Bensalem Himmich - The Theocrat

If only you knew how gardens are on fire with grief,

How faces crumble behind walls!”

She would say:

“On waking one morning I found myself in a country of terror and massacres,

In aggression’s own empire.

All that remained for me was your visage, ‘Ali,

A candle of paradise, a chart of justice;

Struggle and You, they were all I had left,

Along with words of salvation from the smoke that I recite

Directly from you, with no other authority,

Thou source of succor and support!”

She would also say:

“My dear brother, your entire reign is summed up as one vast graveyard,

Poverty, misery, murder, and terror, my Lord.

Have you heard the tales of panic and confiscation,

Stories of siege?

You, my Lord, who govern by outrage.

Woe to you, a thousand times, woe!

One day the peoples of Egypt, Tunisia, and Syria

Will inevitably occupy streets and roofs in God’s land.

And legislate in the name of justice and God’s unity.

Then in God’s name they will demolish your idols, my Lord.”

This is how Sitt al-Mulk gradually came to a firm resolve that there was indeed a desperate need for salvation and release. She was impelled in that direction by a series of dreams in which Fatima al-Zahra’ appeared and enjoined her to take care of her beloved dynasty. She would stay with Sitt al-Mulk until dawn’s golden rays emerged; then she would vanish, leaving behind her sacred sash across the ever brightening sky.

Sitt al-Mulk spent many sleepless nights like this. No sooner did she fall asleep than Fatima al-Zahra’ would appear and offer her advice. Indeed Fatima al-Zahra’ would even visit her in daydreams, always enveloped in the same radiant halo of sanctity; at times she would be accompanied by a bank of clouds, at others by various stars that augured good fortune and happiness.

During her final apparition Fatima added a new injunction, urging Sitt al-Mulk to go to her brother and persuade him to desist from his perverted and tyrannical behavior. After a good deal of thought during which Sitt al-Mulk tested the validity of this proposition, she proceeded to carry it out. One morning, a day to remember indeed, she went to al-Hakim’s room in the palace. There they had a memorable conversation, one that augured the direst of consequences.

“How my heart boils when my sister defies me!” he roared in a fit of anger. “You’ve remained apart! May you never penetrate my subsoil, nor I uncover your secret. You dare to come into my presence without an invitation from me? Your spirit is suppressed to the point of exploding: you’re poison just waiting for the right occasion. You are the foulest of stains on my state and kingly brow. Be gone from here, Christian’s daughter. Reveal your secrets and explode before I vent my wrath on you!”

Sitt al-Mulk made valiant efforts to control her nerves and organize her thoughts. “Our lord. Imam Ja’far ai-Sadiq,” she replied, “had this to say: ‘Remaining silent under tyrannical rule is a kind of religious servitude.’ So how am I to remain silent when I too, my brother, am a part of this dynasty? How am I supposed to think positively and put worries aside when I spend all my time suffering through your moods and waiting for the inconceivable to occur? That I may die, my brother, or that you will inevitably do away with me, neither of those things scare me. No, what really frightens me is that you’ll destroy this entire house and help our foes wipe out not merely us but our religion of Islam in some way yet unknown.”

“And how do you dare to claim responsibility for this house?” al-Hakim interrupted, shards of loathing and anger spewing from his mouth. “We ourselves were the ones who raised it up on sturdy pillars of stone and iron. Don’t talk about things you know nothing about. Talk to me instead about your own home. You’ve turned it into a brothel. You allow men and lovers to come there one after another and enjoy your favors and your accursed body. I’ve heard that a lewd poet with whom you’ve been consorting has even written a poem that begins, ‘How oft I have sighed at a bosom that brought a wayfarer such luscious food!’ not to mention similar outrages. As your brother, I should have kept you cloistered once you had attained puberty; that was when your lustful bosom started to bloom, and the obedient and innocent maid in you died for ever!”

In spite of strenuous efforts, Sitt al-Mulk’s eyes filled with tears. “Shame on you, brother!” she satd. “If you want to kill me, there are plenty of excuses. But for you to besmirch my honor, no and a thousand times no!”

“There no point in shedding tears in front of me,” retorted al-Hakim, his expression and voice still a tissue of fury. I no longer have a heart for you to break or win over. By noble Fatima al-Zahra’, I’m going to send some midwives to see you tomorrow, have them check on your virginity and examine that womb of yours for seeds of fornication. If I find out that what spies and old women are telling me is true, then I shall kill you myself without hesitation or mercy. Now get out of my sight before my anger gets to my sword and my sword to your neck.”

Sitt al-Mulk left al-Hakim’s palace and returned to her own. Now she was certain that her brother was a hopeless case; there was no room for either doubt or protest. It was hopeless to try to stop him committing acts of terror or to reform his tyrannical behavior. Once again Fatima al-Zahra’s voice came to her at night to confirm her conclusions and urge her to act speedily so as to extirpate this sickness by the roots before it was too late and all was lost.

By dawn next morning Sitt al-Mulk had in place a carefully crafted plan to get rid of her brother. As spearhead she selected Sayf al-Dawla al-Husayn ibn Dawass, chief of the Kutama tribe that had suffered many hardships during al-Hakim bi-Amr Illah’s reign. She went to his house alone and in disguise. Once she had entered and removed her veil, the chief bowed low and kissed the ground at her feet many times. However she grabbed him by the shoulder and told him to stand. Once he had done so, he addressed her, “How can I possibly deserve all this?” he asked, his heart palpitating in a blend of pleasure and amazement. “By God, after this hallowed visit I shall sleep sound and content, untroubled by thoughts of al-Hakim’s swords or poisons. The nightmare is over. Now I’ll be able to breathe fresh air, the sweet air of peace and liberty, things I have missed for so long! You, Madam, are the instigator of such joy.”

“May all boons be yours, Sayf al-Dawla!” Sitt al-Mulk replied. “You are the lord of that tribe without whose courage and steadfastness the Fatimid dynasty would never have been established in Tunisia, Egypt, or Syria, You are the very embodiment of your people’s glory and prestige; in your towering figure, one that has traversed seas and capped waves, I envision a wind-filled sail propelling our boat forward against our foes. Dear Husayn, you have wasted your oars in al-Hakim’s evil swamp when what you really desired was to escape! How bitter the truth is! How long can you stand to watch in horror as blood flows like water and heads continue to roll with neither cause nor justification? How much longer can your sword remain buried in its scabbard collecting rust?”

“My lady,” Ibn Dawwas responded, “your words are like the sweetest perfume, the purest amber. They weave a garment of resolve and warmth for me personally and the state as well. I fee! as though the sweet rain of deliverance is about to fall. Droplets of mercy and healing are flowing through my mouth!”

“You are right, Husayn,” said Sitt al-Mulk, “and so is your vision. The rain will indeed fall very soon. It will water the furrows of our parched land, sweep away the anxieties that have beset us, and let the water of our beloved Nile flow freely once more. That blessed era will only come when you put an end to the evil tyrant who has claimed divinity for himself and spread perdition and shame among us all.”