Kamran Pasha - Mother Of the Believers

Muhammad never claimed to predict the future-only God knew the details of His plan for mankind-but I believe the Messenger had a remarkably astute sense of the men and women in his life, both his friends and his enemies. And in Uthman’s case, he may have felt more than known that his generous soul, his childlike innocence, was ripe for being manipulated by the unscrupulous, with terrifying consequences for the Ummah.

But that is a tragedy to be told at another time, and one that you know too well in any case, Abdallah. Returning to the events of that day, I watched as Khadija stepped up to greet the newcomers. She looked so old and frail, her once-smooth skin crushed into a sea of wrinkles. Her face was thin, as was her now snowy white hair. The years in the desert, and her recent bout with camp fever, had aged her to a frightening degree. As the Messenger supported her with a loving hand, I saw how he looked more like her son than her husband, his hair still glossy and black, his masculine face unlined and only a strand or two of gray in his beard.

It was a contrast that the exiles had not been prepared for, and I saw tears welling in Ruqayya’s crystal eyes. Khadija could see the shock on her daughter’s face, and I can imagine that it broke her heart, but whatever pain she felt, the Mother of the Believers was an expert at hiding it behind her gentle smile.

“My beautiful daughter,” she said in a hoarse voice and put her arms slowly around the girl, who shook with open grief. Khadija stroked her hair with her bony fingers and then she let go, a look of extreme exhaustion on her face. The Prophet’s cousin Ali moved quickly to her side and helped her sit down on a velvet cushion. Khadija breathed in with an evident struggle, and her hand flitted to her chest as if to remind her tired heart to keep beating.

Ruqayya knelt down beside Khadija, alarm clouding her perfect face.

“Mother, what’s wrong?”

Khadija smiled weakly, her eyes distant and unfocused.

“I’m just a little tired, dear,” she said faintly.

The Messenger’s youngest daughter, Fatima, sat beside her, taking Khadija’s hand in hers. She was such a remarkable contrast to her glamorous sister Ruqayya, her black hair tied haphazardly in an old yellow scarf, her tunic made of harsh wool, and her face devoid of even the most basic cosmetic enhancements that might reveal her femininity.

“Mother is sick, but she won’t admit it,” Fatima said reprovingly.

Khadija’s eyes flashed and for a moment I saw the strength and dignity that I had long associated with the Mother of the Believers.

“Nonsense!” she said proudly. “My feet are old, that’s all. But enough about me. How have you returned?”

Uthman bent down and kissed her on the forehead, kneeling before Khadija like a slave before a queen.

“We heard about the ban and the suffering of the Muslims. We could not sit in comfort in Abyssinia while you starved.”

I felt Asma stiffen behind me and I immediately saw why. The Prophet’s handsome cousin Zubayr stepped through the crowd and clapped his hands on Uthman’s shoulder in greeting.

“By God’s mercy, the ban has been lifted. We are free to live and trade in Mecca as before.”

Uthman’s lovely features lit up with his incomparable smile.

“Allahu akbar! God is great!” he proclaimed, hope dancing on his tongue. “The tide has turned, then.”

And then my father stepped forward, his face grave. Unlike the Messenger, who was two years his senior, Abu Bakr’s now-salty beard could not deny its age.

“I fear that there will be many more turnings of the tide, for good and for ill, before all is done,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

As the men began to talk with the newcomers, I found myself gazing at Ruqayya and Uthman like a child pulled into a dream by a campfire. I suddenly heard the rustle of a skirt beside me and looked to see that Fatima had come to sit at my side.

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?”

I blushed hot, realizing that my eyes had betrayed me. But Fatima smiled in silent understanding. I looked at the quiet, plain girl and asked an impertinent question that a more mature lady would not have voiced.

“Is it hard, having a sister who looks like that? I mean, when you-” I stopped, realizing suddenly that I was being horribly rude. But the question to my childish mind was a legitimate one. I was the pretty girl in the house, and I often wondered how my sister, Asma, felt, knowing that even as a girl who had not yet bled, I attracted attention from men, who rarely gave her a second look. Still, it was a stupid thing to say out loud, and I immediately regretted my wild tongue.

But Fatima did not seem to take offense.

“When Ruqayya is in a room, all other girls disappear, like the stars vanish when the sun rises,” she said with a shrug. “One grows accustomed to it.”

There was something so simple, so unpretentious, about Fatima that I felt an immediate liking for her. Seeking to change the topic to more pleasant and hopeful affairs, I turned to face her with an enthusiastic smile.

“Your sisters are all married. When will you join them?”

Fatima looked at me with those dark eyes, so much like her father’s. When she returned my smile, there was a sadness in her gaze that chilled my heart.

“I don’t know if I will ever marry,” she said bluntly.

I was surprised at this answer.

“How can you say that? Every girl gets married!” Which was true. In the end, even the homeliest girl in Mecca eventually found a mate, although he was unlikely to be a prize catch.

Fatima’s eyes twinkled mysteriously, as if tears welled in them, although they remained dry.

“I am not like every girl,” she said softly.

But before I could ask her what she meant, I heard the harsh croak of painful coughing. I looked up in alarm to see Khadija holding her chest tight, her face drained of all color.

The Messenger was immediately at her side. He leaned down and spoke to his wife in whispered tones that I could not decipher. She nodded slowly and then covered her mouth as another eruption of coughing coursed violently through her chest and throat.

And when she finally lowered her hands, I saw they were covered in blood.

There were screams of horror and everyone came running to her side.

“Stand back!” Ali rose and pushed the frightened crowd back forcefully, giving Khadija room to breathe, however weakly.

Fatima had disappeared from my side, although I never saw her move. It was as if one moment she was sitting beside me, and the next she was holding her mother’s hand and helping her to her feet. I always marveled at her remarkable ability to appear and disappear without anyone noticing, but I always dismissed it as a trick of the eye, the inheritance of her father’s fast gait combined with her naturally quiet demeanor. Now I wasn’t so sure, and looking at this strange, ethereal girl who moved like a ghost, I felt a sudden chill go up my spine.

The Mother of the Believers, the foundation stone of our hopes, was dying. As the Messenger and Ali helped her up the winding marble staircase that led to the family’s private rooms on the second floor, my father took it on himself to restore calm and order to the gathered crowd of believers.

After clearing the Prophet’s house of all except the closest members of his family and a few trusted advisers such as Umar and Uthman, we climbed upstairs to check on Khadija. I held on to the cold brass banister like a girl clinging to the edge of a cliff. Every footfall I made on the polished stone seemed to thunder like the beat of a war drum, announcing the arrival of death and pestilence in its wake.

When I followed my mother and father into the Messenger’s bedroom, I saw that Khadija was lying on a mattress of goose feathers that been imported from the north. The Messenger had rid himself of nearly all luxuries since the beginning of his mission, but he could not part with this one item that brought comfort and ease to his aging wife.