father had died in the ɹrst major battle between the
Meccans and the Medinans, and she knew who had
killed him: Muhammad’s uncle Hamza. So when the
Meccans marched on Medina to do battle again, it had
been Hind who led the chanting, taunting Muhammad’s
men and daring them to advance; Hind who had been
ɹred up with the thirst for revenge and who put a price
on Hamza’s head; Hind who roamed the battleɹeld after
the two sides had fought to a standoʃ, who strode from
corpse to corpse, searching for the one she wanted.
She found it, and when she did, she uttered a cry of
victory that years later still froze the blood of those who
had heard her. She stood astride Hamza, gripped her
knife with both hands, and plunged it deep into his
body, gouging him open to rip out not his heart but
something far larger and far more visceral—his liver.
Ululating in triumph, she held that liver up high above
her head and then, in full view of all, she crammed it
into her mouth, tore it apart with her teeth, spat out the
pieces, stamped on them, and ground them into the dirt.
Who could ever forget the sight of that blood running
from her mouth and streaming down her chin and her
arms, of those eyes gleaming with revenge? It was so
compelling that people still referred to her son, half in
taunt, half in admiration, as the Son of the Liver Eater.
Never to his face, though, for he was none other than
Muawiya, the man who had become the powerful
governor of Syria. Like his mother, he was not one to be