Women...

Thrones of greatness on which sit enchanting, bewitching women. The memory of the great queens of the West may spring to your mind, or of the palace-bred ladies beyond the seas; there may pass before you the woman of the twentieth century — she who has risen to the highest political offices, or she who enlisted and fought — and you whisper, nodding your head in admiration: I believe in the greatness of woman, and that this is woman's age. For greatness, in the reckoning of the people of the twentieth century, is the exclusive property of the twentieth century. But were you to turn toward the East in its distant ages, you would see in woman a greatness before which every other greatness shrinks.

A women's renaissance... Perhaps the most complete women's renaissance history has known is the one that arose in the shade of the goat-hair tents scattered here and there across the desert — a renaissance adorned by firm character, character that was the most striking ornament of the daughter of the desert. Woman in those days had her renaissance of learning: here is Sukayna bint al-Husayn making of her house a salon for the people of learning and letters, and reaching such a degree of maturity as fitted her to sit as arbiter among the giants of poetry, the likes of Jarir and al-Farazdaq... And here is Umm Kulthum bint Ali, called the oratress of Quraysh, improvising the long, powerful speech that shakes hearts to their depths; she never left the pulpit but the eyes of old men and young were blazing with sparks. As for the poetesses — how many they were, and how splendid and how delicate their verse!

Pride and disdain... Perhaps these twin elements — or more truly this single element — are among the most striking traits of the Arab woman. She knows no abasement, no rubbing of foreheads in the dust; she knows only how to lift her head high, and to lift it always. Have you not seen Hind bint Utba standing over the bodies of her two brothers, fallen on the day of Badr, chanting:

Two lions never to be humbled,
whose sanctuary none dares assail;
they won mastery without striving,
freely, by the flood of their bounty.

Are these tears, one wonders, or disdain of tears?...

And that other woman, mourning her father and her young kinsmen, who says:

They stood fast before the swords; they did not flinch from them, nor did they play the coward.
Young men who sold their souls —
no, by the Lord of the House, theirs was no losing bargain.

Is this elegy, one wonders, or pride distilled from elegy?

And that other, so enamored of pride that she boasts of pride itself: she stands over the bodies of the fallen, dropped in the open field after they had defended the sanctuary; she stands, and she does not wail and weep, does not sob and lament, but chants:

They refused to flee, the lances in their throats,
nor sought, from dread of death, a ladder of escape;
had they fled they would have been mighty men still,
but they deemed steadfastness unto death the nobler thing.

Fidelity and devotion... Fidelity was among her most striking qualities. Have you seen her, when a seducer tempts her, saying that none sees us but the stars, and she answers: And where is He who set them in their courses?... Have you seen her sitting at her husband's grave, chanting:

I am shy before you still, though earth lies between us,
as I was shy before you when you could see me.

What fidelity is this, in life and after death? Have you seen her, a young girl whose husband dies while her child is a suckling infant in her arms, and the suitors come seeking beauty and noble character, and she refuses — out of pure fidelity and devotion — and then clasps her child, son of the noble departed, saying: I shall not marry until he is grown and wishes it... She says it, and does it... What sacrifice, and what conquest of the young human self?... Have you seen the one who broke her teeth after her husband's death, to disfigure the loveliest mouth the Creator ever made, so that no man should desire her afterward?... And the one who cut off her nose after him?... And the one who kept silent as a mute all her life, because he had loved the ring of her voice? O the greatness of fidelity! O the splendor of devotion and sacrifice!

Courage and daring... As for the courage of the daughter of the desert — who can describe it? Yes, the Arab woman was a woman of letters, an orator, and a poetess; proud and disdainful, faithful and devoted; but the most ravishing thing in her is her courage. She was courage embodied and resolve ablaze. She was the sweet basil of the desert in peace, and its flaming spirit in war. She filled the wastes with charm and wit; and when the hour of battle struck, she rushed to the field chanting and beating on the tambourines, fighting and urging on, so that the fleer returned to the charge and the broken conquered, and the tribe triumphed by its heroines before its heroes. Those were hearts to which fear never found its way.

And then — have you seen her?... It was the day of Uhud, and the two armies had locked together, and the women were at work — this one giving drink to a stricken man, that one binding wounds, and so on. The enemy gained the upper hand, and the Prophet's companions were routed except for a band of the noble and blessed — the likes of Ali, Umar, Saad, Talha, al-Zubayr and their peers — who stood defending the Messenger and barring the way to him. Nusayba al-Maziniyya saw what was happening and knew that her turn had come. Quick as the glance of an eye she mounted her horse, drew her sword, took up her bow, and entered the battle; she charged and wheeled before the Messenger, striking with the sword and shooting with the bow, never seeing danger draw near him but she flung herself in its path. Of that day the Messenger said of her: I never turned right or left but I saw her fighting in my defense... Her son was wounded in his left arm and it hung down, the blood streaming from it — her son and her husband were both in the battle — and she drew the boy aside, took out bandages from her waistband which she had prepared for that day, and bound the wound, saying: Up, my son, and strike at the foe. All this while the Messenger watched and shook his head, saying: Who can bear what you bear, O Umm Umara?... And the woman herself was wounded. And then — have you seen the lioness turned very lion, heedless of the blood streaming from her wounds?... Thirteen wounds the woman took over her whole body, and not one of them halted her struggle for a moment. All this while she poured on like a sweeping torrent, thrusting and striking, until she reached the man who had struck her son and killed him... All this while the Messenger feared for the charging woman and commended her to her son, saying: Your mother — look after your mother, bind your mother's wounds; God bless you, what a household!... And now, does not such courage awe you? Or do you not ask yourself: is this a woman, who faces death thirteen times in a single battle — the sword entering her body thirteen times, and not a moan, not a groan, no fear, no retreat? Is she a woman, or the very image of astounding heroism?

And what then? Shall I go on counting for you? And could I count?... They are not one, nor two, nor ten, nor a hundred. This is a nation cast in that mold, bred wholly to courage. Dozens of them in Ali's army, plunging into battle on camel-back, cheering the fighters on and mocking death. Dozens leading armies, marshaling companies, winning battles. Dozens fighting — and here is Amra bint Alqama: the banner falls in the depths of the rout and is trampled underfoot, and no man dares take it up, so she raises it herself and carries it, gathering around her the women of Quraysh singing such chants as set everything astir, and the army returns to the battle and wins it. And here is the mother of al-Zubayr, watching death hover about the piece of her own heart, and mocking it. And here is the one who looked upon cowardice as a disgrace that clings to a man, taunting her husband with his cowardice and saying: You sleep when you are afraid.

This is a nation that took a covenant with itself to struggle; and it is a nation that has not died, because it held death in contempt.