Book Three. Birth of a Nation

1 Medina-AD 625

We buried the mutilated dead on the slopes of Uhud and returned to Medina, where news of our loss sent waves of grief and panic among the people. Suddenly small voices could be heard wondering why God had abandoned us on the battlefield, unlike at Badr, where He had sent angels to our aid. Soon the voices become louder and some began to question whether our first victory had been merely the product of dumb luck and there had not been any divine intervention in the first place.

The grumbling was silenced by the revelation of verses in the Qur’an that placed the blame for our defeat squarely on our own shoulders. Had the archers not been overcome with greed and fled their posts, victory would have been certain. We could not blame God for our own failings. It was an important lesson, and the people began to see Uhud as a sign from God that His favor was bestowed on the Muslims not because of who they were but because of how they acted. And this point soon became another way to differentiate us from our increasingly antagonistic Jewish neighbors. The Prophet warned that some of the Jews-although, he stressed, not all-had come to see themselves as deserving of God’s blessings as a birthright, without any corresponding moral obligations on their own end, and this had led to their downfall throughout history. Islam had come to erase that sense of tribal entitlement and replace it with individual moral responsibility.

The Jews did not deign to respond to this new charge against them, but their leaders made it clear that Muhammad’s humiliation at Uhud should serve as a reminder that the future of the oasis was not as clear as the Muslims would like to believe. And they were right.

It was the realization of our precarious position in the aftermath of defeat that forced the Messenger to hold a secret a council of his closest Companions. A handful of the most influential members of our community met inside my tiny apartment, with guards placed in the courtyard of the Masjid to ward off any eavesdroppers.

My father pulled his beard, which had begun to turn from gray to cloudy white.

“Now that the Meccans have tasted victory, they think we are weak,” he said grimly. “It will not be long before they attack Medina again with a stronger force.”

Umar grunted in assent.

“We must make new allies among the Arab tribes if we wish to mount a defense,” he said, leaving unspoken the obvious fact that our Jewish neighbors could not be relied upon to uphold their end of the treaty if Abu Sufyan invaded.

Ali leaned forward.

“The Bedouin tribe of Bani Amir is well armed, and they have no love for Mecca.”

I wrinkled my forehead at the mention of the unfamiliar tribe, and then I remembered that the Bani Amir were shepherds who brought their flocks to pasture in Medina every spring. Their wool was actually quite decent, with thick curls that made excellent blankets during the cold winter months, and their shearings sold well in the marketplace. They had remained neutral in our conflict with Mecca, but they definitely had a vested economic interest in the prosperity of the settlement.

Uthman nodded favorably at Ali’s suggestion.

“I know their chieftain, Abu Bara. He is an honorable man and would be a useful ally.”

My father coughed, as if he often did when he had to make an indelicate comment.

“I have heard that Abu Bara’s leadership is in question,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Rumor is that his nephew Husam is seeking to displace him.

Uthman frowned. The complex nuances of such a power struggle could not be grasped by his simple and straightforward nature. A fact that would cause much grief to the Ummah in years to come.

“Husam has many friends in Mecca,” he conceded with some difficulty. “If he seizes control of the Bani Amir and allies them with Abu Sufyan, we will face a formidable enemy.”

Umar banged his hand on his knee.

“Then we must unite his tribe clearly with the Muslims,” he said with his customary intensity. “If we can forge relations of blood and marriage between us, it will cement an alliance.”

There was a long silence as the Messenger’s counselors considered their options. Marriage as a means of establishing treaties between peoples had a long and honored tradition in Arabia. But the question remained as to who among the notoriously independent Bani Amir would be amenable to a match with the Muslims and whom they could be paired with to forge an alliance that would justify the Bedouin risking their lives in Medina’s wars.

And then Ali spoke, his voice ringing like a bell in the small room.

“Zaynab, the daughter of Khuzayma, is a member of the Bani Amir.”

Umar’s bushy eyebrows rose.

“The widow of Ubayda?”

Ali nodded. And then I had a flash of memory of courageous Ubayda on the plain of Badr, his leg cut off by the dying Utbah. He had been the first Muslim to be killed in battle and had expired with his head in the Prophet’s lap. I knew his young widow, Zaynab bint Khuzayma, in passing. She was a quiet soul, who spent most of her time helping Fatima by feeding the People of the Bench or distributing alms to the needy. I had heard the Messenger once refer to her admiringly as “the Mother of the Poor.”

Zaynab was a frail woman whose body was malnourished and small, and I found it hard to imagine that this plain, ghostly lady would find a suitor easily. Glancing at the dubious looks on the faces of the other men, I gathered that they were thinking similar thoughts.

Ali turned to face the Prophet, who had sat uncharacteristically silent throughout the entire discussion. My husband looked worn and tired, and I knew that he was still grieving for Hamza and the dead of Uhud.

“Zaynab is a cousin of the chief of Bani Amir and can turn his heart in our favor,” Ali said. And then he added words that immediately shook my world. “If the Messenger were to marry her, it would create a powerful bond between the Muslims and the Bedouins.”

I felt bile rising in my stomach.

“You are quick to offer my husband’s hand in marriage!”

Ali looked at me with those unreadable green eyes. If he was stung by the vehemence of my reaction, he did not show it.

“I meant no offense,” he said simply. “But the Messenger is the head of our community. For the Bedouins, only a marriage between leaders of tribes would be sufficient to earn their allegiance.”

I sat back sullenly, my arms folded across my chest in defiance. Of course what Ali said made perfect sense from a practical point of view. But I was in no mood for practicality. I had already been forced to contend with one young sister-wife because of the Messenger’s political needs. And now I was being asked to accept another woman in Muhammad’s bed for the sake of state policy.

The Messenger did not look at me. He sat quietly, considering Ali’s words. When he spoke, there was a calm decisiveness in his voice that I had not heard since the tragedy at Uhud.

“Zaynab bint Khuzayma is a good woman,” my husband said. “She is kind to the poor. And she is the first widow of Badr. I know of none worthier to become a Mother of the Believers.”

I felt my heart sink as the Messenger turned to face Ali.

“Send her my proposal. If she accepts, invite Abu Bara to the wedding and let us make a treaty with his tribe.”

Ali nodded and rose to leave. I could not help but give him a furious look as he walked out. He met my eyes, and for a second I saw cold disapproval in his glance. I felt a sudden flash of outrage at his judgmental stare, as well as an inkling of shame at my own jealousy. But as Ali walked out, my wounded pride won the struggle inside me, and I bit my lip in fury until I drew blood.