plat.i.tudes on the lips of corrupt governors. I grieve to say that the Muslims now fight for wealth and glory rather than in pursuit of justice and a better world for mankind.

I did not object to the rule of Muawiya in his lifetime, and I prayed for him upon his death. And yet he, who was famed as the great uniter of the Muslim nation, made one terrible mistake that would plunge our Ummah Ummah into its second civil war. In the final years of Muawiya's life, the love of fatherhood overcame his wisdom. The Caliph appointed his hated son Yazid to succeed him, a youth who was better known for drinking and carousing than for statesmanship, and many among the Muslims were horrified. Muawiya had taken great pains as a leader to publicly uphold the laws of Islam and respect for the Prophet, but his worthless son now openly used his inherited throne to engage in debauchery and composed blasphemous poems denying the truth of the holy Qur'an. into its second civil war. In the final years of Muawiya's life, the love of fatherhood overcame his wisdom. The Caliph appointed his hated son Yazid to succeed him, a youth who was better known for drinking and carousing than for statesmanship, and many among the Muslims were horrified. Muawiya had taken great pains as a leader to publicly uphold the laws of Islam and respect for the Prophet, but his worthless son now openly used his inherited throne to engage in debauchery and composed blasphemous poems denying the truth of the holy Qur'an.

And then it was that my friend and master Husayn, the last surviving grandson of the Messenger of G.o.d, rebelled against Yazid's tyranny. The most beloved of the Prophet's household left the safety of Medina and went to Iraq, as his father Ali had done. He hoped to garner support from the people to stand against this dark cloud that sought to block the light of G.o.d from illuminating the Ummah Ummah. And then the greatest of tragedies occurred, for at the small town of Karbala, Yazid's forces fell upon the tiny band of seventy-two worshipers led by the Prophet's grandson. They slaughtered these holy men, who had sought only to remind the Muslims that wielding power without faith would corrupt and destroy us, as it had done to every empire in history.

My master Husayn was beheaded, and most of his family was killed, including his infant son, Abdallah. Even as I write these words, the pages are stained with my tears, for I could not have imagined that men who called themselves Muslim could have laid hands upon Husayn, the boy whom the Prophet had carried on his shoulders, the man in whose blood the blessing of the Revelation still ran.

Husayn's tragic death lit a fire that still burns today. When I saw how the reprobate Yazid had treated the Messenger's grandson, I lifted my head in Mecca and denounced his regime. With none of the Prophet's bloodline left to lead-Husayn's one surviving son, Ali Zain al-Abideen, was being held hostage in Damascus and had been forced to renounce politics-I proclaimed a new caliphate that would return to the moral example set by the Messenger and his first four successors, who were now being called the Rightly Guided Caliphs.

My rebellion in Mecca has brought down the wrath of the Umayyad army, and although my men have resisted bravely for seven months, I fear that the city will soon be conquered by Yazid's forces. Led by his monstrous general, al-Hajjaj ibn Yusuf, they have ruthlessly breached the boundaries of the holy city and have besieged even the Sanctuary with their catapults. They have shown neither mercy to the people nor reverence for the holy sites, and my heart grieves to write that this morning the warriors rained down fiery debris upon the center of the city, and the Holy Kaaba itself has been set aflame.

It is clear that the forces of Yazid will take Mecca before the sun falls and I will be killed soon thereafter. With my death, only my mother Asma remains of the generation of the Sahaba, Sahaba, the Companions who lived alongside the Messenger of G.o.d. She is nearly ninety years old, but she stubbornly clings to life, even as she stubbornly stood beside the Prophet, her father Abu Bakr, and her sister Aisha, in the cause of justice so long ago. the Companions who lived alongside the Messenger of G.o.d. She is nearly ninety years old, but she stubbornly clings to life, even as she stubbornly stood beside the Prophet, her father Abu Bakr, and her sister Aisha, in the cause of justice so long ago.

The battle is lost today. But as I gaze out at the burning ruins of the Sacred House, I realize that the war will continue long after I and all those who knew the Messenger have pa.s.sed away. For the fight is no longer between pagans and believers in the one G.o.d. That argument has been settled forever. The new war is now between those who fight for the religion of love and justice that Muhammad taught and those who hide behind the trappings of Islam to commit murder and atrocity.

And though I grieve that there are some who will always twist the Word of G.o.d to justify their crimes, I cannot hold myself above them, for even the righteous can fall victim to that temptation. My aunt Aisha allowed the pa.s.sions of her heart to consume her in her conflict with Ali, as did good men like Talha and my father Zubayr. And as did I on that tragic field at Basra. But unlike these marauders who cloak themselves in the name of Islam today, we were wise enough to recognize our mistakes and repent of the fitna, fitna, the chaos, we caused. the chaos, we caused.

And if there is one thing that I have learned in Islam, one principle that gives me hope on this sad day as the holy city burns all around me, it is this. That G.o.d is Merciful and Compa.s.sionate and accepts the sincere repentance of His servants. That no matter how far they fall into darkness, He is always prepared to lead them back to light.

And it is that knowledge that gives me hope for my people. For no matter how many false preachers arise to spread death and corruption in the name of Islam, the true message of our beloved teacher Muhammad ibn Abdallah, the Prophet of G.o.d, will never be lost. The message of unity and love for all mankind.

And so, as my life draws to a close, I will take these writings of my beloved aunt Aisha, Mother of the Believers, and bury them deep beneath the sands of Mecca, hoping that they will be uncovered one day when their message will be most needed.

If you have found them, dear reader, then it means that day is today.

Peace be upon you. And may the blessings of G.o.d be upon our holy Prophet Muhammad, and upon his family and his Companions.

Amen.

Acknowledgments.

Publishing a first novel is an act of faith. A great many people came together and put tremendous time and effort into this project, solely because they believed in me and in my book. I would like to take a moment to give special thanks to a few of those who have played a pivotal role in this adventure.