The Scimitar and the Veil: Extraordinary Women Of Islam

An Excerpt:

Fatima bint Muhammad ibn Abd Allah

Fatima was the Prophet's fifth child and youngest daughter.

Her mother was Khadija, who died when Fatima was young.

Barakah, who had nursed Muhammad as an orphaned child, took on the task of helping to raise the Prophet's children.

Fatima was his favorite and they were especially close.

She did not play the same later role as A'isha and others in the spread of Islam,
for she died in 632 C.E., five months after Muhammad ñ some say of a broken heart.

Her husband Ali and her sons Hassan and Husayn carried on his work.

There is a hollow knock on the door. The hour is late, the household quiet and readying for sleep. Fatima pulls her veil across her face and pads on bare feet across the cool clay floor to unlatch the wooden portal.

A stranger looks down at her. He is tall. His large eyes burn through her and his face is so lean and stern she trembles. He speaks the Arabic of noblemen and kings. His voice seems to come from the sky, though his mouth is moving.

"I am here to see Muhammad ibn Abdallah. I have urgent business."

Fatima slams the door in the stranger's face and runs to her father.

The Messenger of God lies in his bed, burning with fever. His young wife, A'isha kneels
on the floor beside him, soothing his forehead with a wet cloth. She looks disapprovingly at Fatima rushing into the room.

"Father," Fatima gasps, "there is a man at the door. He speaks like a nobleman, but I think he must come from a far away country, for he is very rude to disturb you so late at night. He frightened me. I would not let him in."

Her father smiles. She is his favorite daughter, the one he would not let marry until she was eighteen, the one whose husband he would not allow to have other wives, saying "Fatima is a part of me and what harms her, harms me."

Now he struggles to sit up. His eyes gleam with fever.

"My daughter, the stranger who knocks on the door is neither man nor woman, but a slave of God. God sent this stranger to me as a friend. Some fear him like a scourge, though he never does a wicked thing. He is not stopped by doors nor held by walls. No bolts or locks can shut him out...or in. Go, my daughter, bring him."

To Fatima's surprise, the stranger is still there. She ushers him in and he walks quietly, as if on air, into the room where Muhammad lies. God's Messenger opens his arms to the dark figure. "Welcome my brother."

A'isha and Fatima back into the shadows and pull their veils snug about their mouths.
Azrail, angel of death, speaks solemnly:

"Prophet of God! It has pleased our Master to call you to Heaven. He – praised be His name – told me to respect your wishes and withdraw if you are not ready for me. You are the only one of His creatures to whom He has ever commanded me to grant respite."

Muhammad glances dotingly at his favorite daughter and his favorite wife as they hover in the corner, for once taking comfort in each other's presence.

"I am grateful to you and to my Lord for His generosity. If he would kindly grant me one hour so that I can settle the affairs of my community, then I shall rest in peace."
Azrail nods and Fatima, still trembling, steps toward the door to see him out. But the angel of death has evaporated like smoke.
 

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