By Kamran Pasha
Deep within the center of seventh-century Arabia, a brand new prophet named Muhammad has arisen. As his message of enlightenment sweeps via Arabia and unifies the warring tribes, his younger spouse Aisha recounts Muhammad's remarkable transformation from prophet to warrior to statesman. yet simply after the instant of her husband's maximum triumph -- the conquest of the holy urban of Mecca -- Muhammad falls ailing and dies in Aisha's hands. a tender widow, Aisha reveals herself on the middle of the hot Muslim empire and turns into by way of turns a instructor, political chief, and warrior. Written in attractive prose and meticulously researched, mom of the Believer is the tale of a rare girl who used to be destined to aid usher Islam into the realm.
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Additional info for Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam
Those who thought they could encompass His grand plan with their puny calculations were always humbled. Turning a corner in the walled district of Mecca where many of the chieftains of the city lived, he found himself looking out past the hills that surrounded the desert valley to Mount Hira—the place where God had spoken to a man, even as He did to Moses at Mount Sinai to the north. The mountain, which soared two thousand feet above the desert floor, tapered into a rocky plateau, at the pinnacle of which was hidden a tiny cave.
And then they began to laugh and mock the Prophet, who had ordered them to obey a boy whose voice had only recently hardened, whose cheeks were still without a beard. I looked across the room to see Ali’s father, the Prophet’s uncle Abu Talib, bow his gray head in shame, as the lords heaped abuse on his son and nephew. ” Talha shook his head in dismay. He ran his hand through his dark curls as if trying to pull off the cobweb of despair that had suddenly fallen on him. “So now they know. ” Abu Bakr nodded.
I write this for you, because I know I am dying. I do not complain, for there are times I wished I had died many years ago or, better yet, had never been born. My heart looks at the trees, whose life consists of no more than dreams of the sun and memories of the rain, and I envy them. There are times when I wish I were one of the rocks that line the hills beyond Medina, ignored and forgotten by those who tread upon them. You will protest, I am sure. How could I, Aisha the daughter of Abu Bakr, the most famed woman of her time, wish to trade in my glorious memories for the sleep of the deaf and the dumb of the earth?