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| Excerpt: The Jewel of Medina |
| Special Features |
| Written by permission of Publisher |
| October, 2008 |
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Nor, apparently, was Mother of the Poor a threat to my status. I’d feel more secure once I and Muhammad had consummated our marriage, but in the meantime I could hold my ground against the new wife. She was quiet and shy—pure weakness, while I was strong. Yet Muhammad was stronger—which meant that, no matter how I resisted, I had to spend a day with Umm al-Masakin, Mother of the Poor, in the stinking, fleainfested tent city. I dawdled as I got ready for the journey, hoping Umm al-Masakin would leave without me. She liked to depart after the early morning prayer, but how could I go until the bread was baked? I thought Sawdah would topple over when I offered to mix the dough. Then she spied Mother of the Poor waiting for me in the corner, clicking her prayer beads like nervous teeth, and she shooed me away. I fed my runt lamb and changed clothes, and still she waited. At last I ran out of excuses to delay, and we said ma’ salaama to our sister-wives. How they clucked over me—as if I were going far away, instead of to the edge of Medina! Sawdah handed me her cowrie-shell necklace to wear as protection against the Evil Eye, and Hafsa whispered a warning not to get too close to anyone. “You don’t want to catch any strange illnesses,” she said. Of course, Umm al-Masakin fed and nursed the poor every day, and she seemed healthy enough, if a bit pale. As we walked through Medina together—her with her heavy bag of medicines and a sack of barley and me with a sack of dates—I asked her how she kept from getting sick. “By the grace of al-Lah,” she said, and nothing more. “What about me? How do I protect myself? Is there a medicine in your bag for that?” I asked. She cut me a mischievous look from the corner of her eye. “Would al-Lah allow anything to happen to His Prophet’s favorite wife?” “How do you know I’m Muhammad’s favorite? Did he tell you?” Pleasure, like the morning sunshine, spilled warmth over my face. “He does not need to say so. I must only look at his eyes when he looks at you. Even the mention of your name causes him to glow.” “Sometimes I wonder.” I paused, pondering how much to tell. “He treats me like a child—in every way.” She blushed and pulled her wrapper about her face, and I wondered if I’d revealed too much. We walked through town, brushing away the flies rising like steam from the scattered piles of manure, keeping our eyes down so we wouldn’t draw attention from Ibn Ubayy and his men. At this early hour, though, the flies and the men were scarce. Umm al-Masakin moved her feet at a pace so quick I had to trot to keep up with her. Then a baby’s cry pierced the air. I raised my eyes to see the infamous “tent city littering the desert like dirty laundry scattered by the wind. Puzzled, I searched for tents, but I saw only tattered pieces of dingy gray cloth spread across acacia branches stuck into the sand. These “poles” leaned at haphazard angles, threatening to collapse if anyone breathed on them. Some tents didn’t even have poles. Their owners sat with pieces of cloth over their heads, or draped between their heads and those of their family members. The stench here was much worse than anything in Medina. Urine, feces, the rotting carcass of a fly-blown dog, and unwashed bodies made a sickening stew of odors, nearly gagging me. A man hunching on the rustred sand noticed my discomfort and laughed, baring bright, swollen gums and green-black teeth. “Yaa Mother of the Poor, who is your helper?” the man asked. “I do not think she will be much help today.” “Abu Shams! Where is your tent?” Umm al-Masakin said. “My son found a goat, and the goat ate it,” the shaykh said. “My son is going to butcher the goat and give some of the meat to me, though, so I will be eating my own tent for supper!” He laughed at his ridiculous tale and Umm al-Masakin laughed with him. I smiled politely, wondering how he could chew anything with those teeth. “If your son will give me the skin of that goat, I can have a goatskin shelter fashioned for you in two days.” Already she had recruited Sawdah to tan and stretch animal hides for this purpose. Umm al-Masakin motioned to me for the sack of dates, opened it, and pulled out a handful of fruit. “These will satisfy your hunger until mealtime,” she said to the old man. I stared as she put the dates in her mouth, chewed them, and spat them into the wooden bowl he held out. He dipped his fingers into the concoction and slurped it down. He lifted his eyes to catch me watching him. I quickly looked away, but he laughed again. “Never seen a starving man before, sister?” he said. “Yaa Abu Shams, please speak to A’isha with respect,” Umm al-Masakin said. “She is the favored wife of the Messenger of God. She honors us with her visit today. You should honor to her as you honor the Prophet.” He raised his eyes to me—hungry eyes, filled with pain. “The Prophet is the greatest of all men,” he said. “Without him, none of us here would even have tents. But it is the Mother of the Poor who feeds us and tends to our health every day. She is the woman I honor.” He folded his arms and glared at me as if I had asked him to bow down before me. Umm al-Masakin thanked him and led me away. “Pay no attention to Abu Shams,” she murmured, lowering her eyes in embarrassment. “The more he ages, the more eccentric he becomes.” Abu Shams had spoken truly about one thing: I wasn’t much help to the Mother of the Poor that day. I knew nothing of the bundles of herbs, plant extracts, and incenses she carried in her bag, so I could only watch as she ground mixtures together with her mortar and pestle and gave them to a man to apply to the sores on his arms and legs, or spread them on the chest of a coughing baby, or fed them to a boy whose guts contorted with pain from the spoiled meat pies his mother had “found” at the Medina market the day before. (Just as the old shaykh’s son had “found” the goat, I assumed.) In the corner of the tent, the boy’s mother moaned and clutched her stomach. “Mix that barley you cooked with some vinegar and give it to her,” Umm al-Masakin told me. “It will cleanse the bad meat from her system.” I carried the bowl of food to the poor woman, and she clasped my hand with rough fingers, as my beloved grandmother had done when I’d visited her deathbed as a child. Now, as then, I could see the bones of her face as plainly as if she had no skin at all—but instead of staring at her in disgust, as I had the rotten-toothed old shaykh, I squeezed her hand in return. “In the future, if you need food, tell Umm al-Masakin,” I said to the mother. “Can Mother of the Poor keep the stomachs of my babies full?” She peered up at me with knowing eyes. “Their father never could. From the looks of you two, your husband struggles, also.” “Al-Lah provides for me, and He helps me provide for you,” Umm al-Masakin said. She came over and knelt beside me. “I have only barley, not meat, but it will not make you ill.” She pulled out a folded handkerchief from her medicine pouch, and opened it to reveal several silver dirhams. The woman’s eyes tracked Umm al-Masakin’s fingers, watching the coins as if they were fish in the water and she a bird of prey. Yet she offered a feeble protest. “God bless you, Mother of the Poor. You feed my children while your own flesh wastes away and your skin turns pale from hunger. How can I accept yet another gift from you?” “Do not worry about me, Umm Abraha. I am provided for.” Umm al-Masakin pressed the money into the mother’s palm. “Everything my husband left behind when he died went to his brother, including my children.” Sorrow crossed her face like a shadow. “But I had some clothing I could sell, thank al-Lah. I thought I would use the money to buy food, but the Prophet was kind enough to marry me. He feeds me, so now I can feed you.” “But what would the Prophet say—” I leaned forward to touch her arm. In that touch, I felt a warm rush from my heart through my arm and into my fingertips, as if I were pouring pure love into her skin. “The Prophet would bless Mother of the Poor for following his example and sharing with those less fortunate.” “Take the money, Umm Abraha,” Mother of the Poor said. “It may prevent you from stealing tomorrow. Thievery is a great risk for a widowed mother. If you lose your hands, who will care for your babies?” Bilal’s voice tolled, summoning Believers to Friday prayer services. The clamor of voices and tramp of feet past the tent almost drowned out Umm Abraha’s tearful thanks and our good-byes to her and her son. Mother of the Poor ducked out of the tent and I followed, stopping first at the entryway to bid Umm Abraha farewell once more. Our gazes met, and I saw, beneath the gratitude in her eyes, a look of determination so fierce it took me aback. “Tell the Mother of the Poor that I will repay her,” she said. A smile passed over her lips like a shadow. “And not by thieving. When I have recovered from this illness, I will find work, by al-Lah!” I returned her smile, although I doubted her words. What kind of work could she do in Medina? For an unmarried woman with no family to support her and no skills, two prospects were available: begging and prostitution. From what I’d seen, Umm Abraha was too proud to beg, and too devout to sell her body. Guilt panged me as I joined Mother of the Poor outdoors and we began to walk through the tent city back toward the mosque. How selfish I’d been these years in the mosque with Muhammad, moping about my own hunger while others in my backyard faced starvation every day! My struggles for power and freedom seemed petty compared with the tent-dwellers’ constant struggle for food and shelter. I would never complain again. And from now on, when I heard others denigrate the tent people as I’d once done, I’d make sure to tell them of the pride and dignity I’d witnessed today. As we wound our way among the small lean-tos and rude tents, men and women shouted their blessings to Umm al-Masakin. She nodded to them, calling out that she would see them all tomorrow. I said nothing, for who knew when I would return to this place? A shirtless girl ran up and tugged at Umm al-Masakin’s robe. She was six or seven years old and she wore a skirt full of rips and holes. Her hair was cut short, reminding me of myself on my wedding day. “Yaa Mother of the Poor, will you give me some barley?” the girl said, her dark eyes bold. “Ahlan, Bisar, what happened to all your hair?” Umm al-Masakin said. “Lice,” the girl said. “But I don’t care. I like my hair better this way.” I laughed, remembering how I’d wished my cropped hair would never grow long again. “Can I have some barley?” she said. “I’m hungry.” “I’m sorry, I gave the last of my barley to Umm Abraha,” Umm al-Masakin said. “Go and see her. She has enough to share. Tomorrow I will come back with more—and with some clothing for you, little one.” The child began to run toward the tent, but I called out to her and she returned. “No girl should be without a wrapper,” I said—and, with a heart so full I thought it might burst, removed my wrapper and draped it around her shoulders and head. “You don’t want the sun to burn your tender skin.” “Yaa Bisar, take good care of that garment,” Umm al-Masakin said. “I will bring you clothes that fit you tomorrow, and you can return it to me then.” “No, I will come back for it,” I said. Mother of the Poor turned her eyes to me, questioning, and I dipped my head. “If you’ll allow me to accompany you here again, Umm al-Masakin.” Her delighted smile was my answer. When the girl had run gleefully away, billowing my wrapper behind her, my sister-wife shook her head at me.
The Jewel of Medina by Sherry Jones
Synopsis Born A'isha bint Abi Bakr in seventh century Arabia, she would become the favorite wife of the Prophet Muhammad, and one of the most revered women in the Muslim faith. Married at the age of nine, The Jewel of Medina illuminates the difficult path A'isha confronted, from her youthful dreams of becoming a Bedouin warrior, to her life as the beloved wife and confidant of the founder of Islam. Extensively researched and elegantly crafted, The Jewel of Medina presents the beauty and harsh realities of life in an age long past, during a time of war, enlightenment, and upheaval. At once a love story, a history lesson, and a coming-of-age tale, The Jewel of Medina provides humanizing glimpses into the origins of the Islamic faith, and the nature of love, through the eyes of a truly unforgettable heroine.
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