In that small sickroom, he must have been an
overwhelming presence. So tall that Aisha would say
that “he towered above the crowd as though he were on
horseback,” Omar was always with a riding crop in his
hand and always ready to use it, on man or beast. His
voice was the voice of command; honed to terseness on
the battleɹeld, it compelled obedience. The moment he
came into any room, Aisha would remember, all
laughter stopped. People’s voices trailed oʃ into silence
as they registered his arrival; faces turned toward him as
they waited for him to speak. There was no room for
small talk around Omar, no space for frivolity. His
presence now at the side of the ailing Prophet was a
confirmation of how serious the situation had become.
Every person in that room wanted to safeguard Islam,
yet each also wanted to safeguard his or her own
position. As is the way in political matters, all were
convinced that the interests of the community and their
own personal interests were one and the same. And all
this could be sensed in the strange and disturbing
incident that came to be known as the Episode of Pen
and Paper.
On the ninth day of Muhammad’s illness, he appeared
to recover somewhat—the kind of illusory improvement
that often precedes the end. He seemed perfectly lucid as
he sat up, sipped some water, and made what many