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Aisha-999

JEWEL OF MEDINA

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This is a controvercial thread but i hope people keep their heads its an exerpt from the book jewel of medina, You judge yourselfA POINTING FINGER

MEDINA JANUARY 27 627 AD

Scandal blew in on the errant wind when I rode into Medina clutching Safwan’s waist. My neighbors rushed into the street like storm waters flooding a wadi. Children stood in clusters to point and gawk. Their mothers snatched them to their skirts and pretended to avert their eyes. Men spat in the dust and muttered, judging. My father’s mouth trembled like a tear on the brink.

What they saw: my wrapper fallen to my shoulders, unheeded. Loose hair lashing my face. The wife of God’s Prophet entwined around another man. What they couldn’t see: my girlhood dreams shattered at my feet, trampled by a truth as hard and blunt as horses’ hooves.

I let my eyelids fall shut, avoiding my reflection in the stares of my umma, my community. I licked my cracked lips, tasting salt and the tang of my wretchedness. Pain wrung my stomach like strong hands squeezing water from laundry, only I was already dry. My tongue lolled like a sun-baked lizard. I rested my cheek against Safwan’s shoulder, but the horse’s trot struck bone against bone.

“Al-zaniya!” someone cried. “Adulteress!”

I made slits with my eyes. Members of our umma either pointed fingers and shouted at me or spread their arms in welcome. I saw others, Hypocrites, jeering and showing their dirty teeth. The ansari, our Helpers, stood silent and wary. Thousands lined the street, sucking in our dust with their sharp breaths. Staring as though I were a caravan glittering with treasure instead of a sunburned fourteen-year-old girl.

The horse stopped, but I continued—over its flank, headfirst and into the arms of Muhammad. Into my husband’s control once more and sighing with relief. Trying to forge my own destiny had nearly destroyed me, but his love held the power to heal. His thick beard cushioned my cheek, caressed me with sandalwood. Miswak unfurled from his breath, clean and sharp as a kiss.

“Thank al-Lah you have made it home safely, my A’isha,” he murmured.

The gathering crowd rumbled, [Edited Out]ling my spine. I lifted my heavy head to see. Umar rolled in, thunder and scowl. He was Muhammad’s advisor and friend, but no friend to women.

“Where, by al-Lah, have you been? Why were you alone with a man

who is not your husband?”

His accusations whipped like the wind through the crowd, fanning sparks into flames.

“Al-zaniya!” someone cried again. I ducked as if the word were a hurled

stone.

“It is no wonder that A’isha rhymes with fahisha—[Edited Out]!” People laughed, and soon they began to chant: “A’isha—fahisha! A’isha— fahisha!” Muhammad steered me through the crush toward the mosque entrance. As if in a mosaic their faces swirled before me: the jowly Hamal and his pale wife Fazia-turned-Jamila, screaming and plum-colored; the town gossip, Umm Ayman, pursing her wrinkled lips; Abu Ramzi, the jeweler, flashing golden rings on his waving fists. I’d expected murmurs when I returned, and lifted eyebrows—but this? People who had known me all my life now wanted to tear me apart. And Safwan—I turned my head to look for him, but he had disappeared. As always.

Rude fingers yanked my hair. I cried out and slapped them away, and a stream of spittle landed on my arm. Muhammad set me on my feet and faced the mob, then raised his hands into the air. Silence fell like a shroud, muffling even the glares.

“A’isha needs to rest,” Muhammad said. His voice sounded as weary as

I felt. “Please return to your homes.”

He curled his arm around me and we ducked into the mosque. My sister-wives stood near the courtyard entrance, two and two. Sawdah rushed forward, ululating, enfolding me in her plumpness. She praised al-Lah for my safe return, then kissed her amulet to ward off the Evil Eye. Next came Hafsa, weeping, kissing my hands and face. She whispered,“I thought you were lost forever.” I didn’t tell her that she was nearly right. Umm Salama nodded, unsmiling, as if she feared her head might topple off her long stem of a neck. Zaynab slanted lusty eyes at Muhammad as though she and he were alone in the room.

But my husband’s concerns were only for me. When my stomach clenched again, slumping me in pain, he caught me and lifted me up as though I were filled with air. And in truth, I had little else left inside me. I floated in his arms to my apartment. He kicked open the door and carried me inside, then placed me on my feet again while he unrolled my bed. I leaned against the wall, grateful for the quiet—until Umar’s shout barged into the room, followed by the man himself.

“See how she shames al-Lah’s holy Prophet!” he cried. “Galloping through the center of town with her hands on another man and her hair waving like a harlot’s dress.”

“A harlot with vomit-stinking breath and hair like a bird’s nest?” I blurted.

“Please, Umar,” said Muhammad. “Can you not see that she is ill?”

“You indulge her.”

“I am happy to see her alive, praise al-Lah.” The love in my husband’s gaze made me blush. How close I’d come to betraying him with that trickster! Safwan had lured me with freedom, then tied my destiny to his desires. No different from any other man. Except, perhaps, Muhammad.

“Yaa habibati, what reward should I offer Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal for bringing you home safely to me?”

“One hundred lashes would be fitting,” Umar grumbled

“But Safwan saved her life.”

“Apparently, Umar thinks I should have been left at the mercy of the jackals—or the Bedouins,” I said.

“At least you would die with your honor intact.”

“Nothing has happened to A’isha’s honor,” Muhammad said.

“Tell that to Hassan ibn Thabit,” Umar said. “I heard him moments ago reciting a damning poem about your wife and that womanizing soldier.”

A poem. No wonder the umma had snapped at my heels like a pack of dogs when I’d ridden into town. Hassan’s words could incite a crowd into frenzy nearly as quickly as Muhammad’s raised hand could quell it. But I refused to let Umar see me tremble. “Me, with Safwan? That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m the wife of al-Lah’s holy Prophet. Would I want a nobody like him?”

I felt Muhammad’s eyes watching me. Heat spread like flame under my skin. Had he heard the lie beneath my laughter?

Clipped steps rapped on the courtyard stones. A man’s hand flung open the door to my apartment. His silver ring flashed like a sword’s blade: Ali, related to Muhammad in three ways—cousin, foster-son, and son-inlaw— yet bitterly jealous of his love for me. Stabs of pain pierced my stomach. I leaned my head against Muhammad’s shoulder.

“Here she is!” Ali extended his arm to point at me. “Medina churns with sickness over your ruin, A’isha. Men are fighting in the streets over your guilt or innocence. Our own people have turned against one another. The unity of the umma is threatened because of you.”

“Did you defend me?” Even as I challenged him, I knew the answer.

He turned to Muhammad. “How can I defend her when Safwan himself will not speak on her behalf?”

Of course. Not only had Safwan disappeared when the crowd grew menacing, but when my father and Ali went to question him, he’d hidden inside his parents’ home. Some rescuer. I felt tears burn my eyes, but I willed them away. The only one who could save me, it seemed, was me.

“Safwan doesn’t need to defend me,” I said, although my voice quavered and I still leaned on Muhammad for support. “I can speak for myself.”

“Let her rest,” Muhammad said. He helped me walk to my bed, but before I could lie down Ali was insisting I tell my story. The umma could not wait to know the truth, he said. Another crowd was forming outside the mosque at this very moment, demanding answers.

I closed my eyes, recalling the tale I and Safwan had fashioned on the ride home, during my lucid moments. “I was looking for my agate necklace,” I said, fingering the smooth stones. “My father gave it to me on my wedding day. Remember?” I looked at Muhammad. “It means as much to me as the necklaces you’ve given your other wives.”

His expression didn’t change. I pressed on, spinning a tale that began with me slipping behind the sand dunes to relieve myself, then returning to my hawdaj. As I waited to be lifted onto the camel’s back I felt for my necklace—but my throat was bare.

“I searched my clothing, the floorboards of my hawdaj, the ground. I wanted to ask the driver to help me, but he was watering the camels.” My voice stumbled like tender feet on rocky ground. I took a ragged breath, trying to hold steady. “I followed my path back to the dunes. I sifted the sands with my fingers. Then, when I was about to give up, I found it. I ran back to the caravan—but you were far away.” Like ants crawling single-file into tomorrow, I’d thought at the time. “I knew I could never catch you. So I sat down to wait for someone to come back for me.”

“Someone?” Ali pointed his sharp nose at me, sniffing for lies. “You mean Safwan.”

“Yaa Ali, let her tell her tale,” Muhammad said.

“In truth, it is a tale, and nothing more.” Ali spat on the dirt floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring. “You waste our time with this fantasy, while we all know the real story.”

“Ali, please,” Muhammad said, more sternly. Ali folded his arms across his chest and curled his lips. My courage wavered under his scrutiny. Did he truly know the reason I had lost the caravan? Maybe it would be better for me to tell the truth—but a glance at my husband’s concerned face changed my mind. Even Muhammad, who knew me as if our souls were one, wouldn’t understand why I’d risked so much for so little—and he might not believe me when I told him I was still pure.

“You sat down to wait,” Umar said. “What occurs next in this unlikely tale?”

I closed my eyes, feeling faint. What was the story? I and Safwan had rehearsed it during our ride. I let out a long sigh, calming my frantic pulse. This next part was true.

“As the sun rose, I found shade under a grove of date-palm trees,” I said. “I lay down, keeping cool. Then I must have slept, because the next thing I remember is Safwan’s hand on my shoulder.”

Umar grunted. “Did you hear that, Prophet? Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal is now touching your wife. We all know where that leads.”

“Why didn’t you both ride home right away?” Ali barked.

“Something happened to me.” This part was also true. “I felt a sharp cramp, like a knife in my stomach.” Muhammad’s eyes seemed to soften— a good sign, meaning he must believe me at least a little.

“I couldn’t travel, not while I was doubled over with pain. So Safwan pitched his tent for me to rest in, out of the sun.”

Ali guffawed. “And where was Safwan while you were lying in his tent?” I ignored him, wanting only to finish this interrogation and go to sleep.

“I retched for hours. Safwan tried to help me. He gave me water and fanned me with a date-palm frond. Finally he became frightened, and we came back for help.” I didn’t tell how he’d nearly made me scream with his hand wringing. Al-Lah is punishing us, he’d moaned, over and over again. Along with the water, I began to spit up bile and remorse. Take me to Medina, I said sourly. Before al-Lah kills us both.

When I finished my tale, Ali was scowling. “This is not the full story,” he said.

“Why was Safwan lagging so far behind the caravan? Was it because he knew you would be waiting for him under the date palms?”

“She has been flirting with him for years!”

I snorted, as if his words amused me instead of chilling my blood. He spoke the truth—but who else knew?

“Where is your proof, Ali?” I said, meeting his angry gaze for a moment, then dropping it for fear he’d see the panic in my eyes. “A single pointing finger makes an insignificant mark.”

Then, with Muhammad’s help, I lay down on my bed and turned my back to them all: the ever-suspicious Umar; Ali, so eager to think the worst of me; and my husband, who could quiet an angry mob with a raised hand but who had allowed these men to slander me. Why had I returned? I closed my eyes and dreamt, again, of escape. This time, though, I knew it was only a dream. There would be no escaping my fate. At best, al-Lah willing, I might shape my destiny—but I couldn’t run from it. This much I had learned from my mistakes these past few days.

I slept lightly, tossed by fever and regret, until whispers whipped about my head like stinging sand, jolting me back to consciousness. Muhammad and Ali were sitting on the cushions near my bed, arguing—about me.

“I cannot believe A’isha would do such a thing,” Muhammad said. His voice was a broken shell, fragile and jagged. “I have loved her since she sprang from her mother’s womb. I have played dolls with her and her friends. I have drunk from the same bowl with her.”

“She is fourteen years old,” Ali said, his voice rising. “Not a little girl anymore, although she is many years younger than you. Safwan is much closer to her age.”

“Shh, Ali! Do not disturb A’isha’s rest.”

“Then let us find a more suitable place to talk.” I heard the rustle of cloth. Don’t go, I wanted to beg, but I was too weak. So I moaned, instead. Muhammad laid his hand on my forehead.

“Her skin is hot,” he said. “I cannot leave her alone.”

“Then I must speak here.”

“Please, cousin. I value your counsel.”

I held my breath, dreading Ali’s next words. What kind of punishment would he suggest for me and Safwan? A whipping? Banishment from the umma? Death?

“Divorce her,” Ali said.

“No!” I sat up, ready to throw my arms around my husband’s neck and hold on with all my strength. Muhammad stroked my damp brow, his smile shifting like a shadow under a changing sun.

“Don’t leave me,” I said, forgetting about Ali, the last person I would have wanted to hear me beg.

“I am not leaving you, habibati. But I have decided to send you to your parents’ house for a while. Abu Bakr and Umm Ruman will nurse you back to health, al-Lah willing, away from all these wagging tongues.”

“Don’t divorce me.” Weeks later, as I waited in my parents’ house for Muhammad’s verdict, I’d wince to recall how I’d clung to his hand and cried in front of Ali: “I love you, habibi.”

I meant those words as I’d never meant them before. I’d learned much during those hours in the desert with Safwan. Safwan, who’d promised one thing and delivered another, the same as when we were children.

“I love you, too, my sweet.” But his voice sounded far away, and his eyes looked troubled. I lay down and clutched his hand as though it were a doll, then drifted slowly back toward sleep.

As I slipped away again I heard Ali’s voice, urgent and low.

“Think of the umma, how delicate its weave,” he said. “A scandal like this could tear it apart. You must act now, cousin. Send her back to Abu Bakr for good.”

“Divorce my A’isha?” Muhammad’s laugh sounded nervous and faint. “I would rather cut out my own heart.”

“She’s tainted,” Ali said—increasing my hatred for him with each word. “You must put her away from you before this scandal marks you, also. Many men in this town would love to see you fall.”

Muhammad slowly pulled his hand from my grasp, leaving me to drift alone on my sea of fears.

“Can’t you see it?” Ali pressed. “I know you can. Then why do you look so worried? Wives are easily acquired. You will find another child-bride.”

Centuries later, scandal still haunts my name. But those who scorned me, who called me “al-zaniya” and “fahisha,” they didn’t know me. They never knew the truth—about me, about Muhammad, about how I saved his life and he saved mine. About how I saved all their lives. If they knew, would they have mocked me then?

Of course, they know now. Where we are now, all truth is known. But it still eludes your world. Where you are, men still want to hide the women away. You, in the now, they cover with shrouds or with lies about being inferior. We, in the past, they erase from their stories of Muhammad, or alter with false tales that burn our ears and the backs of our eyes. Where you are, mothers chastise their daughters with a single name. “You A’isha!” they cry, and the girls turn away in shame. We cannot escape our destinies, even in death. But we can claim them, and give them shape.

The girls turn away because they don’t know the truth: That Muhammad wanted to give us freedom, but that the other men took it away. That none of us is ever alive until we can shape our own destinies. Until we can choose.

So many misunderstandings. Here where we are, we cup the truth in our hands like water, trying to contain it, watching it slip away. Truth is too slippery to hold. It must be passed on, or it slides like rain into the earth, to disappear.

Before it disappears, I will pass my story on to you. My truth. My struggle. And then, who knows what will happen? Al-lah willing, my name will regain its meaning. No longer, then, a word synonymous with treachery and shame. Al-Lah willing, when my story is known, my name will evoke once more that most precious of possessions. Which I claimed for myself and for which I fought until, at last, I won it from the Prophet of God—not only for myself, but for all my sisters also.

My name: “A’isha.” Its meaning: “life.” May it be so again, and forevermore.[/size]

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The Jewel of Medina is a historical novel by Sherry Jones. It was scheduled for publication by Random House in 2008, but subsequently canceled; it was subsequently announced that it would be published by Beaufort Books in the United States and by Gibson Square in the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth.[1][2]Eventually it was published in the U.S. by Beaufort Books.[3] The novel tells a fictionalized version of the life of Aisha, one of the wives of the Islamic Prophet, Muhammad, and the person who reportedly accompanied him as he received most of his revelations.[4] The novel tells Aisha's story from the age of six, when she was betrothed to Muhammad, to his death.[2]

Fictionalized. What else?

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This made me so angry.

The author first claimed she did not want to insult Islam rather she just wanted to write a book which gave the wives of the prophet s.a.w a voice.

Such a lie.

This is disgusting, pure filth, it hugely insults A'isha r.a, The prophet s.a.w, and the Sahaba r.a.

Edited by o0o0o

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I can't make a call from this limited snippet as to whether this author intended malice or slander. Muslims need to understand that they can't apply their own cultural standards of what is proper or appropriate in a piece of art when judging Western works of historical fiction. I would probably take exception to some of the protrayals in this book, notably Ali's (as) from what I can see, but it seems possible that the author made an honest effort to write an entertaining, but historically accurate work based on the references she had to work with and her level of knowledge. Some of the images you would build of certain figures would depend on the sources you were using for research. Personally, from what I see here, I see some effort to be fair and respectful, although I see a certain lack of polish in the quality of the writing.

Maybe the rest of the work is more offensive, but I am not enraged or anything given what I have seen, though I might disagree with some of the characterizations, characterizations which though fictionalized are within the range of historical interpretation that might be presented in any Western Islamic studies program.

I will note that if there are any aspiring fiction writers out there with talent and willingness to do the historical research, there is a huge opportunity for such works of historical fiction written by actual Muslims. Such works could be an excellent way for us to share the history in an entertaining, attractive way with non-Muslims. I have some interest in such projects in the future myself, though I am far from the historical expertise to be able to do so. I welcome anyone with talent and who is so moved to consider studies in creative writing to be able to pursue such projects. It would be an invaluable service to the community.

Edited by kadhim

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I can't make a call from this limited snippet as to whether this author intended malice or slander. Muslims need to understand that they can't apply their own cultural standards of what is proper or appropriate in a piece of art when judging Western works of historical fiction. I would probably take exception to some of the protrayals in this book, notably Ali's (as) from what I can see, but it seems possible that the author made an honest effort to write an entertaining, but historically accurate work based on the references she had to work with and her level of knowledge. Some of the images you would build of certain figures would depend on the sources you were using for research. Personally, from what I see here, I see some effort to be fair and respectful, although I see a certain lack of polish in the quality of the writing.

Maybe the rest of the work is more offensive, but I am not enraged or anything given what I have seen, though I might disagree with some of the characterizations, characterizations which though fictionalized are within the range of historical interpretation that might be presented in any Western Islamic studies program.

I will note that if there are any aspiring fiction writers out there with talent and willingness to do the historical research, there is a huge opportunity for such works of historical fiction written by actual Muslims. Such works could be an excellent way for us to share the history in an entertaining, attractive way with non-Muslims. I have some interest in such projects in the future myself, though I am far from the historical expertise to be able to do so. I welcome anyone with talent and who is so moved to consider studies in creative writing to be able to pursue such projects. It would be an invaluable service to the community.

Exactly.

I actually have a copy of this book that I am going to read soon. I have not started yet, but I have a very similar reaction as you did. I'll let you know what I think of the entire novel once I am done, insha'Allah. The depiction of Imam Ali (as) and Rasool Allah (as) bother me.. but I recognize that some Muslims would even write depictions of Rasool Allah (as) and Imam Ali (as) that would offend me...

Wasalaam

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]I thought it was an accurate snapshot of a liitle piece of history . It showed just how human the founders of islam were it, showed that they lived lives and went through pretty much what we go through. As for Aisha (ra) it made me love her even more than i already do cause she was a woman well ahead of her time. She reminds me of the 1st feminist who won't be a mans slave, who changed womens lives in arabia and proberbly the world. There is a strong parrallel to her story and Mary (as) who was also acused of adultary and went through hell in a fiery society. Like Mariam AS she was calm and honest but unlike Mariam Aisha ra had a husband who was infallible and knew she was innocent all along and if it wasnt for the prophet the 13 year old girl would have been eating by the 7th century male jackels. she was an amazing women for her time and age

Edited by Aisha-999

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]I thought it was an accurate snapshot of a liitle piece of history . It showed just how human the founders of islam were it, showed that they lived lives and went through pretty much what we go through. As for Aisha (ra) it made me love her even more than i already do cause she was a woman well ahead of her time. She reminds me of the 1st feminist who won't be a mans slave, who changed womens lives in arabia and proberbly the world. There is a strong parrallel to her story and Mary (as) who was also acused of adultary and went through hell in a fiery society. Like Mariam AS she was calm and honest but unlike Mariam Aisha ra had a husband who was infallible and knew she was innocent all along and if it wasnt for the prophet the 13 year old girl would have been eating by the 7th century male jackels. she was an amazing women for her time and age

Err...well, be careful is all I'll say. This is a fiction novel by someone who I presume is not an expert in Islamic history. I would be surprised if she can even read Arabic, and if she can't, there are large parts of the historical works that would have been inaccessible. The portrait of Ali seems to be mistaken to say the least, though it does not sound completely negative.

Just take it with a grain of salt, OK? You may be reading a feminist superhero narrative because the author imposed a feminist superhero archetype on the character. You need to be careful distinguish between historical novel and history. You can learn about history from historical fiction but usually to make the story entertaining, some dramatic license is taken to fill in details not explicitly specified in the history texts.

Exactly.

I actually have a copy of this book that I am going to read soon. I have not started yet, but I have a very similar reaction as you did. I'll let you know what I think of the entire novel once I am done, insha'Allah. The depiction of Imam Ali (as) and Rasool Allah (as) bother me.. but I recognize that some Muslims would even write depictions of Rasool Allah (as) and Imam Ali (as) that would offend me...

Wasalaam

I look forward to hearing. Is it available on Amazon?

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I look forward to hearing. Is it available on Amazon?

Yes it is: http://www.amazon.com/Jewel-Medina-Sherry-..._pr_product_top

]I thought it was an accurate snapshot of a liitle piece of history . It showed just how human the founders of islam were it, showed that they lived lives and went through pretty much what we go through. As for Aisha ra.gif it made me love her even more than i already do cause she was a woman well ahead of her time. She reminds me of the 1st feminist who won't be a mans slave, who changed womens lives in arabia and proberbly the world. There is a strong parrallel to her story and Mary as.gif who was also acused of adultary and went through hell in a fiery society. Like Mariam AS she was calm and honest but unlike Mariam Aisha ra had a husband who was infallible and knew she was innocent all along and if it wasnt for the prophet the 13 year old girl would have been eating by the 7th century male jackels. she was an amazing women for her time and age

Sis, I am going to reiterate what bro kadhim said. The author is a non-Muslim who is intrigued by the story of 7th century Aisha. She is adding in to the novel her OWN biases, her OWN thinking, and her OWN emotions. No doubt, that many of the events are based on real events, but there is a lot that the author is adding as she is making it a work of historical fiction. We don't actually know what was going through all of these character's minds.

We just have to understand what is real and what is fiction.

Wasalaam

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(salam)

Do the Shia believe that this event actually happened or it is a figment of someone's imagination?

Someone who is always used to sing her own songs, at the expenses of rasool Allah Mohammad (saws), her father abu Bakr, the Umma and so forth?

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This is a controvercial thread but i hope people keep their heads its an exerpt from the book jewel of medina, You judge yourselfA POINTING FINGER

MEDINA JANUARY 27 627 AD

Scandal blew in on the errant wind when I rode into Medina clutching Safwan’s waist. My neighbors rushed into the street like storm waters flooding a wadi. Children stood in clusters to point and gawk. Their mothers snatched them to their skirts and pretended to avert their eyes. Men spat in the dust and muttered, judging. My father’s mouth trembled like a tear on the brink.

What they saw: my wrapper fallen to my shoulders, unheeded. Loose hair lashing my face. The wife of God’s Prophet entwined around another man. What they couldn’t see: my girlhood dreams shattered at my feet, trampled by a truth as hard and blunt as horses’ hooves.

I let my eyelids fall shut, avoiding my reflection in the stares of my umma, my community. I licked my cracked lips, tasting salt and the tang of my wretchedness. Pain wrung my stomach like strong hands squeezing water from laundry, only I was already dry. My tongue lolled like a sun-baked lizard. I rested my cheek against Safwan’s shoulder, but the horse’s trot struck bone against bone.

“Al-zaniya!” someone cried. “Adulteress!”

I made slits with my eyes. Members of our umma either pointed fingers and shouted at me or spread their arms in welcome. I saw others, Hypocrites, jeering and showing their dirty teeth. The ansari, our Helpers, stood silent and wary. Thousands lined the street, sucking in our dust with their sharp breaths. Staring as though I were a caravan glittering with treasure instead of a sunburned fourteen-year-old girl.

The horse stopped, but I continued—over its flank, headfirst and into the arms of Muhammad. Into my husband’s control once more and sighing with relief. Trying to forge my own destiny had nearly destroyed me, but his love held the power to heal. His thick beard cushioned my cheek, caressed me with sandalwood. Miswak unfurled from his breath, clean and sharp as a kiss.

“Thank al-Lah you have made it home safely, my A’isha,” he murmured.

The gathering crowd rumbled, [Edited Out]ling my spine. I lifted my heavy head to see. Umar rolled in, thunder and scowl. He was Muhammad’s advisor and friend, but no friend to women.

“Where, by al-Lah, have you been? Why were you alone with a man

who is not your husband?”

His accusations whipped like the wind through the crowd, fanning sparks into flames.

“Al-zaniya!” someone cried again. I ducked as if the word were a hurled

stone.

“It is no wonder that A’isha rhymes with fahisha—[Edited Out]!” People laughed, and soon they began to chant: “A’isha—fahisha! A’isha— fahisha!” Muhammad steered me through the crush toward the mosque entrance. As if in a mosaic their faces swirled before me: the jowly Hamal and his pale wife Fazia-turned-Jamila, screaming and plum-colored; the town gossip, Umm Ayman, pursing her wrinkled lips; Abu Ramzi, the jeweler, flashing golden rings on his waving fists. I’d expected murmurs when I returned, and lifted eyebrows—but this? People who had known me all my life now wanted to tear me apart. And Safwan—I turned my head to look for him, but he had disappeared. As always.

Rude fingers yanked my hair. I cried out and slapped them away, and a stream of spittle landed on my arm. Muhammad set me on my feet and faced the mob, then raised his hands into the air. Silence fell like a shroud, muffling even the glares.

“A’isha needs to rest,” Muhammad said. His voice sounded as weary as

I felt. “Please return to your homes.”

He curled his arm around me and we ducked into the mosque. My sister-wives stood near the courtyard entrance, two and two. Sawdah rushed forward, ululating, enfolding me in her plumpness. She praised al-Lah for my safe return, then kissed her amulet to ward off the Evil Eye. Next came Hafsa, weeping, kissing my hands and face. She whispered,“I thought you were lost forever.” I didn’t tell her that she was nearly right. Umm Salama nodded, unsmiling, as if she feared her head might topple off her long stem of a neck. Zaynab slanted lusty eyes at Muhammad as though she and he were alone in the room.

But my husband’s concerns were only for me. When my stomach clenched again, slumping me in pain, he caught me and lifted me up as though I were filled with air. And in truth, I had little else left inside me. I floated in his arms to my apartment. He kicked open the door and carried me inside, then placed me on my feet again while he unrolled my bed. I leaned against the wall, grateful for the quiet—until Umar’s shout barged into the room, followed by the man himself.

“See how she shames al-Lah’s holy Prophet!” he cried. “Galloping through the center of town with her hands on another man and her hair waving like a harlot’s dress.”

“A harlot with vomit-stinking breath and hair like a bird’s nest?” I blurted.

“Please, Umar,” said Muhammad. “Can you not see that she is ill?”

“You indulge her.”

“I am happy to see her alive, praise al-Lah.” The love in my husband’s gaze made me blush. How close I’d come to betraying him with that trickster! Safwan had lured me with freedom, then tied my destiny to his desires. No different from any other man. Except, perhaps, Muhammad.

“Yaa habibati, what reward should I offer Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal for bringing you home safely to me?”

“One hundred lashes would be fitting,” Umar grumbled

“But Safwan saved her life.”

“Apparently, Umar thinks I should have been left at the mercy of the jackals—or the Bedouins,” I said.

“At least you would die with your honor intact.”

“Nothing has happened to A’isha’s honor,” Muhammad said.

“Tell that to Hassan ibn Thabit,” Umar said. “I heard him moments ago reciting a damning poem about your wife and that womanizing soldier.”

A poem. No wonder the umma had snapped at my heels like a pack of dogs when I’d ridden into town. Hassan’s words could incite a crowd into frenzy nearly as quickly as Muhammad’s raised hand could quell it. But I refused to let Umar see me tremble. “Me, with Safwan? That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m the wife of al-Lah’s holy Prophet. Would I want a nobody like him?”

I felt Muhammad’s eyes watching me. Heat spread like flame under my skin. Had he heard the lie beneath my laughter?

Clipped steps rapped on the courtyard stones. A man’s hand flung open the door to my apartment. His silver ring flashed like a sword’s blade: Ali, related to Muhammad in three ways—cousin, foster-son, and son-inlaw— yet bitterly jealous of his love for me. Stabs of pain pierced my stomach. I leaned my head against Muhammad’s shoulder.

“Here she is!” Ali extended his arm to point at me. “Medina churns with sickness over your ruin, A’isha. Men are fighting in the streets over your guilt or innocence. Our own people have turned against one another. The unity of the umma is threatened because of you.”

“Did you defend me?” Even as I challenged him, I knew the answer.

He turned to Muhammad. “How can I defend her when Safwan himself will not speak on her behalf?”

Of course. Not only had Safwan disappeared when the crowd grew menacing, but when my father and Ali went to question him, he’d hidden inside his parents’ home. Some rescuer. I felt tears burn my eyes, but I willed them away. The only one who could save me, it seemed, was me.

“Safwan doesn’t need to defend me,” I said, although my voice quavered and I still leaned on Muhammad for support. “I can speak for myself.”

“Let her rest,” Muhammad said. He helped me walk to my bed, but before I could lie down Ali was insisting I tell my story. The umma could not wait to know the truth, he said. Another crowd was forming outside the mosque at this very moment, demanding answers.

I closed my eyes, recalling the tale I and Safwan had fashioned on the ride home, during my lucid moments. “I was looking for my agate necklace,” I said, fingering the smooth stones. “My father gave it to me on my wedding day. Remember?” I looked at Muhammad. “It means as much to me as the necklaces you’ve given your other wives.”

His expression didn’t change. I pressed on, spinning a tale that began with me slipping behind the sand dunes to relieve myself, then returning to my hawdaj. As I waited to be lifted onto the camel’s back I felt for my necklace—but my throat was bare.

“I searched my clothing, the floorboards of my hawdaj, the ground. I wanted to ask the driver to help me, but he was watering the camels.” My voice stumbled like tender feet on rocky ground. I took a ragged breath, trying to hold steady. “I followed my path back to the dunes. I sifted the sands with my fingers. Then, when I was about to give up, I found it. I ran back to the caravan—but you were far away.” Like ants crawling single-file into tomorrow, I’d thought at the time. “I knew I could never catch you. So I sat down to wait for someone to come back for me.”

“Someone?” Ali pointed his sharp nose at me, sniffing for lies. “You mean Safwan.”

“Yaa Ali, let her tell her tale,” Muhammad said.

“In truth, it is a tale, and nothing more.” Ali spat on the dirt floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring. “You waste our time with this fantasy, while we all know the real story.”

“Ali, please,” Muhammad said, more sternly. Ali folded his arms across his chest and curled his lips. My courage wavered under his scrutiny. Did he truly know the reason I had lost the caravan? Maybe it would be better for me to tell the truth—but a glance at my husband’s concerned face changed my mind. Even Muhammad, who knew me as if our souls were one, wouldn’t understand why I’d risked so much for so little—and he might not believe me when I told him I was still pure.

“You sat down to wait,” Umar said. “What occurs next in this unlikely tale?”

I closed my eyes, feeling faint. What was the story? I and Safwan had rehearsed it during our ride. I let out a long sigh, calming my frantic pulse. This next part was true.

“As the sun rose, I found shade under a grove of date-palm trees,” I said. “I lay down, keeping cool. Then I must have slept, because the next thing I remember is Safwan’s hand on my shoulder.”

Umar grunted. “Did you hear that, Prophet? Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal is now touching your wife. We all know where that leads.”

“Why didn’t you both ride home right away?” Ali barked.

“Something happened to me.” This part was also true. “I felt a sharp cramp, like a knife in my stomach.” Muhammad’s eyes seemed to soften— a good sign, meaning he must believe me at least a little.

“I couldn’t travel, not while I was doubled over with pain. So Safwan pitched his tent for me to rest in, out of the sun.”

Ali guffawed. “And where was Safwan while you were lying in his tent?” I ignored him, wanting only to finish this interrogation and go to sleep.

“I retched for hours. Safwan tried to help me. He gave me water and fanned me with a date-palm frond. Finally he became frightened, and we came back for help.” I didn’t tell how he’d nearly made me scream with his hand wringing. Al-Lah is punishing us, he’d moaned, over and over again. Along with the water, I began to spit up bile and remorse. Take me to Medina, I said sourly. Before al-Lah kills us both.

When I finished my tale, Ali was scowling. “This is not the full story,” he said.

“Why was Safwan lagging so far behind the caravan? Was it because he knew you would be waiting for him under the date palms?”

“She has been flirting with him for years!”

I snorted, as if his words amused me instead of chilling my blood. He spoke the truth—but who else knew?

“Where is your proof, Ali?” I said, meeting his angry gaze for a moment, then dropping it for fear he’d see the panic in my eyes. “A single pointing finger makes an insignificant mark.”

Then, with Muhammad’s help, I lay down on my bed and turned my back to them all: the ever-suspicious Umar; Ali, so eager to think the worst of me; and my husband, who could quiet an angry mob with a raised hand but who had allowed these men to slander me. Why had I returned? I closed my eyes and dreamt, again, of escape. This time, though, I knew it was only a dream. There would be no escaping my fate. At best, al-Lah willing, I might shape my destiny—but I couldn’t run from it. This much I had learned from my mistakes these past few days.

I slept lightly, tossed by fever and regret, until whispers whipped about my head like stinging sand, jolting me back to consciousness. Muhammad and Ali were sitting on the cushions near my bed, arguing—about me.

“I cannot believe A’isha would do such a thing,” Muhammad said. His voice was a broken shell, fragile and jagged. “I have loved her since she sprang from her mother’s womb. I have played dolls with her and her friends. I have drunk from the same bowl with her.”

“She is fourteen years old,” Ali said, his voice rising. “Not a little girl anymore, although she is many years younger than you. Safwan is much closer to her age.”

“Shh, Ali! Do not disturb A’isha’s rest.”

“Then let us find a more suitable place to talk.” I heard the rustle of cloth. Don’t go, I wanted to beg, but I was too weak. So I moaned, instead. Muhammad laid his hand on my forehead.

“Her skin is hot,” he said. “I cannot leave her alone.”

“Then I must speak here.”

“Please, cousin. I value your counsel.”

I held my breath, dreading Ali’s next words. What kind of punishment would he suggest for me and Safwan? A whipping? Banishment from the umma? Death?

“Divorce her,” Ali said.

“No!” I sat up, ready to throw my arms around my husband’s neck and hold on with all my strength. Muhammad stroked my damp brow, his smile shifting like a shadow under a changing sun.

“Don’t leave me,” I said, forgetting about Ali, the last person I would have wanted to hear me beg.

“I am not leaving you, habibati. But I have decided to send you to your parents’ house for a while. Abu Bakr and Umm Ruman will nurse you back to health, al-Lah willing, away from all these wagging tongues.”

“Don’t divorce me.” Weeks later, as I waited in my parents’ house for Muhammad’s verdict, I’d wince to recall how I’d clung to his hand and cried in front of Ali: “I love you, habibi.”

I meant those words as I’d never meant them before. I’d learned much during those hours in the desert with Safwan. Safwan, who’d promised one thing and delivered another, the same as when we were children.

“I love you, too, my sweet.” But his voice sounded far away, and his eyes looked troubled. I lay down and clutched his hand as though it were a doll, then drifted slowly back toward sleep.

As I slipped away again I heard Ali’s voice, urgent and low.

“Think of the umma, how delicate its weave,” he said. “A scandal like this could tear it apart. You must act now, cousin. Send her back to Abu Bakr for good.”

“Divorce my A’isha?” Muhammad’s laugh sounded nervous and faint. “I would rather cut out my own heart.”

“She’s tainted,” Ali said—increasing my hatred for him with each word. “You must put her away from you before this scandal marks you, also. Many men in this town would love to see you fall.”

Muhammad slowly pulled his hand from my grasp, leaving me to drift alone on my sea of fears.

“Can’t you see it?” Ali pressed. “I know you can. Then why do you look so worried? Wives are easily acquired. You will find another child-bride.”

Centuries later, scandal still haunts my name. But those who scorned me, who called me “al-zaniya” and “fahisha,” they didn’t know me. They never knew the truth—about me, about Muhammad, about how I saved his life and he saved mine. About how I saved all their lives. If they knew, would they have mocked me then?

Of course, they know now. Where we are now, all truth is known. But it still eludes your world. Where you are, men still want to hide the women away. You, in the now, they cover with shrouds or with lies about being inferior. We, in the past, they erase from their stories of Muhammad, or alter with false tales that burn our ears and the backs of our eyes. Where you are, mothers chastise their daughters with a single name. “You A’isha!” they cry, and the girls turn away in shame. We cannot escape our destinies, even in death. But we can claim them, and give them shape.

The girls turn away because they don’t know the truth: That Muhammad wanted to give us freedom, but that the other men took it away. That none of us is ever alive until we can shape our own destinies. Until we can choose.

So many misunderstandings. Here where we are, we cup the truth in our hands like water, trying to contain it, watching it slip away. Truth is too slippery to hold. It must be passed on, or it slides like rain into the earth, to disappear.

Before it disappears, I will pass my story on to you. My truth. My struggle. And then, who knows what will happen? Al-lah willing, my name will regain its meaning. No longer, then, a word synonymous with treachery and shame. Al-Lah willing, when my story is known, my name will evoke once more that most precious of possessions. Which I claimed for myself and for which I fought until, at last, I won it from the Prophet of God—not only for myself, but for all my sisters also.

My name: “A’isha.” Its meaning: “life.” May it be so again, and forevermore.[/size]

Nice theatrical piece but not consistent with the truth as the one who was accused of fahisha and Allah proved her innocent is the other wife of the prophet:

maria al-qabtyya and not ayesha

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This is from sherry jones sight she tells us in her own words why she wrote the novel

A'isha: A household name

6:38 PM PST, November 4, 2008

Dear readers,

Lots of people ask me why I, a non-Muslim Westerner (and you can't get much more Western than Montana, where I wrote the book!) even wanted to write "The Jewel of Medina" in the first place. I always talk about the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2001, and the unfair demonization of Islam that followed in this country. But the real reason for my book was this: A'isha.

I originally wanted to bring all the wives in the Prophet Muhammad's household to life, and I think I have succeeded. In the pages of my book, you meet the plump, superstitious Sawdah; the fiery, impassioned Zaynab; aristocratic, strong Umm Salama; Saffiya, the young opportunist, and others -- especially A'isha, the Queen of the Snappy Comebacks, the mischief-maker, the teenager who captured the heart of one of the most charismatic men ever to have lived.

As my sequel will show, A'isha matured after Muhammad's death to become a trusted political adviser to her husband's successors, a military strategist, a religious scholar, and a warrior of sorts, leading troops in the famous "Battle of the Camel," which many scholars consider the beginning of the Sunni-Shi'a split.

The more I read about A'isha in my research, the more inspired I became by her example of independence, strength, and courage -- even if she was quite jealous and prone to pranks! At the same time, I was surprised to find that no one I talked to, except members of the Muslim community in my town, had ever heard of A'isha. I wrote "The Jewel of Medina" with the excitement you might feel at introducing a cool new person into your group of friends. I just knew everyone would love her as I do, and I hoped she could inspire others the way she continues to inspire me.

Today, with foreign rights sales complete in 19 countries, A'isha is bound to become a household name not only in the United States, but all over the world! Many people now know who she is, and readers are telling me they love her as much as I do. Whatever else happens with this book, I am grinning big these days, happy with the knowledge that, with the success of "The Jewel of Medina," I have done what I set out to do.

The secret is out: A'isha rocks.

Sherry Jones

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I wonder if they talk of aisha and hafsa's fasiq little "pranks" and "games" around the death of the Holy Prophet(SAWW).

See in Sunni book Sahih al-Bukhari Volume 5, Book 59, Number 713: ...

Narrated 'Aisha: The Prophet in his ailment in which he died, used to say, "O 'Aisha! I still feel the pain caused by the food I ate at Khaibar, and at this time, I feel as if my aorta is being cut from that poison."

The battle of Khaibar happended in 6 AH or 628 C.E.; the Holy Prophet Muhammad al-Mustafa(SAWW) passed away in 10 AH or 632 C.E. Poison does not work over a 4 year period! Especially one doesn't go on living a normal mostly health life, like the Prophet(SAWW) did right until the end of his life in 632 C.E., with poison allegedly already in your body!!! Clearly aisha was covering for something! Not much suprise as Allah(SWT) himself curses Aisha in Holy Qur'an Surah 66 (at-Tahreem)

Also read again from 1 of the 2 alleged "Sahih" sources of the Sunnis; Sahih al-Bukhari Volume 4, Book 53, Number 336:

Narrated 'Abdullah:

The Prophet stood up and delivered a sermon, and pointing to 'Aisha's house, he said thrice, "Affliction (will appear from) here," and, "from where the side of the Satan's head comes out."

end quote.

Absurdly the Sunni translators and commentators write in the word "east" in brackets, as their own personal addition or "commentary". Why would the Prophet(SAWW) specifically point to the sinner Aisha's house; if he just allegedly meant "east" it is clear Aisha was satan's horns!

Also many Sunnis bring up the alleged "mother of the believers" so-called "merit". All this meant was that nobody could marry the Prophet(SAWW)'s wives after him; as certain "Sahabi" that Sunnis worship were speaking of desiring to marry Aisha when the Prophet(SAWW) passed away. The "mother of the believers" does NOT mean they are like your real mother; because with our real mother when can see them without Hijab, we can kiss them on the cheek, we can hug them, we can hold their hand, etc. Are Sunnis alleging that male Muslim companions would go around kissing Aisha, or hugging Aisha, or seeing Aisha without Hijab, or holding Aisha's hand?!!! Of course not, the "mother of the believers" title is of NO MERIT it just means that no man can marry the Prophet(SAWW)'s wives after him, just like men cannot marry their real mother! The wives are judged by their actions; you have great Muslim women like Khadijah(as) among the wives; but you also have sinners and terrible people like Aisha and Hafsa bint Umar.

See ibn Kathir on "mother of the believers" meaning; from the link: www.tafsir.com ibn Kathir on "mother of the believers" meaning

Quote- [æóÃóÒúæóÌõåõ ÃõãøóåóÜÊõåõãú]

(and his wives are their mothers.) means, they are unlawful for marriage.

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Really interesting excerpt, thanks to aisha999 for posting it, I've been hearing about this book for a while and about it getting cancelled...didn't know it actually got published.

But my problem with these Western interpretations by Westerners & puesdo-Orientalists, etc. is that they try to type the characters into Western archetypes....a lot of dramatic effect has been added to this novel,and I hope Muslims and non-Muslims alike don't merely accept everything in this book but look at it critically.

Anyway, thanks again aisha999 !!

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The Prophet stood up and delivered a sermon, and pointing to 'Aisha's house, he said thrice, "Affliction (will appear from) here," and, "from where the side of the Satan's head comes out."

The prophet saaw many times said this and mostly used the words the east. He was talking east of hejaz ie najd or iraq which he mentioned both by name many times not aishas house . what u need to do is look into all the hadith on a subject to understand the context otherwise youll decieve yourself and others.

As for th prophet and aisha what are u trying to do create fitna between them dont u understand he loved her with all his heart.? And if the infallible prohet loved her who are u? muhamed is who i follow not your opinions. salam

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Many people now know who she is, and readers are telling me they love her as much as I do. Whatever else happens with this book, I am grinning big these days, happy with the knowledge that, with the success of "The Jewel of Medina," I have done what I set out to do.

The secret is out: A'isha rocks.

Sherry Jones

Yes, Sherry Jones is not only just grinning big these days, she is laughing big these days all the way to her bank account! ;)

It is Sherry Jones who rocks with mucho money!

Nice theatrical piece but not consistent with the truth as the one who was accused of fahisha and Allah proved her innocent is the other wife of the prophet:

maria al-qabtyya and not ayesha

Very true! ;)

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The Prophet stood up and delivered a sermon, and pointing to 'Aisha's house, he said thrice, "Affliction (will appear from) here," and, "from where the side of the Satan's head comes out."

The prophet saaw many times said this and mostly used the words the east. He was talking east of hejaz ie najd or iraq which he mentioned both by name many times not aishas house . what u need to do is look into all the hadith on a subject to understand the context otherwise youll decieve yourself and others.

These are two different sets of hadiths. One set mentions Najd and prophesies that the head of Satan will come out from Najd at end. And, the other set points to Aisha's house and outside her house which prophesied that the head of Satan will come out from her house.

As for th prophet and aisha what are u trying to do create fitna between them dont u understand he loved her with all his heart.? And if the infallible prohet loved her who are u? muhamed is who i follow not your opinions. salam

Are you sure, have you read the surat at-Tahrim?

Surat at-Tahrim is only 12 verses! ;)

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]I thought it was an accurate snapshot of a liitle piece of history . It showed just how human the founders of islam were it, showed that they lived lives and went through pretty much what we go through. As for Aisha (ra) it made me love her even more than i already do cause she was a woman well ahead of her time. She reminds me of the 1st feminist who won't be a mans slave, who changed womens lives in arabia and proberbly the world. There is a strong parrallel to her story and Mary (as) who was also acused of adultary and went through hell in a fiery society. Like Mariam AS she was calm and honest but unlike Mariam Aisha ra had a husband who was infallible and knew she was innocent all along and if it wasnt for the prophet the 13 year old girl would have been eating by the 7th century male jackels. she was an amazing women for her time and age

It claimed that Aisha r.a was attracted to Safwan and that Safwan tried to seduce her and that she almost got tricked by him. The Qur'an declares that Ummul Mo'mineen Aisha r.a was innocent of all that the people claimed. This excerpt is full of lies and put everyone in a negative light.

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It claimed that Aisha r.a was attracted to Safwan and that Safwan tried to seduce her and that she almost got tricked by him. The Qur'an declares that Ummul Mo'mineen Aisha r.a was innocent of all that the people claimed. This excerpt is full of lies and put everyone in a negative light.

Basically, Aisha has disgraced and demean rasool Allah Mohammad (saws) by signing her own songs on the expense of rasool Allah Mohammad (saws).

Imagine her narrations that she was playing with dolls as six years old with her friends and rasool Allah Mohammad (saws) used to watch them. This is what is recorded in the two most authenticated Sunni books of hadiths, the sahih Bukhari and sahih Muslim.

How demeaning and disgraceful she can be to rasool Allah Mohammad (saws), that people are calling him pedophile today?

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Basically, Aisha has disgraced and demean rasool Allah Mohammad (saws) by signing her own songs on the expense of rasool Allah Mohammad (saws).

Imagine her narrations that she was playing with dolls as six years old with her friends and rasool Allah Mohammad (saws) used to watch them. This is what is recorded in the two most authenticated Sunni books of hadiths, the sahih Bukhari and sahih Muslim.

How demeaning and disgraceful she can be to rasool Allah Mohammad (saws), that people are calling him pedophile today?

http://www.answering-christianity.com/aisha.htm

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The Prophet stood up and delivered a sermon, and pointing to 'Aisha's house, he said thrice, "Affliction (will appear from) here," and, "from where the side of the Satan's head comes out."

The prophet saaw many times said this and mostly used the words the east. He was talking east of hejaz ie najd or iraq which he mentioned both by name many times not aishas house . what u need to do is look into all the hadith on a subject to understand the context otherwise youll decieve yourself and others.

As for th prophet and aisha what are u trying to do create fitna between them dont u understand he loved her with all his heart.? And if the infallible prohet loved her who are u? muhamed is who i follow not your opinions. salam

As for cursing Najd this was done very clearly also even in your alleged "Sahih" Sunni sources: Sahih al-Bukhari Volume 2, Book 17, Number 147:

Narrated Ibn 'Umar:

(The Prophet) said, "O Allah! Bless our Sham and our Yemen." People said, "Our Najd as well." The Prophet again said, "O Allah! Bless our Sham and Yemen." They said again, "Our Najd as well." On that the Prophet said, "There will appear earthquakes and afflictions, and from there will come out the side of the head of Satan."

end quote.

This is agreed to refer to Najd in Saudi Arabia where the nasibi Muhammad ibn Abdul-Wahhab(la) was born and thus refers clearly to the deviant anthropomorphist nasibi wahhabis. To see a traditional authentic Sunni Muslim website refuting the Wahhabi allegation that this hadith of Najd some allegedly refers to an imaginary "Najd" in Iraq (not Najd, Saudi Arabia which is the reality) go to this link: www.masud.co.uk puncturing the devils dream about hadith of Najd

A good money quote from this article shoing the difference between Najd (in Saudi Arabia) and Iraq; quote- These texts constitute unarguable proof that the Prophet (s.w.s.) distinguished between Najd and Iraq, so much so that he appointed two separate miqat points for the inhabitants of each. For him, clearly, Najd did not include Iraq.

end quote.

As for the hadith about the sinner Aisha's house, how can this be allegedly just "east". What is the point in singling out Aisha's house then?!!! Why not simply point at a direction or say the direction; especially regarding something as serious as a place where Satan's horns will come out (meaning obviously a very evil place). Clearly Aisha's home was pointed out for a reason; as she was very evil and lived in that house!

The Prophet(SAWW) did NOT love Aisha. Sure, maybe he(SAWW) enjoyed her physically, but this is not the same as true love the Prophet(SAWW) had for his only true love (as a wife) beautiful Lady Khadijah(as); and the true love he had for his blessed daughter from Lady Khadijah(as), Lady Fatimah al-Zahra(as). Who the Prophet(SAWW) said about even in your alleged "Sahih" Sunni books; Sahih al-Bukhari Volume 5, Book 57, Number 111:

Narrated Al-Miswar bin Makhrama:

Allah's Apostle said, "Fatima is a part of me, and whoever makes her angry, makes me angry."

end quote.

The Prophet(SAWW) only married sinful devious women like Aisha and Hafsa bint Umar in an attempt to forge tribal unity since their fathers Abu Bakr and Umar where important secular figures in the society before and after Islam. Again the Prophet(SAWW) never loved Aisha, and this was clear from Aisha's own words in your own corrupted alleged "Sahih" Sunni sources; Sahih al-Bukhari.

Sahih al-Bukhari Hadith: 5.166 Ayesha herself narrates:

"I did not feel jealous of any of the wives of the Prophet as much as I did of Khadija though I did not see her, but the Prophet used to mention her very often, and whenever he slaughtered a sheep, he would cut its parts and send them to the women friends of Khadija. When I sometimes said to him, "(You treat Khadija in such a way) as if there is no woman on earth except Khadija," he would say, "Khadija was such-and-such, and from her I had children."

end quote.

Aisha is also again cursed in Holy Qur'an Surah 66 (at-Tahreem) and many other places.

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Since u believe the Prophet only married only married Aisha ra for political benefit and that he didnt love her and the koran openly curses her name then we go seperate ways. May Allah guide u. PS.. the jews also use the same out of context arguments to discredit the virgin mary AS. they also curse her and call her a prost,t... and all this stuff. Alhamdo lilah Allah chose 85% of the ummah to love aisha ra and im gratefull for that. Im finished with this thread and forum as im not allowed to enter a place where here name is cursed and mocked. Thank yous for all yr hospitality it was a nice stay here .

May Allah unite all muslims and bring them peace.

Salam.

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Part of the reason for marrying Aisha was to be an example of:

66:6

O you who believe! save yourselves and your families from a fire whose fuel is men and stones; over it are angels stern and strong, they do not disobey Allah in what He commands them, and do as they are commanded.

Which is said after the talk of disobedience of Aisha and the calling her and Hafsa to repentance.

Aisha is definetly the worse out of the wives of the Messenger (pbuh).

Odd how she became so specially favored by Sunnis when she is the most condemned in Quran and hadiths. I bet if another wife fought Ali (as), was condemned in Quran, and her father stole Khalifate, she would be just as specially favored.

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Since u believe the Prophet only married only married Aisha ra for political benefit and that he didnt love her and the koran openly curses her name then we go seperate ways. May Allah guide u. PS.. the jews also use the same out of context arguments to discredit the virgin mary AS. they also curse her and call her a prost,t... and all this stuff. Alhamdo lilah Allah chose 85% of the ummah to love aisha ra and im gratefull for that. Im finished with this thread and forum as im not allowed to enter a place where here name is cursed and mocked. Thank yous for all yr hospitality it was a nice stay here .

May Allah unite all muslims and bring them peace.

Salam.

It is the prophet (pbuh) who cursed her and not any Tom, Richard and Harry.

1. Are you comparing Bibi Mariam who is chosen over the women of all worlds by Allah in Quran, vs. Aisha who Allah threatened her in the Quran?

2. I know Sunni call Shia that they are Jews. Are you calling Mohammad (saws) a Jew too, when he cursed her and said that the head of Satan will come out from her house?

Edited by aladdin

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As for cursing Najd this was done very clearly also even in your alleged "Sahih" Sunni sources: Sahih al-Bukhari Volume 2, Book 17, Number 147:

Narrated Ibn 'Umar:

(The Prophet) said, "O Allah! Bless our Sham and our Yemen." People said, "Our Najd as well." The Prophet again said, "O Allah! Bless our Sham and Yemen." They said again, "Our Najd as well." On that the Prophet said, "There will appear earthquakes and afflictions, and from there will come out the side of the head of Satan."

end quote.

This is agreed to refer to Najd in Saudi Arabia where the nasibi Muhammad ibn Abdul-Wahhab(la) was born and thus refers clearly to the deviant anthropomorphist nasibi wahhabis. To see a traditional authentic Sunni Muslim website refuting the Wahhabi allegation that this hadith of Najd some allegedly refers to an imaginary "Najd" in Iraq (not Najd, Saudi Arabia which is the reality) go to this link: www.masud.co.uk puncturing the devils dream about hadith of Najd

A good money quote from this article shoing the difference between Najd (in Saudi Arabia) and Iraq; quote- These texts constitute unarguable proof that the Prophet (s.w.s.) distinguished between Najd and Iraq, so much so that he appointed two separate miqat points for the inhabitants of each. For him, clearly, Najd did not include Iraq.

end quote.

As for the hadith about the sinner Aisha's house, how can this be allegedly just "east". What is the point in singling out Aisha's house then?!!! Why not simply point at a direction or say the direction; especially regarding something as serious as a place where Satan's horns will come out (meaning obviously a very evil place). Clearly Aisha's home was pointed out for a reason; as she was very evil and lived in that house!

The Prophet(SAWW) did NOT love Aisha. Sure, maybe he(SAWW) enjoyed her physically, but this is not the same as true love the Prophet(SAWW) had for his only true love (as a wife) beautiful Lady Khadijah(as); and the true love he had for his blessed daughter from Lady Khadijah(as), Lady Fatimah al-Zahra(as). Who the Prophet(SAWW) said about even in your alleged "Sahih" Sunni books; Sahih al-Bukhari Volume 5, Book 57, Number 111:

Narrated Al-Miswar bin Makhrama:

Allah's Apostle said, "Fatima is a part of me, and whoever makes her angry, makes me angry."

end quote.

The Prophet(SAWW) only married sinful devious women like Aisha and Hafsa bint Umar in an attempt to forge tribal unity since their fathers Abu Bakr and Umar where important secular figures in the society before and after Islam. Again the Prophet(SAWW) never loved Aisha, and this was clear from Aisha's own words in your own corrupted alleged "Sahih" Sunni sources; Sahih al-Bukhari.

Sahih al-Bukhari Hadith: 5.166 Ayesha herself narrates:

"I did not feel jealous of any of the wives of the Prophet as much as I did of Khadija though I did not see her, but the Prophet used to mention her very often, and whenever he slaughtered a sheep, he would cut its parts and send them to the women friends of Khadija. When I sometimes said to him, "(You treat Khadija in such a way) as if there is no woman on earth except Khadija," he would say, "Khadija was such-and-such, and from her I had children."

end quote.

Aisha is also again cursed in Holy Qur'an Surah 66 (at-Tahreem) and many other places.

Please refrain from using quotes , hadith and words like no true love of prophet (pbuh) for hazrat Aisha and true love for hazrat khadija(r.a) , and physical love . reason bieng , dont we all believe the prophet (pbuh) was sent as MERCY to all kinds, MERCY one of the most known qualities of Allah. Rasool-e-Pak (pbuh) did not want any woman love or that love or sum love love,,,he wanted love of Allah , dont we agree love is what you make in ur mind, the purest form of love ever seen is by rasool-e-pak (pbuh) , he did not just see the covering , he could see whats in a man's heart. u ever heard the expression whatevers in teh heart is on the face and thts how u read people, a crying faker is not the same as a person crying in love,,,the hwole point is dont categorize him in words and plz in no way am i saying what u say is wrong or nething,,i just think ur a smart guy and i just wanted to share sumthin. thnku and salam.

Edited by Sunain

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