Kader Abdolah

The Messenger

A Tale Retold

Translated from the Dutch by Niusha and Nouri Nighting

World Editions

breda 2016

Published in Great Britain in 2016 by World Editions Ltd., London

www.worldeditions.org

Copyright © Kader Abdolah 2008

English translation copyright © Niusha and Nouri Nighting, 2016

Cover design Multitude

Image credit © Polina Plotnikova/Getty Images

The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published as De boodschapper in the Netherlands in 2008 by De Geus bv, po Box 1878, 4801 bw Breda

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

isbn 978-94-6238-016-5

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Dutch Literary Foundation.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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1 Zayd, the Chronicler

Kindly let me introduce myself, my name is Zayd ibn Thalith.

I was the chronicler of the messenger Muhammad, his personal scribe.

The messenger did not have a son of his own. He adopted me when I was about seven years old.

Everyone called me Zayd ibn Muhammad—Zayd, the son of Muhammad.

I must have been five years old when my mother took me to visit family in the city of Ta’if.

I do not actually remember anything about that trip, but many years later my mother told me about the journey, ‘We rode through the desert in a caravan of twelve camels. I always had you on my lap. High up on the saddle, you sat still and took in the surroundings, but whenever the caravan stopped to rest, I had difficulty keeping you with me. You ran in every direction and went off with anybody who asked. At the marketplace in Ta’if, you pulled your hand loose from mine and disappeared behind a stand. I ran after you but couldn’t find you. I looked behind other stands—no Zayd. I cried, shouted for you, ran back and forth, but you were nowhere to be found. When the market day ended, and everybody had gone, I was left there … alone and empty handed. I didn’t dare go home to your father. I had lost his favourite son.’

Thus you understand that I, Zayd, was stolen, but I am not sure how it happened. I cannot remember my mother or that marketplace either. But I do have a clear image of myself exposed and dirty, squatting in a cage with other naked boys like a pack of monkeys.

I later heard I was sold from one person to another for two years.

When I was seven years old, a small-time slave owner from Mecca purchased me at the market in Jandal and took me home with him.

This merchant’s name was Hakim ibn Hizam. His belly was big and round.

From that moment on, I can remember almost everything; it was a turning point in my life.

I knew I originally came from Mecca, and I kept hoping I would run into my parents on the street or at the slave market. I recited their names under my breath the entire day, lest I forget them.

My father’s name was Sabit bin Sharasil.

My mother’s name was Sadi bint Salab.

I dreamt of the moment I would see my mother at the marketplace and shout, ‘Sadi bint Salab, it’s me, your son Zayd!’

Though the mother and father I had imagined would not be the same in reality. Besides, they would never recognize me. I had changed so much. The sun had baked my skin a deep shade of brown.

Yet, nothing is as unpredictable as fate.

The slave owner Hakim ibn Hizam took me home and let me loose in his courtyard, much like you would a wild goat. Shortly afterwards, I was allowed to set foot in the house.

On the very first day, I heard a loud knocking, and my master shouted, ‘Zayd, open the door!’

Of course, I did what was asked of me. An older woman came inside. I thought she was my master’s wife.

‘What do we have here?’ she kindly said.

I stared at her in silence.

Then she asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘His name is Zayd,’ my master shouted from his workroom, ‘I bought him at the market in Jandal.’

The woman was my master’s aunt. They talked for a while, and when she came out of his office she said, ‘Come along, you’re going with me.’

I looked at my master questioningly. ‘You’re in luck, Zayd. My aunt doesn’t have a son, and she just bought you. She’s your new owner now. Her name is Khadija. Be a good boy.’

Khadija grabbed my hand, and we went on our way.

Although I was only a child, I immediately sensed I had ended up somewhere wonderful. In comparison to other houses in Mecca, Khadija lived in a small palace. She had me wash and change my clothes. I became a person again, a normal boy.

As evening approached, her husband arrived home.

‘Look! I have a surprise for you,’ she said, pointing at me smiling.

Her husband’s name was Muhammad ibn Abdullah. Many years later, he would become the messenger of Allah.

The next morning Muhammad shouted, ‘Zayd, time to go!’

He was my new master. So of course I did not ask where we were going. I just followed along behind him.

I had no idea he was intent on finding my parents.

And, as fate would have it, he actually found them. They could not believe their eyes. Was I really their son? So tall, so well groomed, dressed in such fine clothing. My mother was clutching the wall for support, speechless from the shock. My father dropped to the floor at Muhammad’s feet to thank him, but Muhammad graciously helped him up.

I spent a week in my father’s small, ramshackle house, but on Friday he brought me back to Muhammad and said, ‘His destiny is in your hands. If he’s happy, we’re happy.’

That is how I became Muhammad’s son.

Khadija was Muhammad’s first wife.

She taught me to read and write, but Muhammad was my master. I shadowed his every move, until the day he died.

All those years, I never thought about why I stayed with him.

In hindsight, however, I do understand. I had a passion for poetry, and I could completely lose myself in the tales Muhammad told.

When he began his mission as the messenger, my life completely changed as well. Unless he sent me off somewhere, I never left his side.

Whenever a text was revealed to him, he shuddered uncontrollably, dropped to his knees, knelt pressing his head to the ground like a horse, and uttered incoherent words.

We were usually alone when this happened, and of course it was frightening the first few times. I did not know what to do, so I rushed off to get Khadija.

As time passed, I did this less and less. I realized it was my task to stay by Muhammad’s side. I needed to work out how best to handle the situation.

I would patiently wait as he received a revelation, until he collapsed on the ground, exhausted. Then I quickly covered him with a blanket and let him rest.

By the time Muhammad died, I was a grown man. My hair was black, but my moustache was already streaked with grey.

I was still deep in mourning when a rider on a brown Arabian horse stopped at my gate.

‘Zayd,’ the man cried. Umar had sent his courier.

I did not hesitate. I knew why I was being summoned. I mounted my horse and went with him.

After Muhammad, Umar was the most important leader of Islam. When Muhammad died, Umar was the one who took over the reins. He was also a shrewd leader and a ruthless warlord.

I knelt before him in a cold sweat.

‘Zayd ibn Thalith!’ Umar exclaimed, ‘Muhammad is gone, yet we don’t have his revelations. Gather up his texts. Now! It’s a matter of urgency.’

I knew Umar well, he knew me, no other words were necessary.

I kissed the back of his hand, went outside, jumped on my horse, and rushed out of town into the countryside. I was so overjoyed with the task bestowed upon me, I had trouble finding my way home.

That night I could not sleep. Oh, what a splendid night, what a magnificent undertaking! How best to proceed now? I had witnessed the revelation of some of his texts myself. However, I would have to rely on the memory of his followers for the rest.

I went over to the open window and gazed at the boundless, clear night sky above the desert.

I, Zayd ibn Thalith, would be the one to commit the words of the Qur’an to writing.

A man who receives such an honour must fight back tears not to die of happiness.

As soon as the first rays of light struck my window, I packed my bags and saddled my horse.

And I set out to fulfil my glorious task!

2 In Search of the Qur’an

First, I visited Muhammad’s wives. They kindly gave me verses that had been written down long ago, embroidered on their nightgowns, and engraved in precious gold coins.

‘Is there nothing more?’ I asked.

Aisha, the beautiful, young, redheaded widow of Muhammad unlatched a gold pendant and handed it to me. Finely engraved on the back were the words:

‘He holds up the stars lest they fall to the ground …’

I then travelled day and night looking for other texts in all corners of the realm.

I listened and noted down everything I came across.

After seven months, I returned with three camels weighed down with parchments inscribed with Qur’an texts, broad camel bones and pieces of wood carved with verses, and cloth colourfully embroidered with the words of the Qur’an.

Back home, I went into my room and shut the door behind me. I did not set foot outside for a year, until I had completed the Qur’an.

When I had finished, the sun shone in my heart. I put on clean clothing and my best leather shoes. I tucked the brand new Book under my arm and rode like a prince to Umar’s house.

I knelt before him and proudly said, ‘The Qur’an!’

I had accomplished my task.

3 Umar, the Second Successor to Muhammad

However, it was not that simple.

Those who objected to my Qur’an voiced their opinions. They represented six powerful Islamic movements, each with a different interpretation of Muhammad’s teachings. They claimed I had written my own Qur’an, which had nothing to do with Muhammad’s original tellings.

It was not my place to speak on the matter. It was Umar’s decision.

Unity was necessary in those days.

Umar decided that the Qur’an I had compiled would not be made public but would be kept within the circles of power as a foundation—as a source of inspiration.

Later, when Umar was killed and Uthman succeeded him, the discussion about this Qur’an flared up again.

Early one morning, representatives of the six powerful Islamic movements appeared at Uthman’s gate. Their camels were loaded down with writings.

Uthman had the camels led into the walled courtyard. Then the gate was locked behind them.

The camels were unloaded and the writings stacked in piles. ‘Zayd, go through it all, add what’s necessary and remove what’s unnecessary. Take all the time you need!’ said Uthman. And off he went.

I was busy with these excerpts and texts for the longest time. On a few occasions, I visited experts to consult with them. Finally the day arrived when I could let Uthman know the work was done. Uthman came to me. A carpet was rolled out in the courtyard, and a lantern was fetched.

Uthman ordered everybody out of the house.

I took a seat behind a low writing table, opened my Qur’an and handed Uthman a list of remarks related to points I was still doubting about.

He took a seat and attentively went through my list. Then he came and sat beside me on the carpet. He dictated a few sentences and indicated with his finger where I needed to add these to the Book. And I followed his instructions.

It was a long night of thinking; I was drenched in sweat.

Then I suddenly got the most wonderful idea. I had written down the texts one after the other, in no particular order. It occurred to me that the texts would be clearer if I divided them into one hundred and fourteen parts: the Qur’an in one hundred and fourteen suras, or chapters. And what if I gave each chapter a title? ‘The Table’; ‘The Bees’; ‘The Four Feet’; ‘The Women’; ‘Maryam’ and so on—that would make it even clearer.

However, something was still missing, but what? Again, I had an inspiration; something magical happened. I discovered a non-existent letter, a character without any meaning—an insignificant mark, a dot, a small star.

I placed that dot, or that small star at the end of every sentence. It was unbelievable. Somehow, those insignificant marks conveyed so much. They created clarity, insight, and joy. I then added one hundred and fourteen titles and thousands of small stars to the text.

The Qur’an is from Allah.

The order, the titles, the stars and dots in the Qur’an are my doing, are from Zayd—the chronicler, the scribe.

With the new Qur’an in his hand, light-headed with happiness, Uthman extinguished the lantern and said, ‘Zayd! We’re done! Destroy the rest.’

‘Destroy?’ I asked him.

‘Burn everything!’ he ordered.

At dawn the next day, Uthman appeared in the courtyard to inspect the smouldering ashes.

Seven horsemen carried the Qur’an—veiled in sheer green fabric—to the mosque. They gently placed the Book on a pedestal.

Uthman drew his sword and laid it on the Book: ‘Here you have the Qur’an!’

No one dared utter a word.

Everyone could now pay homage to the Book.

4 The Life of Muhammad

When I started gathering up the texts of the Qur’an, I realized something important: you cannot understand the Qur’an without having a good understanding of Muhammad.

I myself discovered a new Muhammad while working on the Book.

I originally saw him as a dreamer, as a man who truly enjoyed life—with a passion for women—and as a leader who took incredible risks.

Yet, once I started transcribing his words, I saw him as a person, an inquiring individual. Before that, I had always regarded him as a father, my master, a warlord, and a prophet. Muhammad the man was my discovery and that is what I wanted to share with the world.

I knew that later on people would add a lot to his life story, and perhaps others would leave out a lot. So I said to myself, ‘Zayd! Set down Muhammad’s life in writing.’

In Umar’s day—when he had kept the Qur’an I compiled from the public—I had packed my bags, mounted my horse, and set out again, but this time to collect untold stories about Muhammad’s life. And I had expected this momentous task to take me until the end of my days.

To find out more about Muhammad’s younger years, I had to return to the Mecca of the past—to the place where he was born.

Allow me to tell you something about the practices and circumstances of the Mecca of his youth. Particularly about the Kaaba, where the idols were kept.

In fact, Muhammad’s life was characterized by a single dream. He wanted to smash the idols and purify the Kaaba, to bestow it on Allah as a sanctuary.

Therefore, if I am going to talk about Muhammad, I should probably begin with the Kaaba and its idols. Or perhaps even better, with the city of Mecca.

5 Mecca

Mecca was a centre of trade. Three hundred and sixty-five idols were kept in the Kaaba. These graven images were made of stone and wood, decorated with fabric, and painted in gold and joyful colours.

There were also a few large effigies on the Kaaba Square.

The Persian Empire was our eastern neighbour. The Persians had already been monotheistic for a few thousand years; they had one God called Ahura Mazda. Zarathustra was their prophet, and their sacred Book was called the Avesta.

The Byzantine Empire was our western neighbour. The Byzantines were also monotheistic; they had one God and one prophet, who was called Isa or Jesus. They also had a sacred Book: the Injil or Gospel of Isa.

The population of Mecca consisted of many clans and tribes, and each had their own idols. All these idols had been given a place in the cube-shaped building known as the Kaaba.

Nobody really knows who made the Kaaba. It is an ancient structure that has always served as a place of worship.

We do know that the ancient prophet Ibrahim once placed a large, mysterious black stone in a wall of the Kaaba. We believe this stone fell from the heavens and that Isma‘il, the prophet Ibrahim’s son, found it.

Ibrahim used this divine rock as a cornerstone for the Kaaba. We call it al-Hajar al-Aswad, the Black Stone.

We do not know much more about the history of the Kaaba, although some people believe Ibrahim was also the maker of the Kaaba.

We were desert dwellers, a people who lagged behind civilized nations that had one God and one Book. That is why Muhammad wanted to clear out the idols and give the Kaaba to one God, a God who inhabited the Seventh Level of Heaven. The God of Muhammad called Allah, which means: He is One.

It was always very busy on the Kaaba Square on Fridays. People then came to offer sacrifices to their idols.

Muhammad refused to show his face there. But one night, when I was still a child, I went to the Kaaba on my own. I secretly peered inside from behind a thick black curtain. In the semi-darkness, the damp, warm air filled with sweet scents engulfed me. Candles burned in large holders, their light reflecting in the gold and silver. The flickering light and shadows made the idols look big and scary. People bowed down to lay their offerings at the feet of the statues. This was forbidden territory for a child, yet I slipped through the curtain into the room. In the darkness, I crept along the idols, touching their glittering garments and golden swords. Then, an old man caught me in the act. He grabbed me by the ear and sent me on my way.

6 The Distribution of Power in Mecca

At that time in Mecca, the hierarchy of power was as follows:

Idols

Slave owners

Wealthy merchants

Jews

Camels

Men

Male slaves

Female slaves

Goats

Women

The slave owners put their slaves to work on farms and in the desert. And they sold the children of their slaves to the merchants.

The camel was the symbol of prosperity. The more camels someone had, the more wealth and power he possessed. The wealthy merchants sometimes had hundreds of camels and countless numbers of people working for them. Their caravans were loaded with goods brought from the Byzantine Empire, which were then transported to the eastern borders to be exchanged with the wares of Persian merchants.

The Jews traded textiles and gold. Besides their trading activities, they earned piles of dirty money charging interest on loans. Moreover, the Jews behaved arrogantly because they had a Holy Book. They felt superior and looked down on others.

Women were treated like animals. Every wealthy man had twenty, sometimes as many as thirty wives at home. They also owned countless numbers of female slaves, and when they were away from home, they took pleasure in the company of loose women.

The female slaves had more power than ordinary women had, because they worked hard and were indispensable as farm labour.

The men felt disgraced every time their wives gave birth to a daughter. Those who already had many daughters sacrificed their newborn girls to their idols.

These were the practices when Muhammad was born. His father’s name was Abdullah. He died shortly before Muhammad’s birth.

His mother’s name was Amina. Because she could not breastfeed him, another woman nursed him. When Muhammad was five, his mother died.

His grandfather became his guardian. He died when Muhammad was nine years old, and his eldest uncle took custody of him. Muhammad called him Uncle Talib. Uncle Talib sent Muhammad into the mountains with a herd of goats to earn his keep. Thus, Muhammad became a shepherd.

7 Jahiz, Mecca’s Oldest Market Trader

Uncle Talib, Muhammad’s guardian, was a small-time trader. He had a stand at Mecca’s Friday market. Once Muhammad was older, he no longer had to watch over the goats. Instead, Uncle Talib put Muhammad to work as a runner.

To find out more about those days, I went to see Jahiz bin Ismail, the oldest trader on Mecca’s market. Over the years, he had lost his eyesight. I put this question to him, ‘Jahiz, you’ve spent your entire life here. You saw Muhammad working on the market as a boy. Is there something more you can tell me about him? What was he like, back then, what kinds of goods did he sell?’

‘What can I say about him? It was so long ago,’ Jahiz replied. ‘Muhammad was a shy boy with long, black hair and dark-brown eyes. He quietly stood behind the stall the entire day. If I remember correctly, he sold goods like goat cheese, camel fat, bowls of honey, bunches of dates, bottles of olive oil, dried figs, broad camel bones with iron pins used for writing, sprigs of dried mint, bottled rose water in boxes. And stone statues of idols.

‘Young Muhammad kept a watchful eye over everything.

‘I remember an incident involving an old Jewish merchant next to my stall. He didn’t have a stall of his own but sat on the ground. He sold gold and silver rings and all his customers were women. He actually had a money trade. He provided loans to these women, and they gave him their rings, bracelets, and necklaces as security.

“Jahiz!” Muhammad called to me.

‘It was busy on the market, I had trouble hearing him.

“Jahiz!” he cried again.

“What did you say Muhammad?” I shouted over the crowd.

“That woman,” he replied while pointing to the Jewish merchant.

‘I looked, but nothing unusual struck me.

“Uncle Talib,” Muhammad then called to his uncle, who was talking to some merchants a few stands further.

“What is it?” his uncle asked.

‘Muhammad pointed at the Jewish merchant again. However, his uncle saw nothing unusual either.

“Qasim!” Muhammad cried to a merchant further down.

‘In the meantime, I came out from behind my stall to see what was going on. I saw a woman holding the Jewish merchant’s hand and pleading, “In the name of your prophet Musa. Give me back my ring.”

‘But the man wouldn’t hear of it because the woman hadn’t paid the interest on her loan in time.

‘Suddenly Talib and Qasim also appeared. The three of us hovered over the Jewish merchant, and he was obliged to return the woman’s gold ring—all due to Muhammad’s attentiveness.’

‘Jahiz, do you remember anything else about him from that period?’ I asked.

‘At the marketplace, the poets placed a stool on a busy spot,’ Jahiz related, ‘then they would stand on it to recite their poems. People always gathered around a poet to listen. If they liked a poem, they threw coins. People liked the work of the desert poets best. Their poems told tales of sand; horses; the moon; the sword; snakes; fire; wine, and the ravishingly beautiful, untamed women of the desert. The best poem of the year was written on a large piece of parchment and hung on the left wall of the Kaaba.

‘Muhammad was captivated by these poets; fascinated by poetry.’

What Jahiz told me was consistent with a story I had heard about Muhammad as a youngster from Ibrahim bin Zahiri, a hide trader. This Ibrahim had in turn heard it from his father. It went something like this, ‘The desert poet Abu Rahman recited his new poem. Oh, what a poem! Everyone admired him; everyone threw coins. In a state of rapture, Muhammad removed his new camel-skin coat and tossed it to the poet, as a reward for his eloquent poem.’

8 Sabir, the Scrap Metal Merchant

I had searched far and wide for people who might tell me more about Muhammad in his younger years, but I could not find anybody else.

So when Jahiz mentioned a merchant named Qasim, I got very excited, ‘Jahiz, who was this Qasim, what did he sell, where does he live? Is he even still alive?’

‘Qasim is long dead. He traded metal. He had seven sons and no daughters. That’s why he strolled around the market as proud as a camel with a long neck. Go talk to his eldest son. If I remember correctly, he was the same age as Muhammad.’

‘Where can I find Qasim’s son? Do you know his name?’

‘I’ve never been very good with names. Sometimes I even forget my own name,’ Jahiz said. ‘I think his seven sons are still in the metal trade. Go to the bazaar in Mecca or to the bazaar in Ta’if. Mention the name of Qasim and the number seven; you are certain to find one of his sons.’

I took his advice, and with success.

Qasim’s eldest son was called Sabir. He had a large piece of property on the Ta’if Bazaar and indeed traded metal. His hair was completely grey, but his posture was straight as an arrow.

He received me in the courtyard of his shop, on a bench in the shade of an old olive tree, and had sweetened rose water brought for me.

I am not sure what he expected from my visit but certainly not that I would ask him all about Muhammad, about the distant past when he worked on the market as a boy.

‘Now, there’s a question,’ he said, smiling, as he removed his pipe from his pocket. ‘It’s quite a long time ago. What exactly do you want to know?’

‘Do you have any memories of Muhammad? Something that has stayed with you since that time?’

‘He was different from us,’ Sabir said, and he lit his pipe, ‘we were a ragged bunch of street children; he came from a prominent clan. His grandfather was the keyholder of the Kaaba. Nobody on the market knew me, but all the merchants knew Muhammad. I’m not sure what I can possibly tell you that you don’t already know. I do remember that Muhammad knew many poems by heart.

‘When it was quiet on the market and the merchants gathered together to smoke a water pipe, they’d call on him, “Muhammad, recite a poem!” And though he hardly spoke otherwise, he’d immediately recite something.’

‘Do you remember any of the poems?’

He laughed, ‘What a question. Me? A poem? No. Though I think Muhammad knew all of the poems those market poets recited by heart.’

‘And who were those poets?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not a man of poetry. Nor of poets.’

Given Sabir could not remember the name of even one poet from that time, I went in search of poems by the desert poet Abu Rahman. I discovered the most beautiful love poem:

‘Jamila!

The tawny desert snakes recoil

The deadly scorpions are struck helpless

And the olive trees drop their black fruit

Whenever you, in your pomegranate-coloured dress,

wander past my house

Barefoot in the hot sand.’

9 Bahira, the Holy Monk

When I asked around about Muhammad’s childhood, people often mentioned a meeting between the young Muhammad and an old monk named Bahira.

It is basically a story Muhammad’s followers once told, which has been exaggerated over time.

But Muhammad’s enemies and the Jews in particular said it was a lie, a fantasy designed to place Muhammad among the old prophets Isa, Musa, and Ibrahim.

The Jews could have been right; the story might have been fabricated, but the monk Bahira and his monastery were not made up.

In search of that monastery, I left Mecca early in the morning and rode toward the Red Sea until sundown.

On the way, I stumbled upon an old caravanserai beside a large crossroads, where traders from other cities would stop to rest their camels and sell their wares.

I spent a comfortable night there, in the inn.

Further along, at the foot of the mountains, stood the monastery where Bahira had once lived.

The Christian merchants, who spent the night in this caravanserai in earlier days, always visited the monastery the next day to express their admiration for Bahira. They gathered in front of the monastery door and waited until the monk came outside for a moment.

In the caravanserai, the merchants told me that Bahira spent almost his entire life in the monastery; he did not leave it until the day he died. They considered him a saint, someone who had original parchment writings of the ancient prophets Ibrahim, Musa, and Isa in a closet in his library. They believed he possessed knowledge of age-old secrets.

Bahira was long dead, and I was now staying in that very same caravanserai. At night, I went for a short walk outside. I could see the flickering lights of the monastery in the distance.

At dawn the next day, I rode there. Since Bahira’s death, hardly anyone visited the monastery anymore. From far away, it looked deserted.

I tied up my horse and entered the building.

‘Is anybody here?’ I called a few times, but there was no response.

I continued further.

A nun appeared. I understood that only nuns lived here now and that this nun ran the monastery. Her name was Hajar, and she was already quite old.

She thought I was a Christian merchant who had come to make a donation, so she greeted me respectfully and escorted me to her office. I placed a bag of silver coins on her desk, sat down on a bench and said, ‘Sister Hajar, I’m actually here for another reason. I’m busy gathering information about Muhammad’s life. There’s a story that as a boy of ten or twelve he met the monk Bahira. Some say it’s true. Others insist it was made up to glorify Muhammad. Perhaps you remember something about that meeting?’

The nun put the bag of coins in her desk drawer and wearily said, ‘Muhammad, Muhammad. Why is it always about Muhammad? Quite frankly, we don’t know what to think of him. Fortunately, we live at the foot of the mountains with our backs to Mecca so we are spared the nonsense there. If the young Muhammad ever visited our monastery, certainly I didn’t experience this personally. I was a child at the time. However, there is no doubt that he met Bahira. Nobody knows how this boy ended up travelling with the Christian merchants.

‘Whenever Bahira went outside, a crowd of people always gathered around him to touch his golden staff. One day, amongst the merchants, Bahira saw a boy with black curly hair who didn’t look like a Christian.

“What’s your name, child?” Bahira had asked.

“Muhammad.”

“Which tribe are you from?”

“Quraysh.”

“And your father’s name?”

“Abdullah.”

“Who did you come with?”

“With my uncle.”

“What’s your uncle’s name?”

“Talib.”

‘The monk paused for a moment, then leaned forward to whisper something in Muhammad’s ear.’

‘What might that have been?’ I asked.

‘We never found out,’ she said, ‘but here in the monastery they say Bahira later remarked, “That child had an unusual quality about him.”’

The rest of the story comes from a version the Arabs tell.

Bahira escorted Muhammad inside and invited Uncle Talib to join them. The monk then took Talib aside, talked with him privately, and started leafing through some ancient, secret writings.

No, the monk was not mistaken. Muhammad was the individual whose coming had been foretold. It was clearly stated in one of the secret writings that it would be a boy with the sign of a moon on his left shoulder.

With trembling hands the priest and Uncle Talib lifted Muhammad’s shirt and indeed, to their amazement, they saw a crescent moon on his shoulder.

Bahira blessed Muhammad with his golden cross and whispered in his ear, ‘Take care of yourself.’

This was more than enough proof for the Arabs that Muhammad was the successor to Isa and that he belonged among the prophets Sulayman, Dawud, Musa, and Ibrahim.

10 The Merchant Waraqa Discovers Muhammad

Until he was fifteen, Muhammad worked for Uncle Talib—who fully entrusted his regular stand on the market to him—while each day Talib took his wares by camel along to marketplaces in the surrounding villages.

Later, when Muhammad had outgrown his uncle’s stand, he went to work for some of the bigger traders. He was seventeen when the merchant Waraqa discovered him.

Waraqa had a large storehouse where he sold agricultural equipment to merchants: iron ploughs, shovels, pickaxes, nails, ropes, and stone for construction. There was always new equipment being put on display.

Waraqa was looking for a skilled helper. His brother-in-law, who worked on the market too, told him about Muhammad, ‘He works hard and he’s reliable.’

Waraqa employed Muhammad but quickly realized that Muhammad was not meant to be a shopkeeper for very long; he was an unusual youngster.

I, Zayd, had known Waraqa since my childhood. I shall return to that later.