Bilal dies and lives
They were quick with me. They hurried me through the streets, and here and there a window closed. For people are not brutal and those who like to look at pain are few and far between, they all, of course, understood and approved my correction- I had defied, discountenanced my owner in the presence of his class. The liberty could not be tolerated. But I still had to be hurried past their houses.
To Umaya, who had a hard tooth for a coin, my case was simple. To him I was a thief. I had destroyed my value as a slave; therefore I had stolen from him the price he had paid for me. Only my hide was useful to him now; he could flay it and exhibit it as a caution to slaves.
Fifty years later, I’m inclined to pity Umaya. A man who is unjust to others is unjust to himself.
They staked me out on the ground, the poor forked animal called man, and Umaya took his whip.
I will not dwell on my torture. Pain has no memory; it exists in its own present. Besides, too much has been said about that day and I have found myself too much of a martyr. But God is stronger than the sun and the soul of man cannot be touched by a whip.
I remember calling aloud to God in the only way I knew, saying the only name for Him that I knew: ‘One God.’
I, Bilal, who have since summoned ten of thousands to prayer, at that time knew no prayer. Yet when I spoke His name, He answered me in my heart. I did not scream under the whip, I held my breath for my God. I did not ask their mercy, but only His.
Every torture has its interludes, a recognition of limits. Had I died too soon in the shocks I would have been to Umaya, twice a thief.
It was during one of those interludes that Hind, the wife of Abu Sufyan appeared over me in a drift of perfume and passing shade of parasol.
She leaned down to hear my words: ‘One God.’ Then she turned away and laughed. Hind had a very pretty laugh.
‘You could swear the slave was preaching,’ she said. Then the whip lashed down on me again, again and again.
I’ve often wondered if, for a moment, as in the swing of a new tree in the wind, I went over into death. But who can tell? It is only the dead who know that they have died. Yet I can tell you that I ceased to suffer. My torturers became distant to me; even when they put rocks down on me, weights that would eventually press me to death, I could only feel that they were doing something new and different. I was out of their reach. I watched them, engaged in their absurdities, like the dancing goats at the great Fair of Ukaz.
Then I closed my eyes and looked to up to Heaven. Suddenly I saw before me green fields and trees with fruits. I heard the running of streams. I tasted the sweetness of the shade. I entered a garden where youths of every race, both male and female, walked in dignity. They greeted me and led me to a fountain. As I drank, my soul ceased to thirst and I knew I was near God.
Was it a dream, a delirium, a fantasy? Or lucidity? Or had they crazed me with their whip? Or was it all these and poetry besides, for it is by poetry that men persuade themselves.
It was soon over, but I still ask myself: did I, Bilal, a slave under correction, see before me the land of the blessed dead?
