their own sons. Fitna is the terrible wrenching apart of
the fabric of society, the unraveling of the tightly woven
matrix of kinship, and it was seen in the seventh
century, as it still is today, as the ultimate threat to
Islam, greater by far than that of the most benighted
unbelievers.
So as the two armies faced each other across that
divide of sandy, rock-strewn soil, even as they sharpened
their knives and swords and steeled their nerves, they
debated among themselves as to whether they were
really ready to commit the ultimate sin: to shed the blood
of other Muslims. Every word they uttered was haunted
by the fear of division and its consequence, fitna.
“Talha and Zubayr swore allegiance and obedience to
Ali,” said one veteran Basran warrior, “and now they
come in rebellion, seeking revenge for the blood of
Othman. They have created a split between us.”
War was inevitable, retorted another fatalistically. As
well ask the Euphrates to ɻow upstream as to deny this.
“Do the people think they can say ‘We believe’ and then
not be tested?”
But such a test? The Meccan troops too were having
second thoughts. “We are in a ɻat, unhealthy land,” said
one, and there was no denying the aptness of the
metaphor, for this was exactly how southern Iraq, this
seemingly endless riverine plain with its canals and
swamps, mosquitoes and midges, seemed to the warriors