I call it canny politics. The superstitious call it magic. If you want, you can call it the hand of God. But before he suddenly died last year, Muhammad achieved total victory. He could no more be stopped by force than you can stop a sandstorm by holding up your fist.
Mecca had no choice but to surrender. I will tell you that part in a moment. Many said the Prophet was inviolate from harm. I half believed it myself. My whole body trembled when I was brought before him, like a captive ready for sentencing. Muhammad wasn’t the picture of a conqueror. He was subdued. His eyes barely saw me. Where were they fixed—on another world, another revelation? Quietly he said, “I am home again. I bear no ill will. If you wish to join us, the past is the past.”
“Wish” was a nice word, a gentle word. He could afford to be gentle with a thousand swords holding the streets of Mecca.
More than anything he had wanted Mecca. To an orphan boy it was still the center of the world. Without it, Muhammad’s conquests would have been like a necklace without the priceless pearl. After ten years of strife, though, how could he conquer Mecca when the Quraysh had sworn blood revenge? He would do it God’s way, the only way we couldn’t fight against.
It took him three years and began with a dream. Muhammad saw himself with his head shaved, the way pilgrims look after they perform the Hajj in Mecca. When he told about his dream, his advisers were shocked. The Hajj belonged to the old religion before Islam. Everyone knows that. How could their new God share the same rites as the old gods? For once Muhammad’s followers resisted him. The young jihadis who had grown strong in battle were stubborn. Muhammad could not convince them to bend, but finally he let the people in the streets know about his vision.
A clamor arose to return to Mecca. The desire had been sleeping in the exiles’ breasts all along. See what I mean about canny politics? A peaceful pilgrimage would bring the exiles home and at the same time reassure us in Mecca that our holy sites wouldn’t go bankrupt. They were our lifeblood. After all, each turn around the Kaaba by the pilgrims was like an ox drawing water from a well. We needed it to survive.
And so the Muslims came, wrapped in the white linen skirt and shawl of the devout, dragging hundreds of sacrificial animals and keeping their weapons out of sight. I paid for a band of cavalry led by our best fighter, Khalid, to intercept them. Unfortunately, they completely lost Muhammad’s train, which had purposely veered off onto a different, rockier route.
Sitting in council, half the Qurayshi elders wanted to concede. “Let them enter and worship. The Kaaba will still be ours. Doesn’t that signal that we have won?”
I stood up trying not to ridicule such feeble logic. “If you let them into Mecca, you are saying that Muhammad is your equal, each one of you. In place of the tribe, which has held us together from the time of Abraham, an upstart will unite the Arabs according to his revelations. Trust me, the first revelation will be to destroy the idols.”
Enough elders were persuaded by me that Muhammad had to stop outside the city. When forcibly stopped, he reached out to negotiate. No matter how different Islam is from the faith of our fathers, one thing is agreed upon. The sacred precincts of Mecca cannot be a place for violence. Pilgrims cannot fight holy wars. Holy grace depends upon it.
When his emissaries sued for peace, I didn’t relent easily. I forced the chiefs to demand that the Muslims go away for one year before attempting to worship in the city. In return, we would halt hostilities against them for ten years. I know the concession was too great. I was admitting military defeat. But the soldiers of Mecca—every citizen, in fact—believed that the Muslims fought with special magic to protect them. When that kind of belief takes hold, the enemy has won before the first blow has been struck.
After signing the treaty where he was camped, on the plain of Hudaybiyah, Muhammad’s camp buzzed with resentment. They had marched four days to visit the Holy House and make sacrifice. Why should they turn back when they were in sight of the city walls?
Umar, one of the angriest, stood up and challenged Muhammad to his face. “Are you not the prophet of God? Isn’t our cause right and the Quraysh’s wrong? Haven’t you promised us that we would make seven circles around the Kaaba?”
Meekly Muhammad nodded yes to each question, but when Umar got to the last, he replied, “I promised you worship at the Kaaba, but did I say it would be this year?”
A tricky answer, but Umar sat down, and there was no rebellion. Still, Muhammad needed a revelation. And one came. God told him that certain victory (Al-Fath) had been won. Therefore, Muhammad ordered that the sacrificial animals be sacrificed outside the city walls. He strode outside and made the first sacrifice of a prize camel. Some of his followers grumbled, but when he appeared before them to have his head shaved, as a sign that the holy rites had been successful, they complied. Their shorn hair was carried by the wind to the gates of Mecca. It slipped under and littered the holy sites themselves. The Prophet knew what he was about.
As I feared, the treaty was thin. A few night raids on one side, a few murders on the other. Arabs suckle on strife, and they are never weaned. What the desert makes us suffer, we make our enemies suffer. But I had lost the will to fight back. I became a negotiator hoping to extract a few bits of privilege, a little more breathing room before the final blow came.
We had turned the Muslims away the first time they came to worship, but the second time, a year later, couldn’t be finessed. I sent word that Muhammad and his followers could enter Mecca, but only after all the Quraysh had abandoned the city. We would sit up in the hills for three days and wait out their visit. This was offered as a gesture of peace, to ensure that the pilgrims wouldn’t run into violence. Muhammad knew that it was a mark of disdain as well.
Muhammad entered the gates of an abandoned city and drew within sight of the Kaaba. Walking up to it, he silently touched the Black Stone with his staff and gave thanks to Allah. The company of worshipers was deeply moved, thinking how many years it had been since he could do that. When Muhammad approached the door, however, it was locked. My doing, I’ll admit it. I was damned if he would defile the inner sanctum. His followers grew enraged. I imagine they would have torn the city apart. Looking down from the hilltop, I half expected to see Mecca engulfed in smoke. Remaining calm, Muhammad ordered Bilal, a former slave, to climb to the roof of the Holy House and call the faithful to their noon prayers. When Mecca heard a Muslim singing out over the rooftops, the followers were satisfied.
My disdain was pointless, anyway. The new faith spread like a fever into every household. You couldn’t see it, yet it overcame you even as you breathed. My own daughter, Ramlah, was lost to me. I renounced her when she ran off with a Muslim on the Hijra. One day soon after that I found my wife weeping.
“What is it?” I asked.
“There is no more Ramlah. She is now Umm Abibah.”
I shook my head. “Her husband died. He was a dolt and a traitor. And now she has a right to be a wife again.”
“You think so? Well you have your wish. She is now the wife of Muhammad.”
All the blood drained from my face, and I staggered to a chair. For the rest of the day and all that night I remained there, as if paralyzed. Nursing my grievances, my mind drifted back in time when I could walk past Muhammad in the street and not bestow a glance. But I’m a realist. The thin treaty turned worthless. I was sent to Medina in the hopes of fooling Muhammad into signing it again. No one was fooled. All the power was on his side now.
Maybe I was lonely in Medina. Something caused me to make a mistake. I went to my daughter, in the rooms she kept near Muhammad. What good did I think would come of it? She was nervous and stiff, barely bending to the floor to greet me. I saw a chair and began to sit down.
“Oh no!” she said timidly, snatching off the blanket that covered it.
I kept my temper. “You would deny respect to your father? It’s only a wool blanket, not embroidered silk from Cathay.”
“But the Prophet sits on it,” she stammered. I stared at her, then turned on my heels and left without a word.
It has been told that it took three years before Muhammad swallowed Mecca. In the end, the city fell without resistance. Before the Muslims marched in, they sent a declaration ahead of them. Any citizen who stayed in his house behind locked doors would be spared. So that’s what we did. I cowered by lamplight as the horses of the Muslims clanged their iron hoofs on the cobblestones. I didn’t trust these warriors for God completely. I ordered that the lamps be kept low, so that the invaders would think my house was empty. All I could see in the darkness was the glint of fear in my wife’s eyes. I never asked what she saw in mine.
There was no avoiding my fate. I had to face him.
“I will convert,” I said, offering no conditions. I licked my lips, preparing to kiss his sandals, but Muhammad stopped me with a small gesture.
“You only need to swear two things. The first is that there is no god but God.”
I repeated the words. If you have lived as long as I have, your allegiance is greasy. It shifts easily from one god to the next.
“And the second thing?” I asked.
“There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His prophet.”
The words fell simply from his lips. He didn’t puff himself up like an emperor. I knew that his struggles had humbled him. He had an infant son, Ibrahim, born in Medina. Muhammad doted on the babe, but one day he caught a fever and died. Then he sent a band of his best warriors to Syria, but they were ambushed by mercenaries from Byzantium. His foster son, Zayd, was killed, and with him a cousin, Jafar. Both were precious to Muhammad. An ordinary man wouldn’t love his God quite so dearly after that. Or trust him.
One of the companions standing behind Muhammad cleared his throat. “There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His prophet.”
I suppose he was coaxing me. If I didn’t repeat the words, who knows what would come next? For all his mercy, I had fought Muhammad bitterly in one campaign after the next.
Holding my feelings in, I rose to my feet. “Give me time to think.”
I strode out of his tent without looking back. For all I knew, a dagger could have plunged into my skull.
Few here in Mecca remember old Muttalib, the Prophet’s grandfather. If they do, it’s because he used to dote on his grandson, bouncing him on his knee while we drank and argued at the inns around the Kaaba. But I remember something else.
I returned to Muhammad’s tent the next day.
“You’ve made up your mind,” he said. “I won’t ask. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t ready to submit.” He saw how I faintly cringed. “You aren’t submitting to me.”
I had wasted enough time. I knelt before Muhammad and proclaimed, “There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His prophet.”
Muhammad gave a faint nod, satisfied, and I rose to my feet.
I could have walked out, but instead I asked, “When is God’s love so intense that it feels like hate?”
“My grandfather, Muttalib, used to ask that question,” said Muhammad soberly.
“I know. I heard him. I was almost a man when you sat on his knee. But no matter. Your grandfather planted a seed. That’s undeniable. He worried about his soul while the rest of us were only worrying about money and women. You have the same strangeness about you. No wonder.”
Muhammad nodded. “And I still ask the same question. You aren’t my brother, not yet. Allah means nothing to you. I imagine you’re the one who tried to humiliate me at the Kaaba.”
“Perhaps.”
He died two years later, at the age of sixty-two. There was no great crisis, just a steady withering. He lost his strength the way a great tree loses sap. His last moments, they say, were spent with his head resting in the lap of his favorite wife, Aisha. The end was gentle; the faithful were certain that the Prophet would be waiting for them in Paradise, where the trees are greener than any in Arabia, the virgins more beautiful, the crystal rivers sparkling under the sun.
Even in death, Arabia is his. Syria and Egypt will fall soon. The emperor of Persia trembles when the Prophet’s emissaries appear before his throne. Muhammad was told by God to send letters to all the rulers of the earth, informing them that they must heed the Lord’s word and convert. Without hesitation he sent the letters. Imagine.
The Prophet died in Medina, and it was deemed best to bury him there, in the courtyard of the house where he had lived. I watched the funeral without rancor. Beside me was Abu Bakr. Tribe and trade once united us, before we became sworn enemies. Now he is calmly accepting of my conversion. We are tied by faith, and Abu Bakr makes that a cause for smiles. In the confusion after Muhammad’s death, several companions had a claim to his leadership. Ali had been chosen years ago, but he was a boy then. Umar and Uthman led strong factions. I imagine their heads swam at the prospect of ruling the world that Allah had handed them. But in the end it was Abu Bakr whom the chiefs chose. They call him caliph, successor to the Prophet’s authority in heaven and on earth. A good choice. Abu Bakr is loved by everyone. One of his most lovable qualities is his age. The old man won’t sit on the throne for long. The young rivals still have hope.
I move among them freely, a prize convert and a harmless dog with its teeth pulled. My end is near. My wife is sick, soon to leave me. She is half blind already. She can’t see me when I sit by the lamp and read the Koran. What would she do if she could see that? My eyes fall on words that God must have sent especially to old men:
Every soul will meet death.
You will find your true reward only on the Day of Resurrection.
This world is nothing but illusory pleasure.
I have known illusion and pleasure, and both to the fullest. Is that my real bond with the Prophet?
When I laid my wife in the earth, Aisha came to see me. She married so young, as a mere child, that she still looks beautiful. She entered my house looking stately, and for a moment her eyes and the pearls she wore around her neck made the dim room shuttered against the sun seem bright.
“You will meet her again in Paradise,” Aisha murmured, taking my hand. It trembled slightly in hers. I couldn’t tell if it was from grief or age. Both, no doubt.
“My wife didn’t convert,” I said. “Doesn’t that mean she is lost?”
“Love will draw her to you. That will be her way to God.”
It was a comforting lie, and I was glad to hear it. Aisha sat with me for a while. The sunlight that seeped through the shutters glanced off her necklace, turning it into glistening tears.
“I want you to believe something,” she said. She saw me stiffen. “I didn’t come to preach. This is a story, the one I hold closest to my heart. On a cool night in Mecca the Prophet was walking to his house when he suddenly was overcome with sleep. He lay down in a doorway near the Kaaba. The next thing he knew, the angel Gabriel appeared and sent his light into the Prophet’s chest. The intensity of the feeling sharpened every sense, and the Prophet realized that his heart was being purified for something wondrous. Gabriel pointed to the end of the street where a winged beast stood. It was white and shaped like a donkey, yet larger. Calling the creature Buraq, the angel bade the Prophet to mount it. The instant he did, he discovered that Buraq was a lightning steed. Each of its steps reached as far as the horizon. The Prophet was struck with awe and fear. In a matter of minutes they made a journey as far as the farthest mosque, which stood in Jerusalem. At that time there was no mosque there, but Gabriel assured the Prophet of their destination. Inside the mosque were many holy fathers and prophets who had come before. After praying with them, the Prophet was told to remount Buraq, for his night journey was only half begun.”
Aisha’s voice rose and fell in the dark. Her eyes sparkled in the near darkness. Among the Arabs, no one is more esteemed than a poet. I never knew of a woman poet, but she could have been one. I felt myself filled with the scent of roses.
“When the Prophet got back on Buraq, he looked to the horizon, where the next step would land them. Instead, with a clanging hoofbeat that printed the rock beneath its feet, the creature soared into the sky. The stars came as near as a bonfire in the Prophet’s courtyard. They passed through the crystal dome of the sky, higher and higher. How could this be? He was still alive, yet the Prophet was entering the seven heavens. Each was dazzling to the eyes and blissful to the heart. When they reached the seventh heaven, a tree blocked the way. This was the sacred tree that no angel could set foot beyond. And yet the Prophet was allowed to enter. He exchanged holy words with the great forebears of Islam, first Abraham, then Moses, and finally Jesus. The final gift was to be ushered into the presence of Allah. Before the Most Glorious the Prophet was reduced to awed silence. Allah spoke and gave him guidance for the faithful. Their first duty, said God, was to pray fifty times a day. The Prophet bowed in obedience and withdrew. When he was back among the elder prophets, Moses asked him what God had said. When he heard about the duty to pray fifty times a day, Moses shook his head. ‘That is impossible. Go back and ask for an easier way.’ The Prophet returned to Allah not once but several times, until his pleas were heard. God granted that the faithful should pray not fifty, but five times a day.”
In the dark Aisha heard me chuckle. She stopped telling me her tale.
“Don’t be angry,” I said. “You’ve brought me a smile. I always knew the Prophet was canny. He even talked God around to his way.”
I couldn’t see Aisha’s reaction, but she didn’t scold me. Maybe she smiled, too. But the story came to an abrupt end. The lightning steed brought Muhammad back to earth, and he woke up shivering in the night air where he had fallen asleep.
“Was it a dream?” I asked.
“Many thought so, even those among the companions. They were shaken. The Prophet had received revelations, but he always insisted he was a man among men, not a miracle worker. One of them rushed to tell the story to my father, Abu Bakr.”
“Ah,” I said. In those days I shunned Abu Bakr and barely recalled that he was Aisha’s father. “And he believed?”
“Without hesitation. He said, ‘If Muhammad tells us that his journey wasn’t a dream, I have no choice but to believe him. Don’t I already accept that the angel comes to him?’ It was from my father that I heard the story.”
I felt Aisha’s hand press into mine again. “But you began by saying that you live this story,” I said.
“Every day. I take a journey to heaven, you see. That’s the treasure the Prophet gave us all. He opened the way so that we can follow him. We don’t need Buraq to reach God. Our steed is the soul.”
Forgive me, but I was overcome. It was too much. My wife was gone. My body would lie next to hers very soon. What was left to me but a journey to heaven, if that’s possible? I held Aisha’s hand with a tight grip. Tears ran down my cheeks and were caught in the deep wrinkles there.
“Allahu Akbar,” I whispered. “God is great.”
“Allahu Akbar,” she repeated and slipped from the room, leaving behind the glimmer of pearls and the faint scent of roses.