The Caliph's Daughter

By Leila Hilal

Biography of the Prophet's widow Hafsa, who found herself in a unique role, guardian of the manuscript of the Quran until it could be published in book form. She was confidant of her father, Umar, the second Caliph, and had an inside view of the development of the Islamic State. Her life with the Prophet's other widows gave her an intimate view of the position of women in early Muslim society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780244391744

Book preview

The Caliph's Daughter

The Caliph’s Daughter

By Leila Hilal

Epigraphs

‘Othman sent a message to Hafsa: Send us the parchments so that we may copy them into bound books and then return them to you.  So Hafsa sent them to Othman.’

Sahih of Al-Bukhari, Book 61, Chapter 3.

‘These Arabs, to whom God has, for the present, given the empire of the world, are also, as you know, very close to us. Not only do they not attack the Christian religion, but they praise our faithfulness and honour the Lord’s priests and the saints, and accord their favour to the churches and monasteries.’

Catholicos Ishoyahb III, letter written 647, in the third year of the Caliphate of Othman.

‘The radiocarbon analysis … dated the parchment - which contains parts of chapters 18 to 20 written in Hijazi script – to between AD 568 and 645 with 95.4 per cent accuracy. And that dates the leaves close to the time of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). Though some scholars thought that the Quran copies written and gathered at the time of Abu-Bakr were burnt and no longer existed, some others believed that was not the case. I believe this manuscript is the root of Islam and will be a revolution in studying Islam.’

Jamal bin Huwaireb, managing director of the Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum Foundation, speaking to Khaleej Times about the Birmingham parchments, 2015.

Chapter 1

Monday began hopefully when the Prophet*[1] came to the door of Aisha’s cabin to salute those present in the Mosque for the dawn prayer[2]. Ever since the direction of prayer had changed from Jerusalem to Mecca, this door had been in front of the worshippers on their left instead of behind them on the right, and many anxious glances had turned that way in recent days. It was the only entrance from the Mosque to the Precinct, where the Prophet* and his family lived, apart from the door to the Parchment Room at the other end of the East wall.

After worship, his wives greeted him and then left him lying with his head in the lap of Aisha, his youngest wife. They had agreed that he be moved from Maimouna’s cabin, where he had been taken ill, to Aisha’s, which had the advantage of ease of access to the Mosque. Her father Abu-Bakr, who had been leading the prayers, looked in and decided he could safely go home for the morning. Only the Prophet’s* daughter, Fatima and Aisha were left alone with the sick man. It was moving to see these two bitter enemies united in grief.

The heat became hard to bear. It would soon be the summer solstice and there was little shade under the south wall of the Precinct, where the wives were sitting. Suddenly Aisha and Fatima began to wail. Hafsa and the others understood at once that they were now widows, and they took up the cries, which spread swiftly across Medina like ripples on a pond. They pressed into the little cabin, peering down at the dead man. Aisha had removed the heavy bandage from his head, and death had transformed him. All the lines of pain and worry had been smoothed away from his face, leaving an expression of deep peace and indeed bliss.

The noon worship had just finished, led by Hafsa’s father, Omar. Suddenly everybody was shouting or wailing. The widows heard Omar’s powerful voice rising above the din, calling on people to keep calm. In an attempt to prevent panic, he roared: ‘The Prophet* isn’t dead. He’ll soon be back.’ Abu-Bakr arrived, breathless, and went straight to Aisha’s cabin, where he saw at once that the end had come. He kissed the forehead of the deceased, then went out and clapped his hands for silence. People strained to hear him saying: ‘The Prophet* has truly passed away, according to the will of the Almighty. It is written: Muhammad is only a messenger, and the messengers before him have passed away. If he dies or is killed, will you turn on your heels?[3]’ Hafsa felt embarrassed for her father, who had failed to remember this verse from the time of the Battle of Uhud, when the Prophet* had been badly wounded.

The afternoon was chaotic. All over Medina people were discussing the enormous change in their circumstances. Muhammad* had been everything – not only the Prophet, but Commander in Chief, Law-giver, Chief Justice, Treasurer, as well as friend and confidant, ever ready to listen to anybody. He had also been the head of the Meccans, whose presence was not always welcome to the native Medinans, even the Muslims among them. Now, suddenly all these roles needed to be filled.

Umm-Salama was the first to leave Aisha’s crowded cabin to get back to her children. Then the other eight newly widowed ‘Mothers of the Faithful’ left in twos and threes, Hafsa and Aisha being the last to go, when Ali, the Prophet’s* cousin and son-in-law, arrived to send home his wife Fatima, who had spent the whole afternoon bowed in grief over her father.

After the sunset worship the temperature at last became bearable, and conversations went on far into the night. The widows brought their beds – leather stuffed with straw - out of their cabins to sleep under the stars. Aisha, whose bed was occupied by the deceased, stretched out beside Hafsa on a rug borrowed from Sauda, who had always been like a mother to the two young women.

Hafsa spent a sleepless night thinking of her terrible loss. Widowed a first time at nineteen, she was now a widow again at twenty-seven. No longer would her husband come to bring news and exchange views, nor would he spend the occasional night with her, and now she could not hope ever to bear a child. The Quran had forbidden the Prophet’s wives ever to remarry, and it had decreed that they, alone among women, must not speak to a man outside their family except from behind a curtain (hijab) or veil. Hafsa was fortunate to have at least her father and brothers but she might lose them too. She foresaw a lonely old age, and it would be little consolation that she would be revered as one of the Mothers of the Faithful. She watched the full moon move across the sky until it disappeared behind the Mosque, to set as the sun rose.

On Tuesday the mourners came. They found that the body had already been washed and dressed for burial by Ali, helped by Abbas, who was uncle to both him and the Prophet*. All day long, people squeezed into the tiny cabin to pay their respects to the deceased. Aisha spent the time with the other widows, sheltering from the sun in what shade there was. Hafsa went over to the house of Umm-Salama, whose children always gave her pleasure. Fatima’s sons - the Prophet’s* grandsons - Hassan aged seven and Hussein aged six, were there too, and so were their little sisters, Zeinab and Umm-Kulthoum, but their mother had shut herself away in her house, despite the stifling heat. It was comforting to be with young people, who were carrying on normally with their life in this terrible time.

When Hafsa went home after the evening worship, she found herself alone, as Aisha was with Sauda. She lay down but again was unable to sleep. The light of the moon poured down. She was disturbed by men’s voices from Aisha’s cabin, then sounds like those of pick-axe and shovel. This was unbelievable. They must be digging a grave under Aisha’s floor. There seemed no other possible explanation. Poor Aisha! Was her cabin to be her husband’s tomb? Well, at least that would place her above all the other Mothers of the Faithful. A pang of jealousy pinched Hafsa’s heart. Then slowly a plan formed in her mind.

On Wednesday morning, when the disk of the moon was hidden behind the wall of the Mosque and before the first hint of daylight crept into the sky, Hafsa did something extraordinary. She took up her bed, carried it past the sleeping Mothers of the Faithful and set it down outside the door of the Parchment Room, which was built against the far end of the same east wall of the Mosque. Then she went back for her curtain, her prayer-mat, her basin, her jewel box, a water-skin and a bag of dried dates, placed them in the room, and sat down to wait for dawn. She did not dare bring her lamp; oil, flame and parchment do not go well together.

As daylight seeped in through the small windows high on the north side, Hafsa looked in awe at the contents of the room. There were three long shelves on the north wall. On the bottom shelf were assorted loose sheets of parchment, a jar of reed pens, a dried-up ink-well and a couple of sharp knives. On the middle shelf lay fourteen bundles of parchments, tied with ribbons. On the top shelf there were, on the right, seven more bundles, on the left, one bundle, the Constitution of Medina and, in between, a few treaties. These two shelves held all of the Holy Quran, dictated over more than twenty years to a succession of scribes. Above them hung a board of precious wood from Abyssinia, donated by Umm-Salama, on which was written the Opening Sura, the first chapter of the Quran.

A low table stood on the floor, with a cushion on either side. This was where Hafsa had so often sat with the Prophet*, reading the parchments to him and helping to put the suras in order. It was she who had tied the bundles with her ribbons. This was also where Zayd and other scribes had taken dictation, when one of them was called in from the Mosque, but little had been added in the past year. She checked that the flimsy bolt was in place on the door into the Mosque and decided it needed a proper lock.

The Muezzin called, and Hafsa joined the others by the south wall of the Precinct for the dawn worship, led as usual by Umm-Salama. Afterwards Aisha came up to Hafsa and said: ‘I couldn’t sleep