Fatima watched her father bury his head in his hands as he sat in his tent. She had seen him put on a brave face in front of all the men, for they relied on him for strength. It was his message they followed, and if Muhammad Ibn Abdullah faltered, then so would the entire Ummah. But alone with his child, he let his shoulders slump forward. Fatima felt some small comfort that her father was able to show this vulnerable part of himself to her, even if he dared not reveal it to the world. Her mother, Khadijah, was the only other person he allowed to see him in such a state.
But now Khadijah lay in their tent, struggling with fever and shortness of breath, and Fatima realised the steep price of her father’s prophethood. The Mushrikeen of Mecca had banished them from the city and then isolated them in the desert, preventing supplies from reaching them through an embargo. They claimed that if Muhammad was truly a prophet of the one God, then he and his new followers would survive this test. Fatima initially had not felt the intensity of hunger others experienced, for she had always eaten little anyway. But her mother’s health had taken a turn for the worst from malnutrition.
Fatima had always been told she was growing up quickly, but she had not expected that her mother might be taken from her so very soon. She thought she would be married with children by the time the sad day came. Yet now, watching her mother in such a weakened condition, tears came to her eyes.
Her father approached her, and his eyes softened. He took her in his arms, and she could feel how his body trembled. “Oh, my Fatima, you are a part of me,” he whispered. “Whatever pleases you, pleases me, and whatever wounds you, wounds me.”
“Pray for a miracle, my father,” Fatima pleaded. “You are Allah’s final messenger. Surely, He will cure Mother if you make supplication.”
“Fatima, your mother’s love for us has been nurtured by Allah Himself. Yet even I am not immune from death. It will come for all created things.”
Fatima closed her eyes tight, imagining the pagan nobles in Mecca, living in the lap of luxury while the Muslims starved. “What wrong did you ever commit, my father?” she rasped. “You preached the message that was given to you from Jibreel. How can telling the truth be treated as a crime?”
“A person is tried in proportion to their faith,” her father replied. “First the Prophets, then the righteous, then those most like them. And Khadijah was the first to believe in me…” He kissed his daughter’s head. “I will pray that Allah’s will may be done.”
Then he turned and went inside the tent. Fatima pressed her ear against the flap, listening carefully at the words spoken within.
“Habibti, are you truly fasting? Now? In your condition?” the prophet chastened his wife.
“I am simply doing as you have preached, my husband,” replied Khadija. “I would rather face Allah with my soul cleansed than with a full belly.”
“I have always taught moderation in all things. There is no shame in a sick woman taking whatever nourishment she can.”
“A dying woman, O Muhammad, not a sick woman,” stated Khadija. “I know it as well as you do. Save what food remains for yourself and dear Fatima.”
“Khadijah, as your husband, I implore you to eat.”
“And as you have preached, a wife can refuse her husband’s request if it goes against God’s will,” she reminded him. “You know what I desire brings me closer to our almighty. It is Ramadan, the holiest of months. Shaitan is chained up right now, and despite the sorry conditions of our people, the heavens have opened their light. It is fitting for me to spend my last days in fasting and prayer, out of gratitude to Allah that I had the privilege of being the wife of the final messenger.”
Silence elapsed for several moments. Then he murmured, “When Jibreel came to me in the Cave of Hira, it thought that I was going mad. When I ran out, it was as though I could see his true form covering the skies themselves. But you proved to me that it was not some djinn or demon. You brought me to Waraqah to confirm this visitation and prophethood. You supported me when no one else would. You were my first pupil. Your loss can never be filled in this dunya!”
“Yet I am older than you,” she said stoically. “You surely guessed that might mean you might become a widower. You were mocked for marrying a woman much older than you. Do you know why I married you? I may have been older, but with my wealth, I could have married a man of higher status, but when I met you, and talked to you. When you worked for me, I swear I could feel your purity, your greatness. Your destiny is greater than mine and will continue to unfold when I am in my grave.”
“What about Fatima?”
“She will support you, as the mother of her father,” replied Khadija. “Tell her to come inside. Then you can recite Quran for us both. It will be doubly blessed, as it will be straight from the mouth of the rasool Allah himself.”
And so Muhammad bade Fatima to enter. Husband and wife both marvelled at their daughter’s beauty, especially her eyes. They spoke of how they emanate an untapped wisdom waiting to be forged from the rough within her, and she blushed.
Then the messenger of God began to recite: “In the name of Allah, the most beneficent and merciful. All praises to Allah, the most completely merciful, the source of mercy. All praises to Allah, lord of worlds, the sole lord of the day of reckoning. It is You we worship, and You whom we ask for help.”
The last words struck Fatima the hardest, aware that her faith was truly being put to the test through her own helplessness. She leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder and listened to her father’s chanting until she fell asleep on her mother’s shoulder, dreaming of better days to come.
***
Fatima watched as the Muslims placed Khadijah’s wrapped body into the earth. Fatima began to breathe in and out in heavy breathes, tears streaming down her face.
That isn’t my mother. It’s just a shell. And yet…it feels like they are putting me in the ground along with it.
She could not move; she could not speak. The dirt kept piling up on top of the corpse. She wanted to leave before she broke down entirely, convulsing in sobs.
Yet before she could do so, a servant held her tight. “Mistress, you have to remain strong,” the Bedouin woman whispered in her ear.
“Yes, you are the daughter of the messenger,” said an Ethiopian woman beside her. She had once been a slave, but was given her freedom by Muhammad after she embraced Islam. “You know your place, deep down inside. You must be a lioness!”
“Lo!” the Bedouin woman nudged the Ethiopian woman in the side. “And here comes the lion!”
She pointed at a man with a white beard and two swords strapped on his back who was approaching them. It was Hamza, the uncle and bodyguard of Muhammad.
“I will take care of things from here,” sighed Hamza, gesturing for her to step aside with him as the servants saluted him.
When they were alone, the old man brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I know you have been dealt a wound from which you may never fully heal, young one. Yet what can we expect of these times of oppression? Only Jannah exists without suffering. Until then, the righteous must endure the Dunya.”
“But she was the prophet’s wife…”
“Prophets are sent for the good of the people, not for their own benefit, nor to gain special favours for their loved ones.”
Her lip quivered. “Without my mother, I have only my father. If he is to die too, then inshallah I will follow him soon after.”
“Everyone has their own allotted time here to be tested and purified,” he told her. “Allah alone knows when your soul will be called forth, child. Until then, you must fulfil your role here. No one else can do that for you.”
“But what can I hope to do?”
“What would your mother have you do?” insisted Hamza.
“She would tell me to be a comfort to my father.”
He smiled. “Khadijah was always very wise.” Then he knelt down, putting his hands on her shoulders. “This is just the beginning. Remember that, Fatima. We will not always live under the whims of those that hate us, nor even rely on the charity of the Abyssinian Christians, Allah bless them. One day we Muslims will be ready to fight for ourselves. Your father and I are already preparing. Where there is darkness now, we will rise with the dawn, and our enemies will have cause to tremble.”
***
Muhammed walked back to the camp with silent dignity, his clothes covered with the blood and guts of a camel that had been hurled at him by angry townspeople when he tried to preach his message. He could not help but be thankful Hamza and Ali had not been with him. His uncle and cousin were usually measured, but lately he noticed rage was easily kindled within their hearts when it came to threats of his person. But he wanted to avoid bloodshed if possible. He would much rather see the people convert.
He recalled the old woman who used to throw garbage at him every morning as he walked by her house. He could not bring himself to hate her, however. When the routine barrage of rubbish did not occur for several days, he went to visit her, and found her in bed with a fever. He barely uttered a word but set about doing whatever needed doing around the house. She was so astonished that she broke down crying. She begged his forgiveness and ultimately took the shahada before passing away.
There wasn’t evil in her heart. She was simply afraid of change. No matter what she had done to him, Allah brought her to Islam. There was no special wrath hidden for her, in spite of her previous behaviour; instead, she had been rewarded by Allah with the gift of enlightenment. He wanted the same for the people who chased him out of town. He could easily imagine a scenario where their hearts would open as well. No, his anger was saved for the ones that tortured believers in a degenerate manner, or those who incited attacks against his followers, as some poets had recently done with their inflammatory verses. He felt responsible and bore the pain of all those who risked their lives by embracing his message. The ummah was like a body, after all; when one part was dealt a blow, all the parts ached.
That was why he was here, seeking safe haven for his fledgling community among the tribes. So far none had taken them in. Begging was much harder than having camel guts thrown at him, for it struck at the pride deeply embedded into the heart of every Arab. Yet Islam called every man to put aside his personal prestige for a higher cause. And so Muhammad begged.
In the past, he had sought advice from his uncle Abu Talib, for he was a chieftain, skilled in the matter of politics and negotiation. After all, Muhammad had been raised in his household after the death of his parents, and he loved and trusted him like a father. Yet Abu Talib was gone now, and unlike the old woman, he had died still clinging to the old gods of his ancestors. That wounded Muhammad the worst. He wished the old man could have understood that his earlier ancestors, Ibrahim and Ismail, had submitted themselves to the One God who breathed life into the clay of the first man, Adam. No matter how much Muhammad wanted to rationalize his uncle’s diehard polytheism, he knew that he likely resided in hellfire now, and that reality broke his heart, especially knowing the goodness he had been capable of in life.
Muhammad found a stream to bathe in, then cleaned his clothes as best as he could before anyone could see their soiled state. After his ablutions, he prayed his salaat on the bank. Then he rose, straightened his shoulders, and headed for his tent. He was determined not to burden his daughter any more than necessary. She had already lost a mother, and he wanted her to know she could rely on him. She had not been the same since Khadijah’s passing, talking only when necessary, barely eating what little food they were able to obtain, and refusing to interact with the other children. He certainly sympathized with his daughter, and there was a part of him that wanted to retreat into the shadow of his own grief as well. But Allah had tasked him with a duty, and there was no turning away from that.
As soon as he opened the flap of the tent, the aroma of fresh bread and meat welcomed him. Fatima stood in front of him with a tray of food.
“Ramadan Mubarak, my father,” she greeted him, her beautiful eyes dancing.
“Ramadan Mubarak, my daughter,” he replied, gazing at the tray.
“I made an iftar meal to break our fast,” she stated with a touch of innocent pride. “The women of the camp were happy to assist me.”
“Where did you get all this?” he queried in surprise.
“Hamza managed to bring down an antelope,” she told him.
“For once, Hamza was hunting venison instead of lions?” he chuckled. “It must have been a dull pursuit for him.”
“Oh, he will find a way to make it sound exciting, I am sure,” Fatima insisted, and he saw her smile for the first time in weeks. “But the better story is of this bread, which was a gift by some farmers, newly converted to Islam. You see, Father? People are listening to your message and more will follow.”
Now Muhammad smiled and kissed her forehead. “She lives on through you, Fatima, and in your words of comfort and this meal you have made. They are a salve to my soul.”
Fatima set down the tray and embraced her father. “I will be your shield as she once was to you,” she assured, tears filling her eyes. “No matter what tests we are sent, I will be by your side.”
“Truly your light is from Allah,” he whispered, holding her tight, “and your status will be higher than the heaven and the earth.”