Kamran Pasha - Mother Of the Believers

Abu Bakr leaned close to him and whispered.

“Is what they say true? Did you go to Jerusalem and return in one night?”

The Prophet nodded. He lowered his voice until only Abu Bakr and I could hear him.

“Yes. And there is more. But they are not ready for it.” He paused and looked deep into Abu Bakr’s eyes. “Are you?”

My father looked into those bottomless black pools. And then without any hesitation, he turned and faced the jeering crowd.

“If he says he went to Jerusalem in one night, then it is true,” Abu Bakr said loudly, his voice echoing across the ancient stones of the Sanctuary.

The laughter of the crowd died instantly and was replaced by surprise and confusion at my father’s unashamed embrace of this ludicrous claim.

Abu Bakr strode forward, looking men in the eye as he passed them, his arms sprung wide.

“And why do you wonder?” he asked defiantly. “Muhammad tells me that he receives tidings from heaven every day, and I know that he is speaking the truth. And that is a miracle beyond anything you marvel at!”

There was an uncomfortable buzz, like the confused hiss of a bee that can no longer find the security of its hive. I saw men looking at Abu Bakr as if he were insane. But when he met their glare with utter confidence, they began to look at one another, as if wondering whether perhaps they were the ones who were insane.

The Messenger moved forward and grasped my father’s right hand and held it aloft.

“I hereby proclaim Abu Bakr by a title borne by no other man. As-Siddiq-the Great Witness to the Truth!”

It was a powerful honorific, and one that my father carried with dignity for the rest of his life. In the years that would come, certain vile men would question his loyalty to the Prophet, accuse him falsely of acting in his own interests rather than in accordance with the will of God and His Messenger. Yet standing there, I saw the look of deep love and trust in the Messenger’s eyes as he gazed at my father, and my heart overflowed with emotions that have no name.

If it be true that Abu Bakr was the calculating politician that his detractors have claimed, then I know not what truth there is to anything I witnessed in all my years at Muhammad’s side. For those who claimed in the days to come that Abu Bakr became an enemy to the Messenger, claimed that the Prophet himself was deluded and trusted in a false front. If the Messenger of God could call a man by the great title of As-Siddiq and that man proved to be a liar and a thief, then there is nothing to our religion but foolishness and cruel mockery.

They say that I am biased because I am Abu Bakr’s daughter. They warn that I am destined for hell for the crimes I have committed in the heat of passion. And for that I have no clear response. I accept their condemnation for my sins, and it may indeed be that I will go to hell for the blood that is on my hands.

But I will not see my father there.

When word spread of the miraculous night journey, the tribe of believers gathered excitedly in the Messenger’s home. It was the largest such congregation since Abu Talib’s death, as it was now considered unsafe for the Muslims to meet in large groups and potentially be accused of plotting insurrection. The main hall was overflowing, and I saw men and women of all ages cramming together to hear the full story. I marveled for a moment at how much we had grown. Despite the Quraysh’s best efforts to crush our movement, there were now several hundred committed believers, most still from the poorer classes but a surprisingly large number from the ruling elite.

One of the most improbable converts was a tall and proud woman named Ramla, the eldest daughter of Abu Sufyan. Her conversion had been a shock to the lords of Mecca, and the Messenger had arranged for her to travel across the sea and take refuge with the Negus in case her father sought to force her back into the fold. Though the Muslims could no longer count on his protection as a group, the Christian king had invited Ramla to come as a “princess of Quraysh” and be housed in a palace reserved for foreign dignitaries.

Ramla sat near the Prophet and I could see her resemblance to her father. With her steely eyes that shone with dignity and authority, she had the aura of a queen, even though she was dressed in modest white robes, her light brown hair covered in a blue scarf. I saw the coquettish way she looked at the Messenger, who was now a widower, and I felt my cheeks burn hot with jealousy. I was not sure why I felt so possessive about the Prophet, but Khadija’s last words to me kept echoing in my heart. She had asked me to take care of her husband, and I did not feel that letting him fall into Ramla’s seductive web was what she had in mind.

Of course, my nephew, you know the bad blood that existed between us in later years, and even now I have difficulty writing her name without my hand shaking in fury. What she did to me, in my moment of terrible grief, may be forgiven by Almighty God, but my human heart cannot extend to her that clemency.

In those early days, I did not know the depth of her cruelty, and yet I still had a visceral dislike for Ramla the moment I laid eyes on her. There was something about her that struck me as dangerous, far more so than open enemies like her father or her conniving stepmother, Hind. In one glance, she sized up others as if weighing them and calculating their worth, and I never knew for what purpose. And yet Ramla was charming and I saw how she could make the Messenger laugh with her worldly stories from her travels to the courts of Yemen and Persia as part of Abu Sufyan’s trading ventures. And I hated her.

In truth, I hated her because she was beautiful and young, and her breasts were well shaped and firm, unlike my own, nothing more than tiny buds that barely rose from my chest. Yes, I had childish fantasies that I would grow up and marry the Messenger someday, as did every other young girl among the believers, and seeing Ramla sitting near the Prophet and her cousin Uthman, I felt the cold, harsh flash of reality. I was a child and she was a woman.

When dreams shatter, Abdallah, they can leave mighty scars that are always raw to the touch.

That night we sat and listened as the Messenger told us more about his wondrous journey to Jerusalem. Of how the angel Gabriel had come to the Messenger while he had slept near the Kaaba, leading a wing horse named Buraq. Together they had flown to Jerusalem, where they landed at the ruins of the Jewish shrine the Temple of Solomon, which was called in the holy Qur’an Al-Masjid Al-Aqsa-the Farthest Place of Worship. There, amid the fallen stones of God’s other House, sister to the Kaaba, the Prophet had prayed with the spirits of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus.

And then he revealed a secret that we were sworn to keep from the unbelievers, who were unworthy of the highest Truth. From a rock that stood at the site of Solomon’s Temple, the Messenger had ascended into heaven and traveled through the many realms of Paradise until he stood before the Throne of God. The Prophet had never before claimed to have spoken directly with Allah, who had communicated with him for the past ten years through angels as intermediaries. But this night, he had crossed the farthest reaches of Creation, past the Lote Tree of the Utmost Boundary beyond which even Gabriel could not ascend. And there, outside time and space, where there was neither light nor darkness, Muhammad communed with his Lord.

We listened with rapt attention, and many wept, as he described the glories of Paradise, the rivers of milk and honey, and wine that did not befuddle the senses. Of perfect trees that provided eternal shade and fruits whose scent was enough to quell the hunger of mankind for eternity. And there were youths like sparkling pearls that served the residents of Paradise with any food or drink that they desired, and houris, beautiful virgins whose touch made men forget all the earthly pleasure they had ever known.