Hee(n) munjo deen ai Post 1 - lessons from rubbish

It was a picture book with a dark green cover. The title was in white: "Prophet Muhammad and the unkind woman." There was a stylised drawing of a woman on the front cover, in a square frame. I was young, maybe four, and proud of my ability to read by myself. I must have read it hundreds of times. Some stories seep into the bones, into the blood, and remain there to be drawn upon and lived into. This is my retelling of that story:

It is said that when Prophet Muhammad was still in Mecca, and when Meccan society had set its face against him, and persecuted him for disrupting the town with his talk of one God, of peace with all, of a divine reckoning for human action, he would walk down this one particular street, past this one particular house, and a woman would throw rubbish down upon his head and shout accusations at him. Every day, if he passed that street on his way to who knows where, the ka'aba, perhaps, or the market, or to meet his tiny, marginalised, band of followers, there would be the same woman, the same accusations, the same descent of rubbish.

It is said that the Prophet never reacted. He just continued on his way.

One day, the same street... but no woman, no rubbish, no accusations. Just silence. He stops. He stares up at the window, wondering. He makes gentle enquiries. The neighbours tell him that she is ill, that she has taken to her bed, and she has no one to look after her. They have their own lives, they cannot help.

It is said that the Prophet himself nursed her back to health. Perhaps he brought food, or water - a precious commodity in the desert. Perhaps he provided whatever passed for medicine in the desert in the 7th Century. Perhaps he just sat beside her, offering his presence and his kindness. It is said that when she realised who had been taking care of her, she broke down and wept with remorse, asking his forgiveness then and there, and, so it is said, accepting Islam.

It was the woman's tears of remorse that affected me as a four-year-old. It's the first time I can remember feeling empathy. In the intervening years, it was the Prophet's actions that inspired me. A steady, patient kindness, with no arrogance or "I-told-you-so." How far it so often seemed from my volatility and need to be right! But I knew then and know with even more conviction now that it is exactly this kindness that we need.

Writing it now, I find myself empathising with the unnamed woman again. How sharp that pain must have been, to see so clearly her own blindness and prejudice, confronted with the humanity and the love that faced her. Those tears of repentance are my own.

There is of course a narrative neatness to the fact that she embraced Islam - and I find that very neatness uncomfortable. But it struck me tonight, for the first time, that at the time that must have been a very courageous action, even if it was impulsive.  I'm not sure if this took place after the rulers of Mecca declared a boycott of Muslims, such that Muslims were denied even the basic necessities, and to be caught helping or even speaking to a Muslim was a punishable offence. But even if it was before that, she would have been giving up all of her worldly status, even to the point of being cast out of her tribe - almost unthinkable in a tribal society, as Mecca was then. But she must have seen a truth in the Prophet's being and his actions - the sort of truth that you can't un-see - and knew she had to honour it, whatever the cost. Could I be similarly courageous, I wonder?