Kamran Pasha - Mother Of the Believers

It was the first truly honest thing he had said to her in months.

“You should indeed feel lost,” Ibn Ubayy said with a sympathetic look. “The balance of power has shifted dangerously. The Muslims have been emboldened by their victory at Badr. They consider it a clear miracle for such a small band to rout a powerful army.”

Kab, the chieftain of Bani Qurayza, laughed coldly.

“Miracle? Bah. The Meccans were overconfident and underprepared. There is no miracle in hubris and poor planning.”

“Be that as it may, Muhammad’s victory will raise his standing among the tribes of Arabia,” Ibn Ubayy said pointedly. “He has proven that Yathrib is a formidable threat to the northern caravan routes. Soon the tribes will send him heralds seeking alliance in order to protect their trade. And where will that leave your people, my friend?”

“Where it always does,” Huyayy answered bitterly. “As outsiders.”

Safiya knew that this Arab was seeking to use her people to advance his own ambitions, regardless of what the consequences might be for the Jews. And she would be damned if she would let him play her father like a Bedouin flute.

“Do not rush to such judgments, Father,” she said quickly, ignoring Ibn Ubayy’s piercing gaze. “Muhammad has kept his end of the treaty. As long as we remain steadfast to the truce, we will prosper from the trade that these new alliances will secure for Yathrib.”

Ibn Ubayy rose and approached her. She instinctively moved back. The chieftain of Khazraj maneuvered himself between Huyayy and his daughter, his eyes never leaving hers.

“You have a good heart, my dear, but alas, you are a rare and precious flower,” he said with an air of affected sorrow. “The truth is, most men’s hearts are not like yours. They are filled with greed and jealousy. Even if your people prosper under Muhammad’s reign, what do you think will happen? The Muslims will resent you for your skill in bargaining. They will claim that you are stealing from them, hoarding the wealth that belongs to their community.”

He was, of course, striking the very nerves that had been rubbed raw in the memories of her people. Their history was filled with such betrayals and Ibn Ubayy knew exactly the impact his calculated words would have. And to make matters worse, his old ally Kab, the head of Bani Qurayza, nodded in quick agreement.

“It is what always happens to our people, Safiya,” he said, sounding like a wise uncle reasoning with a stubborn child. “Since the days of Jacob and his sons, the world has resented our tribe for its prowess in commerce. Whenever we flourish, the nations conspire to take it away from us.”

“You are wise to look at history, my friend,” Ibn Ubayy continued. “This is not the first time that an impostor has risen, claiming to speak for your God. And what do your rabbis say must be done when a false prophet is in your midst?”

Kab began to glean where his Arab friend’s argument was leading. He leaned close to Huyayy, who looked weary from the weight of the conversation.

“He must be opposed. His lies must be unmasked before the people.”

Ibn Ubayy grabbed a velvet-backed chair, plumping himself down next to Huyayy. With Kab to his right and the Arab to his left, Safiya thought her father looked liked a tiny mouse trapped between the talons of a mighty bird.

“Follow the wisdom of your fathers, Huyayy,” Ibn Ubayy said, his eyes burning with the fire of intrigue. “Muhammad claims to be a prophet like Moses, your lawgiver. Yet he cannot even read or write. He only knows of your Torah what he has heard from the mouths of others. Fragments of tales, misunderstood and misconstrued. His entire claim to power lies in his alleged revelations from God. Challenge Muhammad on his knowledge of scripture, show that his Qur’an differs from your Torah. Undermine the credibility of his prophecy, and you will defeat him in a way that no army ever could. That is the only way that you will protect your people from this new religion that seeks to dispossess you from your rightful status as the Chosen People.”

Safiya knew that what Ibn Ubayy was proposing was far more dangerous than any contest of swords. Men could make war over land, water, or women, and still peace could be achieved, for the underlying matter under dispute was tangible, rational. But if Ibn Ubayy convinced her father to launch an ideological war against the Muslims, if they tried to insult or denigrate their neighbors’ faith, then there could be no reconciliation.

If there was one thing Safiya had learned from arguing about the Torah with her own people, it was that fighting over intangible ideas was a losing proposition for all sides. Opinions hardened and conflict became a matter of hazy beliefs, phantoms that could never be satisfied, no matter how much blood was spilled. If the Jews allowed themselves to fall into this trap, they would become like a gazelle prodding a sleeping lion.

“Father, don’t listen to him!” she cried, falling at Huyayy’s feet and clinging to his knees. “It is not the way of our people! Jews do not ridicule the beliefs of others! Let them have their religion and we ours. Or we risk bringing war upon us.”

Huyayy gazed at her and she could see how tired he was. The lines around his eyes had become so thick that he looked like an owl. He ran a hand through her sandy hair as he had when she was a little girl.

“War is already upon us, my child,” he said softly. “The Quraysh were the first to fall. We will be next. Unless the fire of Muhammad’s religion is quenched, it will consume the world-and our people with it.”

Safiya looked at her father with pleading eyes, but he rose and gently nudged her away. The Jewish chieftain turned to his guests with a look of grim determination.

“The time has come to show the world that this Arab who claims to speak for the God of Moses is a liar,” he said.

Ibn Ubayy and Kab smiled in satisfaction. They had finally come up with a plan they believed could tear Muhammad off the throne that he had steadily been building himself for the past two years.

The three men turned to walk into the courtyard and continue their conversation. Safiya stayed back, her heart heavy. There was no point in pursuing them, for she had lost the argument. She watched her father step through the carved oak doors into their manicured garden. And she had a vivid image in her heart of Huyayy walking into a lion’s den from which he would never return.

I sat near the Messenger in the courtyard of the Masjid as he shared with the worshipers the wondrous tale of Moses and Pharaoh. He was a remarkable storyteller, his hand gesticulating as he drew for his followers a vivid picture of the ancient prophet and his confrontation with the king of Egypt. All eyes were on him as Muhammad recited the newly revealed words of the Book.

Moses said, “Pharaoh, I am a messenger from the Lord of the Worlds

Duty bound to say nothing about God but the truth

And I have brought you a clear sign from your Lord.”

Pharaoh said, “Produce this sign you have brought, if you are telling the Truth.”

Then Moses threw down his staff, and behold, it was a serpent!

And he drew out his hand, and behold, it appeared white to the onlookers!

Gasps of awe spread through the crowd of worshipers at the startling images. As the words of the Qur’an flowed from the Messenger’s lips in magnificent Arabic verse, the serpent and the white hand were so clear that we could almost see them with our eyes.

And then I heard a loud cough coming from the back of the crowd. I looked up to see Huyayy, the Jewish chieftain of Bani Nadir, standing near the entrance to the courtyard. In his hand he held what appeared to be a scroll wrapped in blue velvet, although I did not recognize the writing that had been embossed in gold over the coverlet.