I, Abdallah ibn al-Zubayr, add these closing words to my beloved aunt’s account of her life. It has been over a decade since the death of Aisha bint Abu Bakr, but I still remember her final moments as if they were yesterday. As her kinsman, I was one of the few men living who could look upon her face, which was still remarkably beautiful and largely untouched by the ravages of time. Her skin was still pale and soft like a baby’s, with only a few lines to mar her statuesque features. Even though she was nearly seventy years of age, her golden eyes were still vibrant and filled with life, as well as a hint of the sorrow that she had carried with her since the Battle of the Camel.
The final illness had been hard on her, her fingers cracking with pain, and yet she somehow managed to finish this record, driven by some need within her to tell her tale before others told it for her. When she finished the book, she gave it to me and then retired to her apartment, from which she would never emerge again. As her illness took hold of her, my mother, Asma, and I spent the final hours at her side, even as thousands of believers, both men and women, gathered outside the Masjid to pray for her recovery.
I remember how frightened she looked as the moment of death approached, and it was deeply painful for me to see a woman who had always been so strong curled up in terror like a child. I reminded her that she had nothing to fear, that she was the beloved of the Beloved of God, and that whatever mistakes she had made would be forgiven. And yet she seemed oblivious to my words, and she muttered over and over again, “Astaghfirullah”-“I seek the pardon of God.”
And then, as the sun began to set and the sky turned the crimson hue that had once been the color of her hair, I saw Aisha’s breath slow and I knew that the time had come. My mother, Asma, her elder sister, took Aisha’s hand in hers and squeezed reassuringly.
And then I heard the wind rise outside and the heavy curtains that hung on my aunt’s door began to rustle. And for an instant, I could have sworn that I heard a voice tinkling through the veil. A gentle voice that called out the name given to Aisha by the Messenger of God.
Humayra.
It was a name that had not been spoken aloud since Muhammad’s death, may God’s blessings and peace be upon him. Perhaps I imagined it, but if I did so, I was not alone. My aunt stirred upon hearing the voice in the wind. And it was as if the memory of joy returned to her, for Aisha’s fearful prayers stopped. She looked across the room, to the curtained section of her apartment where the Prophet, my grandfather, Abu Bakr, and the Caliph Umar were buried.
And then I saw her smile, her face as radiant as that of a girl on her wedding night, and she spoke to someone whom neither my mother nor I could see.
“My love…” Aisha said.
And she was gone.
We buried her in Jannat al-Baqi, the cemetery that is now the resting place of most of those who knew and lived beside the Messenger of God. With Aisha’s passing, there were few left on earth who had seen and spoken with our beloved Prophet, and all that was left were the accounts of his life, the hadith, they had so meticulously related for future generations.
Over the past ten years much has changed, and not for the better. By the grace of God, the Muslim empire continues to grow and now stretches from Kairouan in North Africa to the Indus River. Constantinople still stands, but the Muslims remain committed to taking the seat of Christendom. For now, we are content to control the islands of Rhodes and Crete, from where the believers will expand into the northern realms of the Romans, insha-Allah, if God wills.
Yet even as our empire eclipses those of Alexander and Caesar, there is a growing sickness at its heart. For since the death of Ali, whom, I am ashamed to say, I fought against in my youth, the spiritual core of the Muslim leadership has been replaced by men of cunning and zeal but questionable morals. The Caliph Muawiya succeeded in bringing order and prosperity after years of civil war, and his rule was for the most part benign and wise. And yet under his command, practicality and expediency became the primary motivators in dealing with affairs of state, and the ideals of our Holy Prophet degenerated into mere platitudes on the lips of corrupt governors. I grieve to say that the Muslims now fight for wealth and glory rather than in pursuit of justice and a better world for mankind.
I did not object to the rule of Muawiya in his lifetime, and I prayed for him upon his death. And yet he, who was famed as the great uniter of the Muslim nation, made one terrible mistake that would plunge our Ummah into its second civil war. In the final years of Muawiya’s life, the love of fatherhood overcame his wisdom. The Caliph appointed his hated son Yazid to succeed him, a youth who was better known for drinking and carousing than for statesmanship, and many among the Muslims were horrified. Muawiya had taken great pains as a leader to publicly uphold the laws of Islam and respect for the Prophet, but his worthless son now openly used his inherited throne to engage in debauchery and composed blasphemous poems denying the truth of the holy Qur’an.
And then it was that my friend and master Husayn, the last surviving grandson of the Messenger of God, rebelled against Yazid’s tyranny. The most beloved of the Prophet’s household left the safety of Medina and went to Iraq, as his father Ali had done. He hoped to garner support from the people to stand against this dark cloud that sought to block the light of God from illuminating the Ummah. And then the greatest of tragedies occurred, for at the small town of Karbala, Yazid’s forces fell upon the tiny band of seventy-two worshipers led by the Prophet’s grandson. They slaughtered these holy men, who had sought only to remind the Muslims that wielding power without faith would corrupt and destroy us, as it had done to every empire in history.
My master Husayn was beheaded, and most of his family was killed, including his infant son, Abdallah. Even as I write these words, the pages are stained with my tears, for I could not have imagined that men who called themselves Muslim could have laid hands upon Husayn, the boy whom the Prophet had carried on his shoulders, the man in whose blood the blessing of the Revelation still ran.
Husayn’s tragic death lit a fire that still burns today. When I saw how the reprobate Yazid had treated the Messenger’s grandson, I lifted my head in Mecca and denounced his regime. With none of the Prophet’s bloodline left to lead-Husayn’s one surviving son, Ali Zain al-Abideen, was being held hostage in Damascus and had been forced to renounce politics-I proclaimed a new caliphate that would return to the moral example set by the Messenger and his first four successors, who were now being called the Rightly Guided Caliphs.
My rebellion in Mecca has brought down the wrath of the Umayyad army, and although my men have resisted bravely for seven months, I fear that the city will soon be conquered by Yazid’s forces. Led by his monstrous general, al-Hajjaj ibn Yusuf, they have ruthlessly breached the boundaries of the holy city and have besieged even the Sanctuary with their catapults. They have shown neither mercy to the people nor reverence for the holy sites, and my heart grieves to write that this morning the warriors rained down fiery debris upon the center of the city, and the Holy Kaaba itself has been set aflame.
It is clear that the forces of Yazid will take Mecca before the sun falls and I will be killed soon thereafter. With my death, only my mother Asma remains of the generation of the Sahaba, the Companions who lived alongside the Messenger of God. She is nearly ninety years old, but she stubbornly clings to life, even as she stubbornly stood beside the Prophet, her father Abu Bakr, and her sister Aisha, in the cause of justice so long ago.
The battle is lost today. But as I gaze out at the burning ruins of the Sacred House, I realize that the war will continue long after I and all those who knew the Messenger have passed away. For the fight is no longer between pagans and believers in the one God. That argument has been settled forever. The new war is now between those who fight for the religion of love and justice that Muhammad taught and those who hide behind the trappings of Islam to commit murder and atrocity.
And though I grieve that there are some who will always twist the Word of God to justify their crimes, I cannot hold myself above them, for even the righteous can fall victim to that temptation. My aunt Aisha allowed the passions of her heart to consume her in her conflict with Ali, as did good men like Talha and my father Zubayr. And as did I on that tragic field at Basra. But unlike these marauders who cloak themselves in the name of Islam today, we were wise enough to recognize our mistakes and repent of the fitna, the chaos, we caused.
And if there is one thing that I have learned in Islam, one principle that gives me hope on this sad day as the holy city burns all around me, it is this. That God is Merciful and Compassionate and accepts the sincere repentance of His servants. That no matter how far they fall into darkness, He is always prepared to lead them back to light.
And it is that knowledge that gives me hope for my people. For no matter how many false preachers arise to spread death and corruption in the name of Islam, the true message of our beloved teacher Muhammad ibn Abdallah, the Prophet of God, will never be lost. The message of unity and love for all mankind.
And so, as my life draws to a close, I will take these writings of my beloved aunt Aisha, Mother of the Believers, and bury them deep beneath the sands of Mecca, hoping that they will be uncovered one day when their message will be most needed.
If you have found them, dear reader, then it means that day is today.
Peace be upon you. And may the blessings of God be upon our holy Prophet Muhammad, and upon his family and his Companions.
Amen.